by David Reiss
“The engineers are going to hate him because of all the hoops they’re going to need to jump through in order to do their jobs. Faraday cages around the clean rooms, air-gapped servers…it will be as secure as a government black site.”
“Good.”
“The facility refits are going to stretch the budget a bit, but you’re still on-target overall.”
“Again, good. And your work?”
“Alex and I are ahead of schedule, actually. We’re already writing up preliminary findings.”
“Excellent.” He smiled briefly, then lowered his head apologetically. “Much of this should have been my responsibility. Thank you for stepping up.”
“I would have preferred to remain focused on pure research,” I admitted, “but I’ve done this sort of work before.”
The Red Ghost sighed, “I wish that I could tell you the worst was over, but at this moment I’m not certain that I can make that promise.”
“I understand. As I mentioned…I’ve been watching the news.”
The crimson-clad hero looked thoughtful for a moment, then winced. “It occurs to me that I should ask your advice on another matter—related to my work in New York, even—but I do not wish to bring up painful memories.”
I smiled sadly, “I can’t escape painful memories. Ask.”
“Your daughter was a true digital sentience, one of only two that have ever been documented. When you were preparing your legal challenges to have her citizenship recognized, you must have consulted with many computer experts…”
“I did, yes.” My voice shook only slightly. “Before we continue, though…I know you mean well when you refer to Whisper as my daughter, but she’d had a father and I could never replace him. She called me her big brother. That was enough.”
In public, I had only ever referred to Whisper as being my ward; at that moment, even so small an artifice felt like sandpaper across too-sensitive skin.
“I apologize, I did not mean to cause further pain.” He winced. “Your sister, then.”
“Thank you,” I sighed. “You were asking about computer experts?”
“I need to find an expert in artificial intelligence software and hardware,” he admitted, voice dropping in volume even though there was no one near enough to overhear. “The problems in New York, they are caused by the android hero Cuboid. I’m hoping to find someone with experience working with massively interconnected neural networks who can help diagnose the problem.”
“What about Cuboid’s creator?”
“He passed away two years ago.” The Red Ghost’s expression was pained. “At the time, Sphinx was in charge of the New York Shield and she chose to keep the information secret.”
“Unfortunately, Cuboid and Whisper are—” I choked. “Were. Cuboid and Whisper were the only two of their kind. Other than myself, there aren’t many who have experience working on similar systems.”
The Red Ghost’s brows furrowed, “You consider yourself an expert on the subject, then?”
“For Whisper’s sake, I became one.” I smiled sadly, “I’ll put together a list of experts who might be able to come up to speed quickly, though. I consulted with one for the trial. It might take a few months, but he could become the expert you’re looking for.”
“Months.” The Red Ghost grimaced. “Again, I hesitate to ask, but…given your superior experience, would your work be faster?”
“Yes.”
“Cuboid is a hero, a long-time member of the New York Shield, and a personal friend. If you can help him then I’m afraid that I’m going to need to impose upon you further. If you are willing, of course.”
Again, I thought of legacy. Whisper and I had worked to see the Synthetic Americans’ Rights act passed into law, and Cuboid was the last wholly artificial intelligence who might benefit from the statute. It would be tragic if there were no entities left to take advantage of the rights Whisper had championed.
“All right,” I agreed, even though the idea of working on another A.I. ’s code made my chest hurt; I consoled myself with the knowledge that Cuboid’s secret server farm was among the very few that I’d never been able even to locate, much less scan…the opportunities for research and study would be endless. “Give me a day or two to hand off the rest of my work to Alex, then I’ll be ready to help in any way that I can.”
“I know that this will be hard for you,” the Red Ghost said sympathetically. “But I promise that your sacrifice is appreciated. Thank you.”
I shook his hand, taking solace in the knowledge that the world’s most feared villain would soon find himself elbows-deep within a famed superhero’s brain.
15
Alas, it seemed that it would be some time before the world’s most feared villain would find himself elbows-deep within a famed superhero’s brain.
“I’m not sure if or when that will happen,” the Red Ghost apologized. “The DMA is treating this like a medical issue, and Cuboid hasn’t given permission for his personal records to be distributed; we’re still negotiating with his healthcare proxy…”
“It’s all right.” If someone had demanded access to Whisper’s source code or hardware without her approval, I would have spilled an ocean of blood to prevent it; Cuboid wasn’t nearly so worthy as my sister had been, but it was gratifying to hear that the Synthetic Americans’ Rights act would have protected her wishes. “If you can get logs from other systems that Cuboid interacts with, I might be able to start identifying a pattern even without direct access.”
“I’ll see what I can do.”
“It’s beautiful,” Whisper murmurs, eyes wide with admiration.
The glass statue—a stylized dolphin leaping from the ocean’s surface—glistens. Within the smoothly contoured glass are held subtle tints of grey and blue and yellow that somehow hint of a sunrise scene, of deep waters below and clear skies above. The work is awe-inspiringly evocative, but the joy on Whisper’s face is more beautiful still.
I smile, “It’s for you.”
She’s about to touch it, expression almost covetous, when she pauses and pulls her hand backwards as though afraid that the statue might bite. “Did you…um…Did you steal this for me?”
“No, I received this from the artist herself,” I say, hiding my amusement at Whisper’s intensely relieved expression. “The alien refugee I visited last night to ask about Starnyx.”
“He gave it to you?”
“She, and not exactly,” I laugh. “She gave it to you. I’m not allowed to touch it.”
Whisper giggles, cerulean eyes glowing brighter. “You’re Doctor Fid. Who can tell you what you aren’t allowed to do?”
“Apparently, Joan the Glassblower has that power,” I smile fondly. “She’s an interesting person. You’d like her.”
“I like her statue.”
“There are dozens of pieces in her studio and every last one of them is a masterwork. I saw this one, though, and thought of you.”
Whisper looked touched, tracing along the curve of the dolphin’s fin with one delicate fingertip.
“She wouldn’t sell it to me,” I continue. “She said, ‘I do not create art for monsters!’ , but then I told her it was for a wonderful, innocent little girl who loves the ocean and she packed it up for me herself.”
“You’re not a monster!” Whisper looks scandalized.
“I’m Doctor Fid. And the truth is…Doctor Fid has done monstrous things.”
“Still, that’s not nice."
“It was brave. She knew I could hurt her—that I could have destroyed her entire refugee camp—but she didn’t waver for an instant.”
“Do you like her?”
“I respect her. She’d been a politician on her homeworld and she could easily have used her position to take leadership over the refugee community once their ship crashed here; instead, she gave it up to create art.”
“No,” the little android grinned impishly. “Do you liiiiiike her?”
“If she doesn’t create a
rt for monsters, it seems unlikely that she would accept romantic overtures from one.” I’m surprised to feel my cheeks heat. It is, I decide, due more to discomfort over being teased than it is to embarrassment over any prurient interest in the strong-willed alien artist. My emotions towards her were limited to admiration. Nothing more.
“You like her,” Whisper decides anyway. “Joan and Terry sitting in a tree, K-I-S-S-I-N—”
I make certain that the exquisite glass statue is in no danger of falling before pouncing to tickle at the little android’s ribs. Her father—the supervillain Apotheosis—had done an extraordinary job when modeling her tactile sensory response systems; Whisper shrieks in laughter and abandons the song.
It was painfully strange to be back at Terry Markham’s estate. Every day after work at Crimson Technology, I’d driven back to the property, parked my car in the garage, and made a beeline straight to the teleportation platform in my home office. The escape of science and math and creation was too tempting to resist. In Doctor Fid’s laboratories, I’d found project after project to bury myself in—made myself little more than a calculating machine, an unfeeling vessel from which poured new weapons and devices—and thus extended my vacation from being human.
But Terry Markham’s house was where the Red Ghost wished to meet, and I rushed to make the place look at least somewhat lived in before he arrived. Fortunately, a horde of Doctor Fid’s light-duty industrial automatons made quick work of basic cleaning tasks.
Alerts transmitted via my neural link notified me as the hero approached upon his gloriously overpowered motorcycle: satellite footage first, followed by more detailed imagery from cameras hidden around the neighborhood. The Red Ghost’s uniform may have lost some of its intimidation factor when viewed by light of day in a casual setting, but upon the growling cycle he was a force of nature once more. He slid through traffic as though physics were a concern only for lesser mortals, and his crimson cloak snaked behind like a twisting, sinuous living thing.
The last of the robotic swarm had been teleported back into storage by the time that the Red Ghost arrived at the estate’s entrance. I triggered the mechanical gate, and his motorcycle shot forward to devour the remaining distance to the main foyer.
“Dr. Markham,” he said, shaking my hand as I let him in through the front door. “Thank you for having me.”
“It is no trouble at all,” I lied pleasantly. “And, please...call me Terry. Come, I’ll show you to my office.”
His gaze fell upon Whisper’s room—too clean and orderly, perhaps, but still filled with my ward’s bright belongings as though waiting for her to come home—as we passed. I walked a bit faster and, thankfully, he said nothing.
“So, what do you have for me?” I asked, motioning for him to take a seat in one of the comfortable chairs that sat in front of my desk. I pulled an only-occasionally-used laptop from a drawer to take notes as I sat, myself.
“System logs and packet dumps; the New York Shield archives all audio and digital communications that pass through their network.” There had been a messenger bag slung across his back, hidden quite effectively by his cloak’s movement; He removed the bag now to hand over external disk-drives with terabytes worth of data.
The drives were meticulously labelled, and I reached for the oldest one first.
“That’s for baseline analysis,” the Red Ghost explains. “Cuboid didn’t show any symptoms until later than that.”
“Wait.” The Red Ghost grabbed my wrist before I could connect the drive to my laptop. From behind Doctor Fid’s faceless mask I’d fought the Red Ghost dozens of times, yet his reflexes and speed continued to amaze. Even though I was out of armor and the environment was peaceful, it took every ounce of my self-control to restrain a reflexive counterattack.
“What?”
“I’m afraid that I’ll need to ask you not to make any personal copies, and that I’ll need to physically be present while you work. It is a precaution only until your background check clears the D.M.A.” He released my wrist.
“That will slow my progress,” I frowned. I wasn’t worried about the background check itself; the false identity by which I had once infiltrated the Department of Metahuman Affairs may have been lost, but I still had many backdoors into the organization’s internal network. I could forge whatever information I desired. Rushing the process, however, would have been too easily detected. “I thought that this is high priority?”
“It is, but it’s also legally complicated.”
“Then I suppose the delay can’t be avoided.” I attached the drive to my laptop and made a show of slowly scrolling through the first few screens of data. In actuality, I was gorging upon the deluge of information via my neural link. Months of network traffic, tens of thousands of individual messages to sort through and analyze…Cuboid’s presence had been embedded deeply throughout the New York Shield’s infrastructure. His digital fingerprints were everywhere. “This may take a bit of time, even to just gather enough information to give an estimate. Do you want some coffee?”
“Please.”
A carafe had been filled in preparation for this visit; I absently pointed my crimson-clad guest to the extra mugs while I started digging through the files. For a while, the silence was only broken by the Red Ghost sipping appreciatively at his custom-roasted Jamaica Blue Mountain coffee and by my fingers dancing over my keyboard to mimic some percentage of the work being done in my head.
“Hm. I just noticed something odd,” I commented, hesitantly. “It’s possible that Cuboid’s difficulties began earlier than you were aware.”
“How do you mean?”
“There’s a slow increase in malformed data packets and requests for retransmissions; it was all corrected at the transport layer before the data was reassembled, so it wouldn’t have been noticed for a while. Also, there’s a slight but measurable response slowdown. It gets progressively worse as time goes on, but from what I’m looking at it would take months before the speed would be perceived by a human audience.”
“Can you determine when it started?” The Ghost asked.
“Of course.” My fingers danced across the keyboard, then I turned the screen so that he could see the resulting graph.
The Red Ghost grimaced. “That is…concerning.”
I tore my attention from the rush of formulae coursing through my neural link to glance at the computer screen, and time ceased.
My current clone body was only a few months old, genetically engineered, surgically modified and technologically enhanced to function well beyond human norms. A heart attack was impossible. But still, an invisible weight crushed the breath from my lungs and shocks of tension burrowed through to my shoulders, my neck, my jaw. The roar of gale-force nonexistent wind drowned out all noise save for my own choked sob.
The Red Ghost’s lips moved.
“A moment,” I managed to force out, unable to make sense of whatever the costumed man was saying. “For the love of Tesla, give me a moment to think.”
Deep breaths steadied the world.
“All right,” I said, finally. “Go ahead.”
“It can’t be a coincidence, can it?” the hero asked.
“No,” I grimaced. “It seems as though Cuboid was stable until soon after Skullface’s attack. He must have been affected by the spell, too.”
Whisper and Cuboid were the only two true artificial sentiences on the planet, and the deceased sorcerer’s spell had somehow touched them both…but Cuboid was alive and might still be healed, while my sister was gone. I’d long since gotten used to life being cruelly unfair; this was, however, a more vicious a twist than most.
The task before me had changed. No longer was this simply a somewhat interesting intellectual challenge; the mystery had become deeply personal. I wanted—needed—to know more.
Without a word, I reached for the next hard drive.
“…I get lonely sometimes,” Whisper says.
“Oh, sweetheart, I’m sorry.” I
stop soldering. “I can work on this another time.”
**No, it’s all right. That’s not what I mean,** she sends, switching to communication via my neural link.
**Then what do you mean?** I set aside my tools and turn to face my ward.
**I mean…it’s just me.** Whisper transmits the sensory equivalent of a hug directly into my brain. **Daddy always said that the world was dangerous and that I had to stay hidden, but I always dreamed that I’d find other AIs to play with on the Internet when I eventually got free of the foundry. I’m out now, and it’s so quiet…**
**You’re very special.**
Again, the phantom hug washes over me. **Thanks. But…It’s scary, being special.**
**Yes.** I reply, thinking upon the isolation that I’d endured during my own childhood. “But you’re not alone now, not really. You have family, and friends…”
“But no other AIs to play with,” she says, sadly. **Could you make a brother or sister for me?**
**That’s not the sort of decision that should be made impulsively, sweetheart.**
Whisper speaks out loud, “But you could? Theoretically?”
“Technically, yes.” It wouldn’t be a casual project—it would cost millions of dollars and years of effort—but it was very possible.
“You’re Doctor Fid, but...there are other smart people in the world. Companies and schools doing research.” Her voice breaks and, if her body had been designed with the capability, I knew she would be crying. “If you could do it, why am I the only one?”
“You might be the only little digital sentience in the whole world, but you’re my sister and you’ll never be alone.” I hug the trembling little android.
Truthfully, I know that she is right. Even given the extraordinary costs involved, there should be more genuinely sentient AIs in the world; that Whisper is the only one implies that there’s a factor that I’ve yet to discover. Someday, perhaps, I might put in the time and effort to figure it out.