“With Chandi's permission.”
No reply to that. They weren't about to say, but then, it went without saying. Director Chandrasekar was not known to be the moral paragon that Ibrahim was. Which raised the next question…
“Does Ibrahim know?” Sandy pressed.
They didn't answer that either. “Name one serious thing in this city that Ibrahim doesn't know,” Vanessa answered for them. But that wasn't the same as agreeing with it, it just meant it was out of his immediate jurisdiction now that he was a Fed, and not a Callayan. Technically.
Next question. “Which institutions?”
Abraham took a deep breath. “Elements of the legal profession. Elements of the police force. A significant chunk of the news media.”
“They all borrow the same brain anyway,” Vanessa said dismissively.
“Special Investigations Bureau.”
“Big surprise,” said Sandy. “You've no idea where this is headed?”
“We didn't say that,” Abraham replied. “We're uncertain. But based on this research we've a list of individuals we think should be placed under special surveillance, given the high statistical likelihood of trouble in the sensitive institutions they head.”
“Because they're showing statistically low levels of psych deviation within their institutions,” Sandy deadpanned, “as revealed by a secret network program that's illegal and shouldn't exist.”
“Levels of deviation unseen since Pyeongwha,” said Reggi, deadly serious. “We saw what happened there. This borders on institutional psychosis. It's not there yet, but it's headed there. If this happens in any institution, in my opinion it should be treated like at termination signal. Shut it down before anything bad happens.”
“Christ,” Sandy muttered with feeling.
“People disagree,” Reggi continued with determination. “Naturally. In these institutions, something is bringing them all into line. History, and especially recent history, tells us that when that happens, balance disappears, trouble follows.”
“I'm going to formalise this,” said Director Chandrasekar. “Given it's based on technology you created, Sandy, I was going to call it Project CK, your initials.”
“I'm sorry, sir,” said Sandy, “but over my dead body.”
This time it was CSA HQ. The old briefing room, well familiar to Sandy from her time here before the Federal apparatus moved to Callay and began dividing everyone's place of employment. But not, one hoped, their loyalties. Here were the top CSA officials, Naidu most prominent after Chandrasekar, with Vanessa active SWAT Commander, and Sandy the top FSA spec ops but still holding a liaison CSA rank, as most FSA troops also filled in with CSA SWAT for the practise. CSA both loved that arrangement, for the top-line troops and technology it granted them, and hated it, because if the FSA, god forbid, actually needed to use its troops, CSA SWAT dramatically shrank by thirty percent. It joined the two institutions together at the hip, which had both good effects and not so good ones.
“I can't deny that they have some interesting data,” Sandy told the various faces turned her way, “and it's probably worth exploring further. But if you formalise a project like this, you institutionalise it. You make it permanent. I think that's extremely dangerous in itself, and more, I don't trust their findings.
“Fact is, we don't have anything to compare it to. Because, obviously enough, we don't know what these psych profile graphics did before uplinks and modern neural interface networks, because we need that stuff to create the psych profiles in the first place. If we had a model of stuff that happened well before neural uplinks, I'm sure you'd find results much more alarming than this.”
“Like?” asked Chandrasekar.
“Well, go back to the Pacific Crisis, 2170, infotech was becoming pretty advanced then, but it was still long before uplinks, and a lot of really extreme institutional and psych behaviour patterns were observed. Or way back further, Second World War, people killing each other left, right, and center. You don't need defective uplink tech to make human societies act crazy in portions or in total, we do that naturally.”
“Men think in herds and go mad in herds,” said Naidu. “They only recover their senses one by one. Charles MacKay, 1841.”
Sandy nodded. “Exactly. We can't start jumping at shadows now and thinking every strange phenomenon we observe is a net-tech driven social breakdown. Because if major security institutions like this one start implementing cures for diseases not yet proven to exist…well, I for one would rather the disease.”
“The Pyeongwha situation is a lethal wrong turn in the co-development of human technology with human biology,” said Chandrasekar, quoting from some uplink visual. “All such situations should be tackled like cancers, and the misgrowth cut out before it can endanger the larger organism. Cassandra Kresnov, 2549.” Sandy's look was unimpressed. “You were advocating the assault on Pyeongwha at the time.”
Sandy frowned at him. “There's a parallel between this and Pyeongwha? Pyeongwha was an entire planet. This, if it is anything, is just a few institutions. Pyeongwha involved the confirmed state-sponsored murders of thousands of Federation citizens. This has produced a few wiggly lines on a graph.”
“You were extremely concerned about the nexus between uplink technology and human sociology running off the rails,” said Chandrasekar. “I recall it very clearly. You said every precautionary step should be taken. You're not a psychologist, but being what you are, you have insights into the possible manipulation of mainstream society using advanced network and uplink technologies. I've seen those insights at work, and I've come to take them very seriously. Are you now stepping back from those concerns?”
“Not at all,” said Sandy, and leaned an elbow on the table to make sure the point was understood. She was not given to demonstrative gestures, and people noticed. “I'm placing an even larger concern in front of them. The concern that people like us will become so worried at the perceived threat that we'll start presuming every dodgy social phenomenon is an outbreak of technologically induced CNS.
“Compulsive Narrative Syndrome isn't just a technologically induced problem, it's the way our brains work, since millions of years. It's not even a bad thing, it's mostly a good thing, our brains couldn't function without it. We're going to keep seeing it in this society, and dealing with it as we've always done. To outlaw it would be to lock up half the population. All the population. Starting with us, since all of us are experiencing it right now to varying degrees.”
“Normally I'd be inclined to agree with Cassandra,” said Naidu, grimly rubbing his broad nose. “But we've all seen those simulations. Pyeongwha has shaken everyone, and now our best neurologists and social scientists are telling us there is a very clear possibility that neurological and social response patterns may be altered by rapidly evolving uplink technology in ways that they did not predict. And I think that in the light of this danger, and what we've seen it do to Pyeongwha, and now in the League…”
“What else are they going to say?” Sandy interrupted. “These scientists? They failed to predict the phenomenon or see its extent while it was unfolding, and then all these security types arrive on their doorsteps asking them threatening questions about why they didn't, and what else they might have missed, and they don't want to incriminate themselves again by ruling anything out, so they say sure, anything's possible.”
“Cassandra,” Chandrasekar warned her.
“And you take that as an admission that the sky's about to fall in,” Sandy finished.
“Commander,” Chandrasekar tried again, “just because you are what you are, that does not give you the right to interrupt everyone else's statements.”
“How about being right?” Sandy replied, eyes dead level. Chandrasekar knew her well enough not to flinch. “Does that give me the right?”
Sandy got in a full hour of surfing before the alert call came in. She sat on her board beyond the break, in the glow of early light, and looked at the preliminary reports, the unfolding
tacnet graphics, and considered whether the situation looked like it needed her.
“Vanessa, you on it?” she asked, sending audio that way on the secure setup.
“I can take point for now,” Vanessa replied, “anything more than a four unit cover is probably overkill. Keep surfing another half hour at least, if you like.”
Sandy considered it, chewing her lip. It was her first surf in the week since she'd returned. Normally it would have been the first thing she'd do, but lately her priorities had become all mixed up.
“Intel was warning of overlapping cells,” she said finally, riding up a new swell. “If we put the heat on this one, and they activate everything in response, we'll need everything up. I'll be there when I can, let's get it rolling.”
“Gotcha,” and Vanessa disconnected to do that. In truth, Sandy didn't mind too much. She'd been lucky with the schedule so far, her injuries and the kindness of understanding superiors giving her more time than they might in different circumstances. When everyone started going full time again, things would get interesting. And by full time, she wasn't just thinking of the good guys. It took a while for the ramifications of New Torah to ripple their way back to Callay, and she found this new disturbance suspicious, in timing at least.
She caught an average wave back in, dropped to her stomach to catch the wash through the shallows, then emerged in full wetsuit, as the currents were cold this time of year. There was Danya, sitting knees drawn up on the higher sand, AR glasses allowing magnification—he'd been watching her and the few others out on this pretty, pale morning. And his position allowed him to see Kiril and Svetlana, beachcombing farther up the flat, wet sands. None of them were allowed farther than knee deep, as none of them could swim—another thing Sandy intended to see rectified. Plus there was an automated lifeguard post with multiple feeds crisscrossing the sands, the central post would know within ten seconds if a kid was in trouble, and drones would zoom to that location in another twenty. But still Danya perched and watched, showing no intention of getting his feet wet. Though he had at least taken his shoes off to feel the sand between his toes.
“Whatcha think?” Sandy asked him, driving the board end-first into the sand.
“Amazing,” said Danya, gazing across the pounding surf to the hazy horizon. It was a different kind of awe in his voice than when he talked of the city. His awe of Tanusha was that of excitement and wonder, the closest that Sandy had yet seen him come to being a child. But this was darker. The recognition of something wild and powerful that could not be tamed. Something dangerous. The look in Danya's eyes was not only awe, but fear. “What's it like to be out there?”
“A very different experience for me than for non-GIs,” said Sandy, crouching beside him. “It can't really hurt me. I can just enjoy it. But these other guys out there…” she nodded to the several others amidst the plunging surf. “It's pretty safe, they've life alert vests and trackers, but I guess the fear must add to the sensation. It's pretty big today.”
“Is that why they do it?” Danya asked, as a big curler crashed and exploded a hundred meters offshore. “To be afraid?”
“A little bit, maybe. Fear in a controlled environment. Or relatively controlled. To face it, and beat it, one wave at a time.”
“And why do you do it?”
Sandy smiled. “It's beautiful. These rhythms make me calm. Remind me of my place in things.”
Danya nodded, gazing outward. “I want to learn. Teach me?”
Sandy gazed at him, surprise fading as she realised it wasn't really surprising at all. If one knew Danya. And damn, if she loved this kid any more, her heart would explode.
“Absolutely,” she said. “We'd start on much smaller stuff than this. But if you liked it, we could come out together. Svet and Kiril too, when they're a bit older.”
“Can't see Svet liking it,” said Danya. “Too much work.” Along the beach, Kiril had found something slimy and showed it to Svetlana. Svetlana jumped back, not game to touch it. Kiril ran after her. “Kiril might, but at his age, who can tell?” Sandy nodded thoughtfully. Danya glanced at her. “Besides, about time I got a hobby of my very own, don't you think?”
Sandy grinned. Svetlana had told him about that conversation, obviously. It was something to remember with these three—never tell one something you didn't want all of them to hear. She yanked the back strap to unzip her wetsuit and began pulling it off.
“You've finished?” Danya asked.
“Not by choice. In five minutes a big CSA flyer is going to come to a combat hover on the sand and I'm going to jump on and go to work. Sorry I can't tell you what, it's a classified situation. We get those quite a lot.”
“So how do we get home?”
Sandy pointed to her bag, which contained the flyer control. “Remember what I showed you about the automated sequence? Just let it know it's you three, the system will do the rest, you just need to climb in and it will take you back to TZ3, where Canas security will have a groundcar to take you back inside the walls.”
Danya blinked. “We can fly back ourselves?”
“With these systems all automated, sure. The flyer runs direct on CSA traffic control links, and if you have any doubts or questions at all, you just talk to central, someone will be monitoring you directly anyhow, now that I'm leaving. I'm much more concerned about any of you going in the water.”
“No chance of that,” said Danya, looking back at the waves. “No chance at all. We'd better call Svet and Kiri over then.”
“Better where they are,” said Sandy, “the flyer kicks up sand everywhere, it's a little scary up close.”
“Not as scary as you leaving without personally telling them why,” said Danya, standing up and waving at Svetlana. It was a light reprimand, Sandy realised. Sometimes she didn't quite realise how kids younger than Danya thought. Lucky she had Danya to set her straight when her utter lack of parenting knowledge showed.
The VR matrix was not large. Ragi accessed, allowing the functions to propagate, and saw that it described…a small room. With detail. He resolved the detail and found floorboards, an old carpet, a chandelier. Creaking walls. He'd never seen an old house before. If VR could qualify as “seeing.”
There was a bed, occupied. Beside the bed sat Agent Ariel Ruben, as though waiting for him.
“Ragi,” said Ruben expectantly. Perhaps expecting some comment on the VR. Ragi didn't see that there was anything to comment on, technically. But…
“I like the house,” he offered, looking around. And at the girl in the bed. “Who's she?”
“This is Allison. She's not very well.”
Ragi frowned. How could you be not well in a VR matrix? The matrix only accessed brain function; if you were physically unwell it shouldn't…ah. Perhaps that was his answer. A brief analysis of the VR circulation showed him that Allison's feed was limited. A fully functioning adult brain should manage a much higher transfer rate.
“What's wrong with her?” he asked, coming over to look. The representation in the bed was perhaps fifteen, pale, brown hair. Frail.
“She has a rare condition,” said Ruben. “It's called Milner's Disease, it's a mental degenerative thing. This is a fair representation of her state in the real world, but without the life support, she can't breathe on her own. She has almost no motor control, and the neural wiring makes uplinks very difficult also.”
Ragi sat in an old chair by the bedside. “What is her condition psychologically?”
“She's fine,” said Ruben. “At lower state uplinks she's conversational and very intelligent, really nice girl. Would you like to talk to her?”
Ragi looked at the frail girl in the old bed for a long moment. “No,” he said then. “No, I don't think I would.”
Agent Ruben looked surprised and a little troubled. “No? Why not?”
Ragi smiled faintly. “Because I'm guessing this is a test. I'm locked in my room because everyone's worried about my network capability. You're giving me a chance to show
what I can do within this limited construct. You'd also like to see how I respond emotionally to this unfortunate girl.
“But if I'm going to try to help her, I'd rather not have any emotional attachment at all. That is what you'd like of me, yes?” A glance at Ruben. Ruben smiled quizzically. “The same way that doctors aren't allowed to operate on those they care about, emotion can compromise results. Please tell Allison yourself that I'll do what I can, but I can't promise anything; I've never tried something like this before, that I can recall. Besides which, it shouldn't really matter if I like her or not, should it? Civilised people will help regardless.”
“Civilised,” Ruben repeated. “Huh. I like that word, it's one of my favourites.”
“Everyone's favourites, surely?”
Ruben shook his head. “It's fashionable to be critical of civilisation, to yearn for our evolutionary roots. But when these ‘free spirit’ movements inevitably degenerate into spitting and biting and raping and shitting on the sidewalk, everyone's so surprised.” He activated some function, and the space above Allison's bed illuminated. Graphical lines resolved to show a construct, complex, multi-partite. Upon the side was an access key.
“She's physically located within this building network,” Ragi observed. “Which means she's actually here. In the building.”
“Yeah. She'd actually like to meet you, she doesn't get out much.”
“A friend of yours?”
Ruben nodded. “Her condition's a big puzzle for us net jockeys; we've all had a go at it from time to time. Even our most advanced local GIs. But so far nothing. She's the first thing I thought of when I heard of you.”
“It's brave of her. I mean, assuming you all think I'm a safety risk. She'll be completely vulnerable to me.”
Ruben made a dismissive gesture. “We have you profiled for a potential security risk, not a psychopath. I don't think anyone's ever seen a GI who hurts innocent girls for fun, and if you're a security risk you'd be more likely to help and gain our trust, only to betray us later.”
Cassandra Kresnov 5: Operation Shield Page 21
