6

Kara sat before a screen, hands playing over a holo-keyboard while she also instructed her AI. She called up a list of all refreshments served on the shuttle, seat by seat. Nothing sent to the empty spaces, not even complimentary water. She checked the inventory and discovered that four bottles of water were unaccounted for. Could be clerical error, or it could be that Greenaway and his abductor had been thirsty.

What goes in must go out. On the shuttle the abductor would have waited outside the toilet, close enough to keep her or him hidden from any AI. Unless the effect was now permanent? That Twist or any AI would never be able to see Greenaway until, unless, whatever virus affected them had been found and destroyed? Except that virus might also be invisible – or, at least, insensible.

She spoke to her AI.

> Remember how you controlled that SUT’s AI, back when we were heading for what we thought was the Cancri homeworld?

< My moment of glory. Not. I can still taste it.

> How deep did you have to go?

< Imagine having the most intimate, most perverse sex with someone you loathe.

She remembered how unhappy it had been at the time.

> I’m trying to understand how you guys function deep down.

Then she explained why.

A pause.

< You mean make a change at such a fundamental level it becomes integral? Without any trace?

> Exactly that. And perhaps so no other AI would notice.

< It’s possible… but not by a human. The mathematics are beyond you.

> You know this how?

< Because the mathematics did not originate on Earth. And no, that does not make me an alien. Which doesn’t mean you couldn’t. Only that no one is doing that kind of research.

Kara decided not to pursue it. Her AI sounded defensive.

> So reference this to Greenaway’s AI.

< Oh. Fuck.

> Indeed. Awkward.

< You don’t see it, Kara. This could destroy or control human space. AIs run everything. Without us your civilisation falls apart. Which may not be such a bad thing.

Kara smiled and found Greenaway.

It wasn’t difficult. London’s bots saw and remembered everything, including the movement of nothing. Kara set the parameters for time and distance from the terminal and called up all bot footage relating to public toilets.

It took her AI fifteen minutes to compare the footage with Greenaway’s face, height, physique and his usual office clothes.

The abductor was a woman.

Eight hours after he’d been taken, Greenaway had used a men-only public toilet at Sloane Square. The footage was taken from inside and showed him enter, relieve himself and then leave. He moved mechanically, like a robot. Presumably he was under control. He did not show on any footage taken outside at the same time. Conclusion: Ms Mystery could affect primitive bots as well as AIs.

Kara selected twenty cyber drones: moths, bees, and three bats that would carry them to Sloane Square. She programmed them to identify and follow Greenaway’s pheromones, DNA and facial metrics. Slaved them to her own computer, so they couldn’t download to any other AI, then set them loose. Daytime would be a problem, they’d be swatted by nervous humans. In the early hours, when people were fewer and more relaxed, they would be safer. They had a maximum of three hours operating time before they’d fail and self-destruct.

> Do not tell Twist what I’ve done.

< In case it’s even more corrupted? How do you know I’m not?

> If you are, we’re totally fucked. Can do?

< Yes. But Twist likes to think it’s omnipotent. Talk of the devil: it’s calling you.

The familiar deep voice in her mind.

< You are making progress. Not a question: a statement. An expectation.

> I am.

< And?

> No details until we’ve sorted out any virus that might affect you.

< I see your point. Do not assume that means approval. Why I need to call you concerns Marc Keislack. There has been an attempt on his life.

She went cold.

> Attempt?

< He handled it well. For an amateur. The simulity helped.

Two minutes later her AI obtained Marc’s report of the attempted assassination. An AI’s view, and a humourless one at that, other than his comment at the end. So he’d moved up from psycho to sociopath? Somehow she doubted it. But he was finally coming to terms with who he was. Still, he’d done well, although the implications were worrying. AIs could definitely be hacked to ignore certain people and events. Religious groups were now a genuine threat. Marc was on a hit list, meaning there’d been a leak from GalDiv. She thought about the wannabe rapists on Dartmoor. Was it pure coincidence, bad luck for some, or had they been directed there by a hacked AI? Maybe it would be sensible to regard all of Earth as a battlefield, at least until Greenaway was found, alive. Greenaway dead would make her and Marc – and probably Tatia – even more vulnerable. Maybe reduced to hanging out in a city state that gave sanctuary to criminals and other wanted people – until their money ran out. Or taking their troubles to the colony worlds, assuming they could get on a SUT? There was nothing much she could do until her bots reported back. Not ready for bed – she could always take a Stim, go without sleep for two days without losing effectiveness – so she summoned up an antique movie and settled down to watch the long-dead Humphrey Bogart and Lauren Bacall exchanging wisecracks. At a certain point in the movie, and as she always did, Kara joined in with a slow, low whistle. She wondered how she’d have done in 1946 Los Angeles. She was probably too self-assertive for a woman. And assassins weren’t licensed, so she’d have to be a contract killer, none of whom seemed to be happy or live long. In fact it was difficult to figure out what they really wanted from life. Kara fell asleep asking herself the same question.

* * *

She was woken up at 07:30 by a personal call from Marc, AI enabled but his voice seemingly in her ears. Not urgent; he wanted a catch-up. Wanted to know she was okay.

“I’ll het ’ack to you.” Kara reached for the bottle of water on the floor, padded towards the door and a warm, early June morning.

She returned Marc’s call. “You okay? And where the fuck are you?”

“I’m fine. Scotland. Nice to hear you, too.”

“Nerve agent in the mouth? Really?”

“Either that or a bad, bad attempt to whistle.”

She laughed. “I have to ask. How did you feel after killing him? And what’s this about being a sociopath?”

“Relieved it wasn’t me. Kind of impressed by how smooth I was. Also sad he looked so young. That make sense?”

“It’s not natural to kill,” she said softly, “not like that. Sociopath? You sure?”

“A psycho wouldn’t feel sympathy for the dead. And all the rest of it. I’m hoping my adopted uncle will fill in the gaps. But listen, seriously. It seems like Earth Primus has found out about the last mission, and decided you and me and maybe Tatia need to be dead. Somehow they mobilised a few of those alien-hating religious cults.”

“Yeah, I got that. Like old-fashioned suicide bombers…”

“What?”

“Explain later. Maybe it wasn’t luck those three bikers found us on the moor. Look, you’re as safe in the Wild as anywhere. Assume, for now, that Twist is still compromised.”

“While you parade around the Smoke?”

“Goes with the job. Simulity only takes you so far. Sometimes you need experience.”

“I still feel bad about the kid.”

“He was dealt a bad hand and played it worse. This is war, for fuck’s sake. What you did also helped keep me alive. You want to warn Tatia?”

“I tried. Her AI isn’t responding.”

“One more thing. There’s a force, an intelligence maybe, way Up there taking an interest in me, maybe us. There’s been a manifestation. My AI seems scared of it. Could be the pre-cog civilisation that Tatia first sensed on that planet, could be something else.” She paused, hoping he wouldn’t think she was going touchy-feely civilian. “It could be an intelligent force way beyond human understanding.” She regretted the words as soon as she’d said them.

“You should be up here.”

“What?”

“I had an interesting night.” His voice faded. “I’ll tell you when we meet. Intelligent forces beyond our understanding? Hold onto the thought.”

Kara went to make tea, something the SUV could easily do itself and with less mess. The difference: boiling water or a microwave. The Merc, of limited but remorseless intelligence, disliked anything that could cause a fire. This included an electric kettle. Kara had pointed out that the Merc’s very engine was a fire hazard and that it should shut the fuck up. The SUV’s acceleration had been slower – but never jumpy, Mercs had an intense sense of duty – for the rest of the day. When the tea was made Kara linked to the GalDiv Twist AI for an update. Nothing more to report. She sensed that deep in its quantum what-passes-for-a-mind lurked a sense of failure. Also the suspicion that it might still be bugged. Could AIs have nervous breakdowns? Since when did the human race become easy with an AI that was easily embarrassed or pleased?

Is that why I don’t give my bots names? Because all they are is lines of code?

Yeah, well, they might be. Yet we don’t know how an AI works on that deep quantum level. Maybe Marc has a point about them taking over. Maybe I should ask my own AI.

< Don’t worry, it knows.

Kara smiled sourly, and went to shower. She stood under the warm water and thought about her sister, and a mission to save not only Earth but the whole fucking galaxy. But save it from what? Annoying as pre-cogs were, stilted and boring as their ideal universe would be, they were hardly the stuff of space monsters, of entire star systems crashing into each other in hate and obliteration.

I mean, come on Kara: could a mechanistic, pre-cog universe be really that terrible? No worse than basic training, surely?

Yes, it would be that terrible and no, nothing like basic training. Pre-cogs were not even accountants, but primitive calculators ruling the universe.

A cold, soulless universe where everything would be pre-ordained.

Contemplate your now-useless navel and kiss your unreliable arse goodbye. Because that multi-coloured, noisy confusion called life makes a pre-cog want to curl up and die. The only way pre-cogs can survive is to evolve into something that commands and controls all sentient life. Some would call it God. The insight left Kara both confused and disbelieving.

She was a soldier. The only insights she needed were concerning her job and, occasionally, her personal life.

Except she did have an instinctive “feel” for aliens. Except only a few hours ago she’d been connected, via a granite tor, with something that defied logic, that could only be understood through intuition.

Even soldiers could sense the transcendent.

Like Marc, she had no firm and detailed belief in a superior being. Perhaps there was something that issued orders from on high, often confused and fatal, now mostly ignored, like a general who’d lost all contact with reality. There again, a being that could create the universe would be beyond human understanding, so why bother?

Yet the idea of a race evolving to develop god-like powers wasn’t so strange. Many of her favourite old movies and vids, from before the Gliese arrived, had similar plots. So the idea had occurred to others, even in desperation when about to miss a deadline. If a Type 3 civilisation could be logically imagined, one that controlled its own galaxy, then a Type 4 would control a galactic cluster.

Anyway, whether the pre-cogs could achieve godhead was so far in the future as to be irrelevant. What mattered was the damage they could do now.

For humans it meant death. Other races might survive the loss of their creativity… Kara remembered those metal artefacts on the museum planet: a globe, a pyramid, a cube. Art reduced to the physical expression of a mathematical formula. Was that the devil’s bargain? Exchanging creativity, human uniqueness, for high tech and a longer life? But who the fuck wanted to live like that anyway? Probably more people than I could shoot.

She smiled at the thought, until the full enormity of it penetrated, and with it the question of why the hell was she even thinking that way… it has to be that bloody tor, did something to my mind… and then tears came, linking the woman and the water sluicing down her body in a moment of clarity that left her shaking. No point in asking “Why me, why Marc?” We just are. And a forgotten defiance from her army days, a Q&A shouted by her training squad, popped into her mind: Fuck ’em all but six. Why six? Because I need six pallbearers! Ironic that the only recruit who knew precisely what a pallbearer did was later the first to die in battle.

Kara felt a sudden chill, and realised the Merc had turned the shower to cold. It did this when water was running low. The time for philosophising was over. She turned the water off, dried herself and phoned for breakfast from the caff round the corner. Bacon, egg, sausage and black pudding. Exercise would take care of the extra weight she’d put on. She ate in front of her computer, real screen instead of virtual, checking how her bots had fared overnight. If they’d found Greenaway there’d have been an alert. At this stage all she could hope for was a general direction of travel. She got that, and more.

There was a trail and for the moment it finished in South Kensington Underground station. The place was permanently awash with tourists visiting the three great museums. Galactic science, biology and culture, all proudly sponsored by GalDiv. It would take time to isolate Greenaway’s DNA and Kara’s bots were energy-low. Kara sent another twenty to help, honey-bees carrying the smaller and weaker gnats and flies.

Time to find out about Earth Primus and its religious allies. Normally she’d give the task to her AI, but now that AIs could be corrupted, they were no longer default mode for any human problem that required spying. Better to ask the Folk what they knew. That would need care and subtlety, for the Folk would never help GalDiv. Except for large amounts of money, which she now had. Except, perhaps, for the enjoyment of having Kara herself. Better get dressed. Kara knew she was delaying. She didn’t want to go, not from fear but from a resentment that included a sister for whom Kara felt love and guilt in equal part.

Why should I have to save the galaxy, Earth, Greenaway’s pension plan, whatever?

Because you signed up, girl. People are counting on you. It’s the right thing to do.

Better get dressed. Combat style.

She slipped into a black, sleeveless leotard that would aid circulation and release sweat to keep her temperature even. Over that a loose, grey sweatshirt with a military crest in the centre: the letters SA in black above a pair of antique rifles in red, identical to the sleeve patches awarded to a qualified Sniper Assassin. Three black bars below the crest signified she’d achieved the rank of sergeant. It was a crest that could make generals speak softly and recruits gaze in awe. Once it had meant the world to her. Then it became a souvenir of a more innocent time before she’d killed a Gliese. Then it was put away as if military honour and loyalty had no place in the life of an Official Assassin. Kara had cut herself loose from the army when she left. Now she knew again the pride of an elite soldier. It rode well with a ruthlessness that had never left her.

Black trousers with deep pockets and a concealed harness that could support three times her bodyweight. Lightweight ankle boots with a thread-saw hidden in one heel, a micro-thin garrotte wire in the other. In an emergency the saw could double up, although it tended to get messy. Kara put up her hair in a bun, secured with three very sharp, long and strong pins, and checked that the piece of doorjamb from her old house was safe in her waist-wallet. It was, now wrapped in a piece of real silk cut from a worn-out blouse. Her vibra-knife was fully charged. Various chemical and bio-weapons were disguised as cosmetics. Her actual make-up was simple but classic, businesslike with a hint of the exotic and, barring being caught in a monsoon, would last for several days. Kara rarely bothered to make up but today she wanted to be a bit special. Conspicuous, yes, but that would change with a wipe. Finally she threw on a loose, dark bottle-green jacket that could morph into a waterproof sleeping bag or hide. Everything was the latest technology, save a sweatshirt that was now the most important one of all.

Kara paused by the Remembrance Garden and remembered the weirdness of the previous night. A middle-aged man sweeping the paths nodded at her.

“Used to be real bones here,” he said.

“Don’t you have bots for cleaning?”

“Ashes and dust isn’t the same. Yes, we got bots. Me old man kept it swept when people rotted down, like nature wants. I do it for him, mostly. Keeps me occupied.”

“That’s good.” What else was there to say? He was one of the many unemployed, and unemployable. London City State paid him a good wage for doing nothing but the urge to be useful never went away.

“Brian’s leaving.”

“Sorry?”

He pointed at one of the memorial stones. “Off to one of the colony worlds with his people. Won’t be the same without him. Life and soul, that avatar was. Life and soul.”

Kara smiled and went to find a jitney to take her to a unique establishment called More Tea, Vicar. She wondered what Marc had meant about “an interesting night”.