Scatterbrain (2003) SSC

by Larry Niven

  He took the VR headset from the machine at the far end. It was a standard Dream Park rental; hundreds were stolen out of the park every year. He rotated a component inside Archie and plugged the headset in and put it on.

  A street scene formed, foggy, then sharp. Tall buildings and long shadows and a three-story brownstone dark with age. Sudden sounds: blatting horns, a prolonged shriek of bad brakes. Three antique cars danced with each other and the parked cars and dirty brick walls along the street. Chaz escaped a swinging chrome fender by jumping his character onto a parked car. All three cars somehow escaped with no more than dents and roared off in a wave of faintly heard curses.

  The brownstone’s front door emitted a tall, brawny, actor-handsome white man. He looked up at Chaz perched on the Heron’s hood.

  He said, “Dr. Kato, a problem. I can’t let you in. I don’t work here any longer.”

  This was new. “Some argument?”

  “Resolved. But if you want him, you’ll have to ring.” He walked off down the street.

  Chaz pushed the doorbell button. Waited. Would a program adapted from a detective puzzle game waste his time this way?

  He tried the door handle. It opened. He walked in.

  The office was locked. The front room was empty of life, barring a few Polystachya and donkey orchids. A clock above the sofas matched Chaz’s wristwatch at just past six in the evening. At this time of day he wouldn’t be on the top floor with the orchids. Chaz wouldn’t consider invading the bedrooms and such, but…what would the game show? It might just kick him out.

  Chaz was still exploring. The dining room was set with dinner for two, half-eaten. Small birds—squabs—tiny potatoes, a vividly orange tart. Squash? Carrot?

  Chaz rapped on the kitchen door and went in.

  Both men were massively overweight, though it didn’t seem to bother either. Lupus Nero snapped, “Who the devil—! Oh, it’s Dr. Kato. Doctor, I must apologize. Ritchie is in a snit, and of course we don’t hear the doorbell in here. Have you eaten?”

  The NERO game had featured a first attempt at full sensory input. In 2001 C.E. it had not worked well. Chaz Kato Senior had fiddled with it. This version would be upgraded one day when it was safe. For now there was only sight, sound, touch. Chaz couldn’t smell the stench of cars outside, nor Nero’s orchids, and what was the point of eating at Lupus Nero’s table if he couldn’t smell or taste anything?

  Chaz said, “I’ve eaten, thank you.”

  Nero said, “Dinner is ruined in any event. Shall we continue in my office? Yes, Fritz, I’ll tell him.”

  Chaz loved MAD MASTER. He’d grown ever fonder of it over the years. A kind of playful AI program designed to evolve varying answers and interpretations from a given set of data, this type of metaphor provided scenarios based on what it thought the programmed personality would have said or done had he been present. Companies used it to get virtual answers from absent bosses. Sons used it to figure out how a deceased parent might have dealt with a family emergency.

  But there was fun and mischief in it as well. One could interact with a virtual Napoleon, or Attila the Hun or Jefferson or Robert Frost or Heinlein, or any number of fictional characters. All of this was originally in the spirit of determining how a computerized personality might react. What was awareness or creativity, what was mere information sorting?

  And who wouldn’t burn a library of books in exchange for the chance to be taught political science by Lincoln, physics by Hawking, American literature by Twain, or gender relationships by Hugh Hefner and Dr. Ruth?

  The Y2K panic in January 2000 C.E. had driven good software companies out of business. Chaz had acquired a batch of commercial computer games nearly ready for market.

  NERO, from Low Road Games, showed signs of haste: a bit too intellectual, and the sensory input needed more work. Instead of buying rights to the Rex Stout characters, Low Road had just made up new names. Chaz toyed with the game, then lost interest when his wife died…and no other living human being knew that NERO had ever been.

  Chaz had written NERO into the character template in MAD MASTER. Over the past year, he had fed NERO random communications from members of the Council.

  NERO couldn’t have complete data access. Chaz could provide his desktop detective with all of the usual news feeds. He could carry copies of files for Nero to chew through. But he daren’t allow his spy to make direct inquiries, or even draw a suspicious level of power.

  One thing they could do was search for Saturn’s “fist.”

  “Fist” was a nineteenth-century term used to describe the eccentric patterns of rhythm that would identify a telegraph specialist by the way he used the key. Programmers had individual “fists.” Saturn’s communications had been an impeccable weave of fabrication and disguise, but what Saturn had done, how he had done it, would suggest things about the man behind the curtain. Comparing Lenore’s true metaphor patterns with Saturn’s counterfeit might yield additional clues.

  There was no way for Chaz to sort through possible variations. He wasn’t even certain what he was looking for. NERO worked at it full-time.

  Lupus Nero glared at what had been Ritchie’s desk, cruised around it, and dropped into a chair big enough to hold him. He was Nero Wolfe exaggerated to four hundred pounds, and tall enough to loom. The green blackboard behind him nearly covered the wall.

  He was holding his temper, but the effort showed. “Fritz would want me to tell you,” he said, “that nobody enters my kitchen without Fritz’s permission. Don’t consider yourself unwelcome on that account, Dr. Kato. Without invitation I don’t enter either.”

  “I’ll be more careful in future,” Chaz apologized. “Have you had the opportunity to look over the other material?”

  “Indeed, Doctor. Eight months is a much longer time for me than for you. You have also increased the…ah…clarity of my thought through additions to the speed, depth, and number of the processors available to me.”

  “I hope they’ve been sufficient.”

  “No.”

  “Can you suggest—”

  “Upgrades? The problem is not with my intelligence! Input may be the problem. My latest news feed came from Entertainment at six-twenty today, and I have a fax from Transportation concerning the proposed Ecuador Beanstalk.” The blackboard was a window: it flashed displays to match Nero’s words. “Both purported to be direct communications from their respective department heads, Yamato of Japan and the Nigerian who calls himself El Cid. Plausible?”

  “I’d say so.”

  “I know everything you’ve learned in this matter, everything that makes its way into the media, and proprietary information gained from various sources through security lapses and carelessness, though you’ve restricted me to passive observation. If that were sufficient, I would have answers! This is the core of what we know.”

  The blackboard was running two windows now. One was a voiceprint of Saturn as he traded threats and bargains with Chaz Kato over dying Lenore. In the other, Lenore’s cartoon animals ate into Xanadu’s airport programs. The beasts looked odd; they were too agile; their legs didn’t move right and didn’t move often enough.

  Nero said, “Is it clear that Saturn’s metaphors are sea life? The pictures are Myles’s, but they are imposed on fish.” Certain animals flashed green borders: gazelles, giraffes, zebras. “These two—” Borders blinked on zebra unicorns. “—match very well with swordfish. The elephant is too supple,” yellow flash. “Giant squid, I think.

  “There are many marine biologists on Xanadu, but few have Saturn’s abilities. I eliminated them first. I consider them again because every approach has failed.

  “Doctor, let us examine what we think we know.

  “First, what did Lenore Myles know? She may know that three equals one, as Saturn said. Chaz Kato the Third is Chaz Senior. Saturn is not trustworthy, but this would explain why she left you so abruptly. She spent all night and the next afternoon in the bed of an eighty-three-year-old roué.”<
br />
  Chaz winced; but these were his own suggestions.

  “But this is not a killing matter! There are other ancients in Xanadu. A good publicist—spin doctor?—might sell you as a mere freak. People have often lived longer than a century.”

  “They couldn’t do handstands,” Chaz said bitterly.

  “Don’t do handstands in public, Doctor. Or join a circus! Brag of your abilities. Let the story fly free, fodder for the tabloids. Radical experiments done in secret. Ten die for every survivor. You would be exposed, but Xanadu’s secret would be safe. Killing a witness would only make the secret more interesting. Dr. Kato, if you hadn’t been suffering from sixteen years of survivor guilt, you would never—”

  Chaz barked, “Survivor guilt?”

  Nero shrugged theatrically; his flesh rippled. “You abandoned them all. Friends, business allies, and partners and rivals, the factories you founded, the people you hired and trained. Ako Kato’s grave. Saturn’s transparent justifications triggered your password, Dr. Kato!”

  “Triggered my password.” Chaz swallowed his fury. Only fools get angry at a computer program…and the damn thing was right. Saturn had pushed the buttons that turned off Chaz Kato’s defenses.

  “Where was Myles during her hours at Xanadu? What did she learn? The attempt to kill her in Sri Lanka suggests time pressure. If she committed some criminal act, there would be no need to fabricate evidence…unless her crime exposed or revealed some secret of Saturn’s.”

  “If Saturn’s a Councilor,” Chaz objected, “why a crime? They make the law.”

  “Crimes against other Councilors, or against world opinion. We seek evidence of a wrongdoing that would force a member of the Council to act as swiftly and ruthlessly as Saturn has. How can I investigate such a thing? I am restricted to news feeds.” The blackboard was flashing a stream of headlines. “I must be a passive listener. I dare not make direct inquiries, or even draw a suspicious level of power, lest Saturn track me to my virtual lair. Over eight months I’ve turned up nothing.

  “I have eight months of computer activity from the twelve major and five minor members of the Council, and from every major power here on the island. The exception was Medusa, the cosmetics and beauty care magnate. Born Helena Schwartz—”

  “You got that?”

  “That and little more. Her security is better than the tools available to me. That might suggest something to hide, or merely a love of privacy.”

  Chaz liked Medusa, her public persona, but he’d never met Helena Schwartz. “Can she be Saturn?”

  Nero said, “No. Ten days ago…Do you recall the crash of Continental LEO-33? I have two minutes of Schwartz unloading stock before the news broke. She was conference-linked to four cities in real time, and Ritchie picked it up. She does not have Saturn’s fist. I spent some effort trying to falsify the source. Do you understand this term falsify?”

  “You tried to show that the input isn’t to be trusted.”

  “Yes. I could not falsify. It was Helena Schwartz, not a computer persona or an agent, and she is not Saturn.”

  “One down. Anyone else?”

  “Yes. Saturn knows you well, perhaps through research, perhaps not. A Council member resides here openly, and he knows you. I have been able to observe behavioral aspects that might have been impossible at a distance.”

  “Arvad,” Chaz said.

  “Quite. Arvad Minsky is not Saturn either. His fist clears him.”

  “Who else? Wayne and Shannon Halifax? Diva?”

  “Diva the Brahman, racist from a nation of racists. Her fist clears her, but she might be Saturn’s ally or minion or master. What then? I know no way to question her. Shannon Halifax the former Playmate of the Year is too public to hide secrets, and I think her husband is too.”

  “Right. Joe Blaze?”

  “Energy? That is Yamato. His fist clears him. Why, Doctor?”

  “Country club white. Yamato’s joke, I suppose.” Hating himself, Chaz asked, “Did you consider Clarise?”

  “Pfui. Clarise Maibang, second in Security, briefly your wife? Am I a witling? She might want Lenore dead for reasons of jealousy, but she has no legitimate access to the kind of power Saturn displayed, and how could she act under Whittlesea’s eye? But I have her fist,” and the blackboard showed the graphs. “Maibang plods. The woman is wary of errors, and she learned to read and write late in life. Her style is superficial.”

  Chaz’s cheeks burned. Clarise deserved better than that! “Of course you’re only judging her by how she uses a computer.”

  “I considered Whittlesea. I considered Tooley Wells, who came as Lenore’s companion.” More graphs. “Wells types very fast, then backs up to fill in the mistakes. Whittlesea’s education and programming style are classical British. Paul Bunyon’s fist is artificially generated, with a delay of five seconds while a human input is rewritten. His real name is Valentine Antonelli, and he was in a frenzy of strike negotiations over a conference network while you and Saturn were dicing for Myles’s life.

  “But Saturn’s fist is highly skilled, methodical in his approach, brilliant in basic programming, and I cannot identify the source of his education. I wondered if he might have been taught to program before he learned mathematics.”

  “That’s not so strange. Children do that.”

  “Not to such an extreme as Saturn.”

  “Who’s left?”

  “Nobody, Doctor.”

  Chaz said, “Damn.”

  “Regarding your interface plug—”

  “Yes, I tested it. You were right. After I wasn’t sick enough to need supervision, they told me they turned off the finder feature. It was a lie. The thing is still sending my location. Saturn always knows where I am.”

  “Only that?”

  “No, it’s reading my pulse and temperature too. It’s a decent lie detector.”

  “Whether Saturn arranged that or not, we must assume he has access. You left it still sending?”

  “I did. Who is he?”

  “Shall we reexamine our assumptions? First postulate: only a Council member could intrude into your communication line at will. You may be better able to judge the truth of this than I. Can you think of a technique someone else might use?”

  “No. I’ve tried. It wasn’t some visitor, and we check the service people down to their DNA. I might still think of something.” Chaz Kato, hacker. He’d never done that, never, and now it might cripple him. He’d known enough to protect his companies against hackers…sixteen years ago.

  “Second postulate: only a Council member, or one directly empowered to act in his service, could have blocked communications to Sri Lanka and implemented the lethal procedures used against Miss Myles. Dr. Kato, I know exactly how all of that was done. Only a Council member could pacify Security here and at Sri Lanka while monitoring the Napcap system too.”

  “One or more.”

  “Worth noting, but our only avenue is to Saturn. We find his allies by finding the individual who announced himself to you. Third postulate: Miss Myles attracted lethal attention because of something that happened on Xanadu. Fourth, Miss Myles is essentially innocent. Her attempt to penetrate the air traffic control network is fiction. I have analyzed her fist; you were certainly right. She discovered something dangerous to Saturn. But was she innocent?”

  “Have you—?”

  “Lenore Myles did indeed share Levar Rusch’s life and bed for nearly a year. She was faithful, and very busy at her studies. As for Rusch, he certainly organized the attack on Sandefjord. He procured the virus and arranged to move it to Antarctica.”

  “God! Could he have done it without Lenore’s help?”

  “Oh, yes, he certainly has that range of skills. Further, it was never Rusch’s habit to confide in a lover.”

  “Where is he now?”

  “That I could not learn. He vanished after the Antarctica incident. He may be dead. If not, he’ll survive in some English-speaking region where his accent will n
ot mark him. My estimate is that Lenore Myles did not share in his crimes and could not locate him now.”

  “Good!”

  “Very well. Fifth,” Lupus Nero said, and stopped to drink deeply from a quart-size glass of beer. “Ah. Miss Myles herself cannot help us unravel this mystery. Her memory of pertinent events was completely erased. Her mind has since deteriorated further—”

  “Oh, God.”

  “Doctor, a cup of tea? Beer? A Calvados?”

  “No, let’s go on.”

  “Sixth, Saturn noticed Myles only after you gave her access to secured areas.”

  “Why?”

  “She indulged in a dangerous sport, telemetrically operated thermal gliding, hours before you met. Saturn could have hurled her at a building, killed her or put her in a Xanadu hospital where he could work on her. Nobody’s curiosity would have been roused, not even yours. And it was through you that she gained access to possible secrets. Elementary.”

  Chaz had to smile. “Good. So. What are your conclusions?”

  “We know nothing of Saturn beyond what you learned during his attempt to kill Myles. The image ‘Saturn’ projected to you then matches no registered trademark, nor do its component parts suggest anything other than a carefully randomized ethnic and gender composite. I cannot match it to any member of the Council, nor to anyone directly connected to Council members, where such information is available. We have at this point examined the programming style of all persons who could possibly have access to such power.”

  Chaz said, “‘Saturn’ was satisfied to let her live after wiping a portion of her memory. It couldn’t have been a vengeance killing. It was preventive.”

  “It is suggestive that Saturn altered the record of her last research session.”

  Chaz nodded.

  “She was not attacking an airport, but she was using a workstation. What was she doing? We can’t read the record because Saturn wrote over it. What triggered her inquiry? Some conclusions might be reached if I had more access to the security tapes, all the comings and goings for Medical section for the hour before she began her research.”