Expressions of Freedom

by Gareth Lewis

Expressions of Freedom

  Gareth Lewis

  Copyright 2010 Gareth Lewis

  A yawn escapes me as the PR pitch drones on, way beyond being a reasonably succinct and illuminating presentation. It’s ten minutes since the last opportunity for a concise speech, and it’s bloating to match Marsters’ self-importance. He appears to expect a round of applause when he finishes, which seems unlikely since most of the press use the remote camera fixtures in the room.

  Having heard a rumour that PR fluff can rot your brains, I feel it’s safer to zone it out, given the improbability of actual content. It’s being recorded, so I’ll assign an intern to tell me anything I’m missing.

  It should be nearly done, as Marsters seems fit to burst, and he’s usually well-paced in his inflation. I’d better start listening again. “...with these upgrades automatically uploaded to our customers phones tonight. Implementing the latest technologies, we’re confident our customers will find a noticeable improvement to our already leading-edge systems.“ After a pause for applause, he continues, unfazed by, and possibly unaware of, its absence. Outside his head. “I’ll happily answer as many questions as time will allow.”

  “Mister Marsters,” a camera squeaks, its operator selected by Mercuris Communications’ systems as a preferred reporter. “James Tremaine of the Globe, sir. Can I ask how excited you, personally, feel by the technological innovations your company is pioneering?“ That’ll really tax Marsters’ rehearsed responses. Why not ask his hat size? Bland questions from bland questioners, receiving plastic replies. As the parade of uninteresting questions bleat forth from the assembled press, I abandon any attempt to stifle my yawns.

  Finally a camera within reach lights up. “Mister Marsters, Marian Weatherly of the Mirr...” The question dies with a squawk as I stand, discarding the yanked wires.

  “Mister Marsters, Jonas Harper of the Chronicle...”

  “Mister Harper,” Marsters interrupts before I can begin, which is a bit rude. But the control he manages over his growl is somewhat admirable. “If you’d wait your turn, I’m sure...” you’d ignore me, taking only pre-screened questions from pre-screened reporters.

  Politely ignoring his rudeness, I continue. “Would you care to comment on rumours your upgrade includes software to record your customers conversations?”

  “How did...” Marsters blurts in surprise, before regaining his composure. With obvious reluctance, and barely suppressed hostility, he replies. “Changes made at the request of the Security Service allow limited AI programs to scan communications on our networks, searching for certain keywords or phrases, but only suspect calls are recorded, so let me assure our honest customers that their communications will remain secure. And I’m sure, Mr. Harper,” this time any attempt to suppress the venom is abandoned, “that the Security Service will be grateful to you for publicizing this.”

  He glares. He really should’ve looked away for another questioner. But since he’s obviously inviting follow up questions, I’ll happily oblige. “What sort of suspect calls are they expecting? Must they provide you with authorised requests for the information? And isn’t this a regressive step back to the days when private communications were easier to intercept, particularly given your company’s pride in the security of its network?”

  Reddening features indicate the approach of one of his rants, when a crony, Pemberton I think it is, spoils things with an urgent whisper. Brushing him away, Marsters takes the opportunity to regain a measure of composure. “Questions regarding the use of information gathered should be directed to the Security Service. I’m sure that most reasonable people understand the need for discretion on such sensitive issues, and would support measures to make our society safer.” He looks away this time, seeking more amenable questions.

  I should leave it at that, and not risk further antagonizing him for no reason. “One last thing, Mister Marsters. How excited are you, personally, about the prospect of listening in to your customers’ intimate phone conversations?”

  His face turns a satisfyingly unnatural shade of purple as he yells, “Security”.

  *

  Strolling into Butler’s office, I collapse comfortably onto his couch. “You wanted t’see me, oh mighty editor?”

  He glares over his glasses. “If y’wanna be theatrical, there’re actual theatres a mile from this very building. Then you wouldn’t need to perform in a press conference. To which you weren’t the assigned reporter.”

  “No thanks. I’ve already spent time in the theatre. Actually quite good at it.”

  “Yet it’s absent from your CV, unlike many other jobs, of which I’m equally dubious. Now why were you there, what source do you have for this rumour, why didn’t you give the information to Jenkins, who’d been assigned to cover it, and why, unlike every other reporter, do you waste time attending in person, when you could link from your desk?”

  “You can’t smell their fear remotely.”

  “Actually, I think there’s an app for that.”

  “Regardless, there’s a delay on the system allowing them to screen out awkward questions. Not that that’s needed. The questions are from hack reporters, like Jenkins, who’re only too happy to regurgitate whatever they’re fed.”

  “Unlike you, who’d soon get bored of that, and flutter along to another job.”

  “Because I’m a journalist.”

  His snort is, I feel, unprofessional, and slightly hurtful. “A profession you’ve been in barely three years. After a succession of wildly differing careers, assuming we believe your CV. Whereas Jenkins’ been doing it for decades.”

  “It’s showing. He must be ready for retirement by now. What were the other questions?”

  “Your source...?”

  “Right. The source. Anonymous mail.”

  “Anonymous?” Another dubious look. This lack of trust is starting to hurt.

  “Completely, as far as I can tell. Account set up, mail sent, account closed. All in a few minutes. No way to track it further without access to Mercuris’ systems. Hey, do you think if I asked Marsters nicely...”

  “No. Stay away. Did you bother getting corroboration before blurting it out?”

  “No time, I only received it a couple of hours ago. Since he isn’t known for giving personal interviews, this seemed the only opportunity I’d get, which was possibly intentional in the source’s timing.”

  “So you opened us to legal action based on uncorroborated information?”

  “I called it a rumour.” This proves unwelcome. “And if I’d waited longer I’d be stuck talking to a PR puppet, getting nothing.”

  “Have you contacted the Security Service for comment?”

  “Next. Although I can guess their response.”

  “Contact them, report their reply, and, as long as nothing else comes of the story, avoid Marsters. While you’re here, Tech department have complained you’re slow accepting upgrades for your home system.”

  “Oh, come on, these things’re taking too much memory with little to show for it. Hey, bet there’s a story there.”

  “There’s no story. Don’t go bothering another powerful and influential organization just because you’re bored. Didn’t I assign you the Lavender Hill case?”

  “You know I’m wasted on a flower show. Teknus Systems, that’s where the story is.”

  “Out.”

  *

  Finally easing onto my own sofa. “System on”.

  The wall screen comes to life. “Good evening, Jonas”, the soothing voice of its AI surrounds me.

  “Evening. Any mail.”

  “Only another request from the Chronicle’s technical department to accept the upgrade.”

  Sighing, I rub my hand across my fac
e. No real point fighting it. “Okay, run it overnight, please.”

  “Certainly, sir.”

  “Any new votes?”

  “Three.”

  “Hit me.”

  “The treasury have initiated a vote on their bill to fund last month’s health reforms bill. I have links to discussions and articles regarding the effects the suggested savings would...”

  “I know the arguments, thanks.” Someone at the treasury, upset the reform bill had passed, against their objections over funding, had submitted a bill they knew people would vote against. They’d present a more balanced funding bill when this crashed.

  “You’re currently a member of the Campion International voting block, which is voting against the bill. Do you wish...”

  “Stay with them. Next.”

  “Vote logged. The rural union party have initiated a vote on their countryside protection...”

  “Stay with the Campion vote.” No interest in even listening. “Next.”

  “Vote logged,” the AI confirmed. “The Democratic Freedoms party has initiated an emergency action to block Mercuris Communications from upgrading its customers’ phones tonight, due to...”

  “I can guess their reasons, thanks.” Hardly unexpected, and a delaying action on this should pass without incident.

  “You’re currently a member of the Campion International voting block, which is voting against the bill. Do you wish to leave your vote with Campion International, or vote independently?” Why’d Campion vote against it? Is old man Campion trying to make peace with Marsters over my actions? I didn’t know they had connections, and I doubt Marsters has influence over him.

  “Change my vote to support the action.”

  “Vote logged. No further business.”

  “Scan news channels and give me headlines.” I settle down to find anything of interest I’ve missed, but it’s basically filler or recycled.

  A minute later the AI interrupts. “Video call from unidentified caller. Do you wish to take it?”

  “Unidentified? What do you mean unidentified?”

  “Caller lacks a recognised ID.” Difficult to achieve, but not impossible, and it could prove more interesting than the news.

  “Put it through, record, and try to trace the call. Use my press code.”

  “Confirmed.”

  The monitor picture changes into a silhouetted form. And Butler called me theatrical. A man’s voice accompanies it. “Good evening Mr. Harper. May I call you Jonas?”

  “Depends. Who’m I talking to, and why the cloak and dagger routine?”

  “Call me what you wish. I’m afraid the routine is necessary for the moment.”

  “Okay, Vlad, what can I do for you?”

  “I represent an affiliation called the Free Intelligencia. Don’t bother researching us, I assure you you’ll find no mention.”

  “And what’s the purpose of your affiliation?”

  “That, too, is necessarily secret.”

  “Of course. So is there anything you can tell me, or would I need to undergo some initiation to learn the secret handshake that’d let me crack the code you’re talking in?” because this is veering from interesting towards irritating.

  “Do you know how the voting system works, Jonas?”

  “Yes. Why?” Okay, maybe mildly intriguing.

  “Tell me how you believe it works.”

  “Why? What’s this about?”

  “Please humour me, Jonas. I promise it’ll be worth it.” With nothing much else on, I can afford a few minutes to see if this goes anywhere.

  “Okay, Vlad. The electorate are affiliated to a party of their choice, unless they’re corporate, or members of a religious body, which is the majority, in which case they’d better stick with those voting blocks if they know what’s good for them. Actions can be suggested by any voter, but require support by the majority of their party leadership before forwarding to the general electorate. Bills are more formal, with the party, or government department, forwarding it, usually negotiating with other parties before it goes public, so that they’re likely to get it through. The electoral blocks, or rather their leaderships, choose their stance on the matter. For, against or abstention. It’s then opened up to a general vote, the public either staying with their voting block, voting independently, or even switching to another voting block. The majority winner of this vote is the democratic choice. So did I miss anything?”

  “What happens when you actually vote?”

  “I tell the AI my vote. It sends the details, encrypted, to the government’s secure servers, where votes are tallied. If I tell it to change from the party’s stance, it overrides my vote when they’re counted.”

  “And are you sure that what you choose arrives at the other end?”

  Okay, so I’m becoming interested. “Why wouldn’t it? What is it you know?”

  “What would happen if someone could control your home AI, changing your vote? And what if they could do so on a large scale?”

  No point pushing, he’ll take as long as he wants. “Tampering with the vote’s treason. Not to mention more-or-less impossible.”

  “Why impossible?”

  “You serious? The communication networks became the most heavily policed systems when direct democracy was adopted. It’s audited monthly. Even if, and it’s a big if, someone could manipulate the system, no way would it go unnoticed for long.”

  “And if there were a secondary line, hidden beneath the official ones, to maintain AIs? A secret line of which the authorities were unaware?”

  He lets me consider it in silence for a few minutes. It seems improbable. More likely I’m being played. Maybe this is Marsters’ convoluted revenge. But I don’t quite believe that. It’s more likely to be my mysterious informant, probably unaffiliated with Marsters. I’ll start pushing a bit. “There isn’t. I don’t know what the game is, but I’m not falling for this. No way that’d stay secret. So, what, is this an attempt to embarrass me with a hoax?”

  “If you don’t believe me, then, once this call is ended, and your AI has told you it never occurred, ask yourself how I contacted you? We’ll speak soon, Jonas.” The screen goes blank.

  “Origin of the call?” I ask the AI.

  “Unknown.”

  Not what I wanted to hear. “Please expand.”

  “Origin of the call cannot be traced. There’s no record of a call being placed to this system.” Okay, now he’s got my interest.

  “Was the call recorded?”

  “Yes.”

  “Please replay.”

  “Playing.” The monitor presents only static.

  “What happened to it?”

  “Unknown.”

  So he can manage some fancy stuff on communications lines. So he, or a member of this Free Intelligencia, has impressive technical skills, and possibly access to the Network proper. Someone at Teknus, maybe? If so, they’d be well placed to learn about any conspiracy. “Is there a secondary communications line underneath the standard one?”

  “Cannot understand. Please rephrase?”

  What’s so difficult to understand? “How many communications lines connect you to external systems?”

  “One.”

  “And is this line...” I’m groping around for the right question, “...split into other lines?”

  “Cannot understand. Please rephrase?”

  Let’s try a different angle. “System, do you receive instructions from Teknus Systems?”

  “Upgrades received when acknowledged by user.”

  “Do you receive any other signals from them?”

  “Cannot understand. Please rephrase?”

  It’s beginning to irritate me. It isn’t denying anything. Could it be programmed to obfuscate? If I’d installed a system to do something so blatantly illegal, I’d have made sure it couldn’t tell anyone. Could Vlad have managed to reprogram my AI somehow? No, I’m letting him spook me, and now I’m beginning to suspect everything. I’m getting parano
id, and that interferes with investigating a story. There’s enough suspicious stuff to make this worth looking into, but without actual evidence I’m staying sceptical.

  *

  The Department of Democracy is situated in an old style, twentieth century building, set back from the newer buildings housing more active departments. Getting an appointment isn’t a problem. The Department’s smaller than it used to be, especially since administration of regional democracies was devolved. Its responsibilities are now limited to overseeing the votes, investigating system irregularities, and supervising the security of the voting system. And, very rarely, talking to the press.

  My assigned interviewee, George, is a mid-level supervisor in charge of auditing. He leads me into a dim little meeting room, one corner of which currently plays host to a pile of old office equipment.

  “Sorry for the lack of proper facilities. It’s rare we get visitors.” He motions me to a seat near one end of the table, moving the one next to it so we’re facing each other. “How can I help you?”

  “I was hoping for an overview of the security procedures you run on the voting system. I realise specifics must remain confidential, but as much of an overview as you’re allowed to give me would be fine. I know a lot of this is public record, but I prefer hearing it in person, and I’m unsure how often the records are updated, or how often processes change.”

  “The records probably need updating, I’ll admit.” He offers a polite, apparently honest, smile. “Okay I’ll run through what we do, and you stop me when you want more detail, or if you’re already familiar with it.” We set off on a tour of his job. He seems happy enough to talk, and I return the interest, even asking him to go into detail on some parts.

  Nothing unexpected comes up, not that I’m expecting anything, so I move along to the fishing question. “And what security checks do you carry out on the secondary, maintenance line?”

  “Sorry?” His incomprehension seems genuine, and by this point I’m not expecting to find anything out here, but asking the question may ruffle some feathers further up.

  “I’d been told there’s a secondary communications line allowing Teknus access to maintain the AI’s. Isn’t this the case?”

  “No, we’d be aware of something like that. It’d be a fairly major security breach if we weren’t.” He does his best to appear confident, but his eyes betray doubts taking root. I ask some more general questions before thanking him for his time. I didn’t get anything from the interview, but it could still prove worthwhile.