Skyway Angel

by James K. Douglas

  I felt my jaw drop. She looked like she was really standing there, nearly six feet tall and absolutely gorgeous. A waterfall of red hair cascaded down over her right shoulder accentuating her high cheekbones and long jaw line. Green eyes peered at me from behind cat-eye glasses, which paired with her beige cardigan to remind me of a librarian I once had a crush on. Logically, I knew what I was looking at was just an optical illusion, a simple three dimensional image created from the bent reflection of a stereoscopic projection, but she looked every bit as physical as a real person.

  “I’m April,” she said, her voice now projecting from the squat machine mostly hidden behind the reflective black plastic, “the Apartment’s Robotic Intelligence Liaison.”

  She gestured a hand toward her left breast. A small star of light flashed, accompanied by a gentle chime. As both the sound and the light faded, a golden name badge was left behind. It read “Ap.R.I.L.” in engraved letters.

  “Robotic intelligence,” I asked, “is that like artificial intelligence?”

  “Robotic intelligence is the broad term for all forms of inorganic thought.” Her tone and inflection seemed almost natural, or at least as natural as a college professor in the middle of a lecture. “Similarly, ‘artificial intelligence’ is somewhat of a misnomer. I prefer the term ‘algorithmic intelligence.’ It’s more precise.”

  “What’s the difference?”

  “The term ‘artificial intelligence’ suggests a fully designed intelligence. Like a clock, it is designed and built to operate in a specific way. The clock may be very complex, but if you know how it works, you can always predict its behavior. Algorithmic intelligence, on the other hand, is more like DNA. Only the basic structure of how things should be done is designed. The intelligence then adapts to the environment it is exposed to, and the demands put upon it.”

  The computer’s avatar made the motions of walking while the robot that carried it drove over to the dog. The frame that held her image continued to face us, helping to maintain the illusion that she occupied real space. Two jointed arms deployed from the side closest to the long haired animal, one tipped with a soft bristle brush and the other with a suction extension. Together, they began comforting the dog by brushing its ears and cleaning the dust off of its long grey and white hair. Wink leaned into it, seeming to enjoy it.

  “Does that mean you can pass a Turing test?”

  Cassdan laughed out of the side of a smirk, and said, “An algorithmic intelligence can pass a turing test as easily as a sociopath can pass a lie detector. Pretending to be human is what they do.”

  “The A.I. or the sociopath?” I joked.

  Cassdan ignored me and got back to the task at hand. “April, what happened to Angela? Who was here?”

  April’s holographic face twisted up into a sad frown as she wrung her imitation hands. “It’s very complicated, Cass. I...I don’t remember.”

  “How do you not remember? You’ve got ten cameras in this room alone, and three more in the hallway outside.”

  “There was an attack. There must have been a million of them, all coming at me at once.”

  I was getting lost. “What the hell is she talking about?”

  “Sounds like a DDOS attack,” Cassdan responded, “a seriously epic one.”

  He pressed on the central column, causing a panel to pop out and slide to the side. A monitor inside displayed a constantly updating readout of the computer’s internal temperature, processor usage, and the programs currently running. From what I could see, this was the entire building’s central processor, running programs that observed every apartment, assisted every resident, and monitored the security of the building. At the top of the monitor was a small plaque matching April’s name badge.

  “Why on Earth is the building’s computer in a model’s apartment?” I asked. “Shouldn’t it be in a security office in the basement?”

  “This computer column runs the length of the building,” Cassdan answered, pulling a retractable cord from his device and plugging it into something behind the monitor. “April is one of the most advanced systems on the planet, very experimental.” Whatever he was looking at on his oversized wristwatch didn’t look like English to me.

  “And she’s being used to babysit a bunch of Uppers, not plan military strategy or design more efficient bionics?”

  “Trial run. The majority of the computer just does all the brainless stuff any other home system does, but the April personality was designed to make security decisions and give a more personal feel to the interface.”

  “That’s it? Marshall Engineering is using the world’s most advanced computer system for a friendly face on a computerized assistant?”

  “I’m much more than that,” April offered. “I was designed by Future Computational Systems as a prototype for an entirely new generation of data systems. As an algorithmic intelligence, it is my job to learn and adapt to the ever-changing needs of the residents. Physical health and security are the top priorities, but that extends into other realms as well. For three of the residents, I operate as a personal trainer. Twelve have engaged my services as a life coach. Six others attend personal therapy sessions with me.”

  I began to wander around the room as she and I talked. “You’re a therapist?”

  “The training took me mere moments to download, but I ran my processor through thousands of simulations constructed from books by some of the top selling authors in the field to build my experience.”

  Some sort of thick plastic blinds covered the broken window, closed tight to keep the wind out. There was very little glass on the floor nearby, a sign that it had been broken from the inside outward. The windows had no latches or hinges, so breaking one was the only way to get one open in a hurry, and with four bionic limbs, Angela certainly had the strength to do it herself.

  “And how is that going?” I asked the hologram as it followed me.

  “Quite well. Some instances have been challenging, but for the most part people usually just want to talk about their feelings, to have someone listen to them, to validate them.”

  The few small chunks of glass that littered the floor appeared pinkish. I squatted to pick one up in bionic fingers. It smelled lightly of iron. Angela had four bionic limbs, and yet the window was shattered by something that bleeds.

  “Is that the service you provided for Angela Vidales?”

  “No.” Her eyes looked at the floor as the hologram faked a smile. “Angie and I were… I think we were friends.”

  My brow lowered as I looked at her. “Explain.”

  “We talked, quite a lot, every day actually. She talked to me about her modelling job, of the photographers that hit on her and other models getting catty. She confided in me sometimes, of how she felt like an imposter, living up here in the penthouse of a skyrise while so many of the people she grew up with were still barely making it by. She even invited me into the conversations she had when her friends visited.”

  “So, she was mentally stable? You don’t think this could have been a suicide?”

  “I never actively psychoanalyzed her, but she never showed any of the signs typical of severe depression or a desire to self harm.”

  “What kinds of friends did she have over?”

  “People from her days before, on the ground level. Mostly it was a theatre troupe she enjoyed socializing with. They have a playhouse down the road, ground level.”

  “What about dates? Did she ever talk to you about boyfriends or girlfriends?”

  “She didn’t date much. Her employment kept her very busy, extra busy of late, and she often said she didn’t particularly care for the pool of men the Skyway offered.”

  I stood from where I had been examining the glass. Nothing else in the apartment looked out of order at all. In fact, everything was quite clean.

  “April, have you cleaned this place since Angela’s death.”

  “Of course not,” she said, her brow wrinkling with offense. “Protocol demands that I cha
nge nothing before the crime scene can be investigated.”

  “Haven’t the police already been up here?”

  The hologram sighed as it let out a fake breath. “They have.”

  My eyes went to the window. “They said it was a suicide, didn’t they?”

  “Yes. With no sign of forced entry or recordings of the attack, the investigator that was here spent less than two minutes making the determination.”

  “But why were there no recordings?”

  Cassdan answered. “Zombie horde.”

  Again, my brow lowered with my confusion. “Could I trouble you for a few more details?”

  “From what it looks like here, April was assaulted by over a million separate computers at once, all trying to access her system. My theory is that most of these were zombies, computers that a hacker or hackers have infected with a virus that allows them to be enslaved for attacks like this.”

  “You don’t think that would have made the news? A million computers start acting out on their own and no one noticed?”

  “Oh, no one would have noticed. The program runs in the background of the computer’s system, doing the hacker’s bidding without changing anything noticeable in the U.I. Maybe a few people would have noticed their system running a little slow or overheating a bit, but that’s about it.”

  “So, what did this zombie horde do to April, eat her brains?”

  “In a way, yes, though it doesn’t look like there’s any permanent damage. Basically, the attack kept her so busy that she had to shut down a lot of other systems to fend it off. Cameras stopped recording so she could use the memory space. Electromagnetic locks stopped working when she redirected the power. That sort of thing.”

  “Why not just disconnect from the Internet?”

  “Impossible. For the convenience of the residents, she has a hardwired high speed connection.”

  “Why not prioritise the door locks? If safety is her primary task, why not risk a few systems being hacked for the safety of the residents?”

  Cassdan’s eyes shifted from mine to over my shoulder. He didn’t answer me. Instead, he swallowed once and went back to the readout on his arm. I turned back to the hologram to find her lip quivering and tears rolling down a face that looked too real.

  “The attack…” She seemed to struggle to speak the words. “It was focused on my memory core. The hacker was trying to gain access to everything that makes me who I am.” My chest began to ache. “That zombie horde was sent to destroy me, to devour me. Letting even one through would have meant my end. I never suspected Angela might be in any physical danger.”

  I understood. “To save yourself, you had to take a risk.”

  She threw her arms up. “And some good it did! They’re going to rip me apart, anyway.”

  “What do you mean?”

  “F.C.S. is going to dissect her for forensic analysis,” Cassdan answered. “They’re going to take apart her entire mind to see what went wrong. Prioritizing herself over her residents has been deemed a flaw in the personality, so they’re going to transfer her entire system to a remote research facility and replace her with a basic system until they figure out how to prevent future incidents. It’ll take a couple of days for full approval, but the order is already being processed.”

  “I’m screwed,” April added, “but before I go I want to see my friend’s killer brought to justice.”

  The plastic fingers of my right hand squeaked as my fist clenched. Computer or not, she was a victim, attacked and blamed, her voice going unheard. Protecting her from her own owners might be beyond my ability, but I could at least do my best to honor her request.

  I began to process the entire situation. “There’s almost no physical evidence here, so we need to start with suspects. Did anyone have any grudges against her?”

  “None that I know of,” April answered. “I think some Uppers may have looked down on her, but I don’t know of anyone that had a personal issue with her.”

  “Is it possible that she was on any kind of drugs? Dealing with the isolation up here couldn’t have been easy.”

  “She had an occasional drink with friends, but no drugs. Urine samples never registered any illicit substances.”

  My eyes went wide. “Sorry, what?”

  “A number of the monitoring systems in this building may seem unusual, but I can assure you that they have only been used to protect the residents, and the information is never given out without consent.”

  “Not even to the owner of the building?”

  Cassdan asked, “You think Dr. Marshall might be a suspect?”

  “Marshall is always a suspect. You and I know what he’s capable of.” I turned back to April. “Is it possible Angela stepped out of line somehow? Maybe she angered Marshall? Maybe she was thinking about quitting?”

  “She hardly mentioned the man,” April answered. “I don’t think they ever spoke outside of the annual photo op where she would receive the latest line of bionics. And no, I report nothing to Dr. Marshall that isn’t directly related to my position as the building’s manager. I’m familiar with the country’s privacy laws, and they do not allow the reporting of any personal information without the individual’s consent, including this conversation and this investigation.”

  “Well, that most likely rules out financial or drug related reasons for the attack, but we still don’t know enough to rule out personal reasons. There’s no doubt she was the target of all kinds of envy, and discrimination.” I turned my attention back to Cassdan. “Have you got anything?”

  Cassdan unplugged from the column and slid the panel back into its place. “My skills aren’t solving this one, Jackson. Whoever did this didn't leave a trace. Where do your instincts say we should go next?”

  “We need to talk to all the people that knew her well. April, can you get us the address of that playhouse?”

  Chapter 3

  Three blocks south of Angela’s apartment, we found the Shakespeare Playhouse. A squat ground level building sitting amongst skyscrapers, it was a throwback to an older time in a world far from here. Dressed up like it belonged in Elizabethan London, beige walls were separated by the dark wood of an exposed timber frame that appeared to support the weight of the circular roof. Cross-woven iron protected the ground level windows without breaking the historical theme, and brightly colored banners hung from the roof to the ground, flanking the archway of the front double doors, displaying the name of the building.

  Being situated at the border area between the wealthy apartments and the rest of the city, there was no doubt that the owners were maintaining William Shakespeare’s own tradition of creating a space where the rich and poor alike could mingle and enjoy unique entertainments. Despite the early hour, the wrought iron gate protecting the front doors was already sitting open. With Cassdan behind me, I tried the latch on the heavy oak door and found it unlocked.

  Inside, the floor sloped steeply downward, creating a wide ramp into a lobby that doubled as a gift shop. The walls and ceiling maintained the Elizabethan theme from the exterior with exposed rafters and paneled walls, yet the floor was covered in a dark colored modern carpet, a good choice for high traffic areas, more durable than exposed wood and more attractive than the truly authentic dirt floors of the simulated era. To the left, a young man with a full beard and curly hair pulled back in a low ponytail counted the register’s till with a bionic hand. An older woman on the right side of the lobby straightened a table covered in stuffed dolls dressed as classic Shakespearean characters, organizing them by which play they appeared in. A third person, a young woman with shoulder length blonde hair, vacuumed around the edges of the room where the dust collected.

  “If you’re here to rob us,” called out the young man without looking up from his till, “I’d recommend you wait until after tonight’s show.” He straightened the last stack of bills and replaced the tray in the register, closing the drawer. “It’s going to be a good one. The Merchant of Venice, followed by
a burlesque show.” He flashed a smile. “Of course, if you’re just looking for tickets, the box office opens at seven. First come, first served.”

  “We’re just here to ask a few questions,” I said.

  His smile faded as his eyes narrowed. “Is this for a tabloid?”

  “You’ve already heard about Ms. Vidales?”

  “It’s been all over the news.”

  He pulled a cell phone from his pocket and switched on the screen. I stepped closer as he held it up for me to see. On the screen, an androgynous woman on one of the twenty-four hour news channels discussed the situation while images from the scene appeared behind her, apparently taken by the drone I had seen earlier. According to the newscaster, a reliable source within the police force had informed the reporter of the supposed suicide.

  “Was it really suicide?” he asked. “They said there was no note.”

  “It wasn’t suicide,” Cassdan said. “She was murdered, and we’re going to find out why.”

  “Theresa,” the bearded man called out, putting his phone away.

  The young woman had ceased her vacuuming and was already placing the machine on its charger in the utility closet when she heard her name. Dabbing fresh tears away from her eyes, she joined us beside the counter.

  Holding out a delicate hand to me, she introduced herself. “Theresa Neil, performer and part owner of the Shakespeare Playhouse.”

  “Jackson Bell,” I answered, gently taking her hand in my bionic one. Cassdan didn’t bother introducing himself.

  “Are you with the police?” she asked.

  “Technically I’m just a bodyguard, but I do have some experience with investigation.” I nodded toward Cassdan. “My client has asked me to assist him with looking into the suspicious circumstances surrounding the death of his friend. So, did you know her well?”

  “I probably knew her better than anyone else here.” The young man left us, passing beyond a curtained doorway on the far side of the room. Finishing her work, the older woman joined him. “We went to school together. After graduation, we went our own ways, but we kept in touch. I was actually the one who got her in the door here.”