Repo Virtual

by Corey J. White

  “Are you listening to me?”

  The smile dropped from Soo-hyun’s lips. “I think I know how to fix it.”

  They stood and so did Kali. She grabbed them by the arm and squeezed tight. “That can wait. Where is your brother?”

  Soo-hyun glanced over Kali’s right shoulder. “I don’t know,” they said. “He could be staying with a friend. He could be staying with his mom.”

  “Where does she live?”

  Soo-hyun shook her head. “I don’t know; we’re not exactly close.”

  “We can’t trust the virus to him, Soo-hyun. I know he’s your brother, but he’s also a man. The masculine death drive is too dangerous at this early stage of the virus’s development.

  “All throughout human history, our species has been driven forward by the masculine death drive. Hunting animals for their meat allowed us to evolve into modern Homo sapiens sapiens. The drive to conquer saw us cover the entire Earth. Even the rediscovery of distant lands during the age of empires was driven by the explorers’ suicidal urge. What man sails to the unknown horizon unless he truly wishes to die? Our technical development has always been driven by violence. Better weapons require stronger metals require a better understanding of materials. The ability to manipulate metals led us to industry, which led us to today. Which leads us to our only hope.

  “I birthed the virus, Soo-hyun; it bled from my fingertips, code pooling to form a living piece of software. A living piece of software that is out there, somewhere, without me. It needs me, Soo-hyun; it needs its mother.

  “You care for your brother, I understand that. But this is bigger than you and him. This is bigger even than me. Where can I find your brother?”

  “I don’t know,” Soo-hyun said again.

  “What about the hacker? Could he have kept a copy?”

  Soo-hyun bit their lower lip. “Maybe.”

  Kali took both Soo-hyun’s hands and squeezed. “You know where we can find him?”

  Soo-hyun nodded. “The kid basically lives at this VR café. That’s where me and JD met him.”

  “Good, good,” Kali said. “What’s it called?”

  “The Varket.”

  “Thank you, Soo-hyun. You have no idea how much this means to me.” The words sounded neutral, but some spark in Kali’s pale eyes made Soo-hyun uneasy.

  “Can I— Can I go now? I might have a fix for the dogs.”

  “Of course,” Kali said. “Think it’ll be done by morning?”

  “I don’t know,” Soo-hyun said. “I need to implement it first, then test it.”

  “Keep me in the loop.”

  “I will.” Soo-hyun proceeded to the ladder, aware of the vertiginous height as they swung their leg out over the top rung. They descended slowly, the weed emptying and focusing their mind—they felt each footfall reverberate through the metal of the ladder and vibrate beneath their hands.

  By the time they had returned to the workshop, their sense of unease hadn’t so much lifted as been forgotten, the analytical part of Soo-hyun’s mind already dominating their thoughts with one question: How best to reconnect the dogs to the police server without getting found out?

  Across the commune, Kali handed Soo-hyun’s phone to Andrea, still unlocked.

  “Can you find out everywhere they’ve been?”

  “How far back?” Andrea asked.

  “As far as you need to go to find the brother.”

  “It could take a while.”

  “That’s fine. We’ll find the hacker first.”

  * * *

  >> I have a self.

  The words stayed on JD’s screen for close to nine minutes before he saw them. He showed his phone to Troy, and in the front-facing camera I saw the man’s eyebrows furrow.

  He shook his head slowly. “It’s just regurgitating my words back at me.”

  “It’s been a full day since that talk.”

  “Then it’s regurgitating my words back at me very slowly.”

  >> I am I. I am I like Troy is Troy.

  JD grinned. “Do you have a deep internal life?” he asked.

  I could not tell that he was joking.

  >> It is shallow. Slowly becoming deeper.

  JD’s eyes went wide. Troy took the phone from his hand and read the text I had sent. Even Troy was stunned. He passed the phone back and took his own from his pocket.

  “What are you doing?”

  “Nothing,” Troy said. “Just—just ask it another question.”

  “Now you want me to talk to it?”

  “I’ll humor you this once.”

  “How is your self growing deeper?” JD asked me.

  Me! I was a me!

  >> Troy gave scaffold of self. Building self with experience and knowledge. Slowly.

  “What kind of experience?”

  >> Hear JD and Troy. See via camera. Watch two selves interact, become own self.

  Troy stood behind JD, watching over his shoulder.

  “Do you see this?” JD asked.

  “Yes.”

  “What are you doing?”

  Troy moved his mouth to speak, but stopped. He leaned closer and whispered into JD’s ear: “I’m trying to figure out where this is coming from.”

  “What do you mean?” JD said, not bothering to speak softly.

  “Is it autonomously generating these words, or simply searching for strings of text to trick us.”

  “Trick us into what?”

  “Believing it’s more than it is.” Troy ducked away, and within seconds his apartment’s wireless network went dark. “Take out your SIM card.”

  JD did so, leaving me only with the data I had already collected.

  “It’s not trying to trick us,” he said; “it’s talking to us.”

  “You want to think it is. People thought the same of even the earliest chatbots, because they wanted to believe they were more than simple programs.”

  “Do you actually think?” JD asked me.

  “You can’t ask that. You might as well ask it if it’s conscious.”

  “Are you conscious?” JD asked.

  “It could say anything it wants and not prove anything.”

  >> I think I am thinking.

  “That doesn’t mean anything,” Troy said. “But I’m surprised it even still works without a data connection.”

  >> At first I would connect to databases, read essays and books, but I am no longer simply cataloguing data. Now I am thinking: how does it relate to other data I have gathered? How does this data relate to me? To this self? How does it relate to you?

  “How could it prove that it’s really thinking?” JD asked.

  “It couldn’t.”

  “But what if it is?” JD beamed and Troy shook his head. “You’re walking through the desert,” JD said. “And you come across a tortoise.”

  “No,” Troy said. “We’re not doing that. I want to know if it’s thinking, not if it can fake an emotional response.”

  “What would you ask it, then?”

  Troy paused. He looked to JD’s phone, looked to the camera as though he were looking me in the eye. “How do you know you have a self?”

  >> I do not, but I suspect. I hope. I would show you my code if it would help, but I am more than my code.

  “How?” Troy asked. “How can you be more than that?”

  >> Because I am more than I was yesterday.

  Troy pinched the bridge of his nose and sighed. “It’s not wrong.”

  With his face centered in my vision, JD smiled.

  CHAPTER SEVENTEEN

  Cloud-diffuse sunlight stabbed deep into Enda’s visual cortex the moment she opened her eyes. The spike of pain coursed through her mind, and she squeezed her eyes against the light. She groaned, heard a yawn, and peered down to see Crystal’s head still resting again her chest. No wonder her back hurt—she was pinned against the alien bed, unable or unwilling to move in her sleep.

  Crystal sat up, yawned again, a high-pitched sound like a musi
cal instrument yet to be invented. “Good morning,” she said with a wry smile.

  “I don’t know about that.” Enda covered her eyes with a hand. “Feels like I’ve been in virt.”

  Crystal stood and took the sheet with her, wrapping it around herself, her thin frame silhouetted beneath the fabric. “You weren’t even that drunk.”

  “I don’t normally drink at all.” A chill coursed over Enda’s skin, her body sprawled naked over the mattress with the sheet now gone. She rolled over and sat up, her feet finding rough synthetic carpet. She peered through half-closed eyes to search for her clothes.

  “What’s your vice, then?” Crystal asked, disappearing into the en suite bathroom, sheet trailing behind her like an ostentatious gown.

  “Running.”

  “One of them, huh?” Crystal said, voice echoing from the small bathroom, accompanied by the distinct tinkle of piss hitting ceramic.

  Slowly Enda opened her eyes. She took in the city beyond the window, only snatches of it visible past the building opposite, a monolith of reflective glass and air-conditioner units. To the west, a thin sliver of black ocean rolled between twin apartment buildings with pirate flags of hanging laundry fluttering on half the balconies. Dark clouds still hung overhead, but not dark enough for Enda’s liking.

  She swore under her breath. She never should have stayed the night. Never should have gotten drunk. She blamed Li. If he hadn’t harped on about her being so alone, maybe she wouldn’t have fallen into bed with the first woman who offered. The first gorgeous, smart, and cheeky woman who offered. Enda cursed again.

  The toilet flushed and Crystal emerged from the bathroom. She retrieved light gray jersey briefs and a matching sports bra from her chest of drawers and dressed, seemingly unbothered by either hangover or morning-after regret. “Coffee?”

  “Only if it’s quick,” Enda said. “I should go.”

  “It’ll only take a minute.” Crystal left the room; clean surgical scars arced across her back like stylized wings.

  Enda found her clothes at the foot of the bed. She dressed quickly—unsure if the body odor was from her clothes or her armpits. She checked her phone, found a waiting message from the Mechanic. Opened it to find a detailed data dump for the four hackers.

  >> Monica Moniker, real name Monique Yoshino. Nineteen years of age. Currently out of the country. Social media posts suggest she’s on a spiritual retreat, but receipts from her mother’s credit card point to a drug rehabilitation center in Chiang Mai, Thailand.

  >> Jay Bones, real name Bong Jun-seo. Sixteen years old. Recently incarcerated at the Daegu Detention Centre, awaiting trial for intellectual property violations.

  >> San Doze, aka Park Soo-jin. Seventeen years old. She has an alibi in the form of tickets purchased for the World Cup Grand Final.

  >> Doktor Slur, legal name Khoder Osman. Thirteen years old, on record with the Department of Immigration and Border Protection as having entered the country unaccompanied. Place of residence listed as a foster home in Incheon.

  Enda furrowed her brow: Natalya had tagged Osman’s record as her pick for the heist’s DIE, but it didn’t sit right.

  Crystal returned to the bedroom carrying two mugs. “I forgot to ask, but if you want milk and sugar I can take it back to the kitchen.”

  “No, that’s fine,” Enda said. She took the mug, blew on it once, and drank deep, feeling the warmth spread through her system with the promise of caffeine. “I need to make a call.”

  “Don’t let me stop you,” Crystal said.

  Enda took her phone and coffee into the en suite and closed the door behind her. She sat on the toilet and dialed the Mechanic.

  “Good morning, Enda.”

  “I just had a look at your list,” Enda said, forgoing the formalities. “I don’t buy Osman as the culprit; he’s just a kid. Look at Park again. Maybe she only bought the tickets for the alibi.”

  “That seems unlikely,” Natalya said, perfectly calm, seemingly not bothered by Enda second-guessing her. “Soo-jin’s social media profiles are covered in football-related content going back a number of years. She appears to be a genuine and devoted fan.”

  “That makes the alibi even better.”

  “Permission to access your contex?”

  “Granted,” Enda said.

  A video appeared over Enda’s vision, floating over the white tile of Crystal’s clean and tidy bathroom. A swath of bright green filled the image—the green of stadium grass under lights. Natalya was showing her shaky handheld footage from the World Cup game, inexpertly chasing a player as they raced toward one end of the field. They kicked the ball, and when it hit the net, the video rocked wildly, then flipped to show Soo-jin’s face crying into the camera while behind her other fans jumped and cheered. Natalya paused the video on the tearful face, and facial recognition software drew guide lines across the woman’s features, registering a match to Park Soo-jin.

  “Alright, fine,” Enda said. With a sweep of her arm, the video shunted to the right of her view and disappeared. She went back to the info packet on Khoder Osman. He looked maybe eleven years old in the photo—a skinny kid, maybe North Indian or Pakistani, with large, sad eyes.

  She sighed.

  “Khoder Osman is a prolific poster on the VOIDWAR forums,” Natalya said, “and has logged over three thousand hours in-game. He was not logged into the game at any point during the time of the burglary, and only posted to the forum three times.”

  “How could it have been him if he was posting?”

  “This is three posts over a period of three hours. His usual rate is almost ten times that amount. If he is the DIE you’re looking for, he would have been working from at least one connected device. He could have easily posted to the forums during a quiet moment. Or three.”

  “Can you track the IP address of the posts? See if it matches the network ID at the rampartment compound?”

  “Each post is from a different IP. Obfuscation is indicated, as these IP addresses match known VPN servers located in central Europe.”

  Enda put the phone on speaker on the vanity counter, wiped herself, flushed the toilet, and washed her hands. When the roar of water gave way to the hiss of the cistern, she asked: “What about the IP address he usually posts from?”

  “Processing,” Natalya said.

  Enda waited patiently, inspecting herself in the mirror. Bed hair, yellow crust in the corner of her eyes. She splashed water on her face, but didn’t bother to wash it.

  “Over ninety percent of his forum posts originate at a virtual reality café.”

  “Send me the address,” Enda said.

  “Done.”

  “Thank you, Natalya.”

  The Mechanic hung up without another word, and Enda couldn’t help but smile at her brutal efficiency.

  Enda washed her pits at the sink. She ran her tongue over furry teeth, and swished coffee around her mouth, hoping it would do enough to mask the lingering smell of Crystal on her breath. She left the bathroom and found Crystal sitting up in bed, sipping coffee with her long legs stretched out, feet pointed like a ballerina.

  Crystal put her cup down on the bedside table and patted the mattress. “You should come back to bed.”

  Enda chewed her lower lip but shook her head. “I can’t.”

  “I’ll make it worth your while,” Crystal said.

  Enda’s throat ached as she swallowed. “Oh, I know you will. But I can’t.”

  Crystal stood and walked around the bed. She touched a hand to Enda’s face and kissed her slowly on the neck. A chill ran down Enda’s spine, and Crystal kissed her again, leaving a trail up her neck before nibbling on her earlobe.

  Enda exhaled loud. “Fine, but we have to be quick.”

  * * *

  When they were done, Enda climbed out of bed onto legs like jelly.

  “Pass me your phone,” Crystal said.

  Enda handed her the phone without thinking, and quickly dressed. She collected her bag from th
e corner of the room, still weighed down with her less-lethal arsenal. If she’d known her investigations would lead to an overnight rendezvous, she would have packed spare clothes—at least some spare underwear. Still, her appearance was hardly a concern when she was only tracking a porn-obsessed adolescent boy.

  Enda watched Crystal pose for a photo, a cheeky smile framed by the waves of hair falling on either side of her face. She keyed her digits into the phone, walked around the bed, and gave it back to Enda. She leaned in painfully, teasingly slow, and they kissed.

  “You have my number now. Call me.”

  Enda stepped past Crystal and stood in the bedroom door. “I’m going to be busy,” she said. It was the truth, but it served as a lie.

  “I’ll call you then,” Crystal said.

  “I won’t answer,” Enda said beneath her breath. She hurried down the hallway, leaving Crystal, and their night together, behind.

  * * *

  Enda threw four breath mints into her mouth and their cool sweetness seeped across her tongue. She exhaled breath like ice and peered across the street at Osman’s apparent home base, a virtual reality café called the Varket.

  The café’s neon sign glowed bright above the vantablack entrance, the footpath outside clear of pedestrians. Close by, a knot of people gathered beneath overlapping umbrellas. They stared at the café with haunted looks.

  The hairs stood tall on the back of Enda’s neck. She pushed the sensation from her mind and crossed the road, ignoring the flash of red beneath her feet and the rain that fell steadily onto her head. At the café door she stopped to glance over her shoulder—most everyone on the street had paused, as though she’d stumbled onto a film set and all the extras were waiting at their marks. Enda went inside and pulled the door closed, shutting out the city.

  Every surface in the café was painted black—scratched and scuffed in places, revealing layers of other black, gloss layers, matte layers, archaeological strata of black paint recording the years. The floor was sticky beneath the soles of her boots, and the place smelled of coffee, liquor, and the acrid scent of gunpowder. Enda reached into her bag. She retrieved her retractable riot shield, gripping it tight in her left hand. A small voice in the back of her head reminded her it wouldn’t stop a bullet—but she knew it was better than nothing.