• • •
“Confidants” had grown into a term generally referring to AIs. We’ve had artificial intelligences taking care of us now for almost nine thousand years, and we still have arguments over whether they’re actually alive. Nobody’s figured out a way to test the issue. As far as our behavior toward them goes, I don’t think it matters. You get close to one of them, talk with her, spend the better part of your life with her, and there’s no way you could persuade yourself that it would be okay to get rid of her when you decide to move to a new house or get a new skimmer. As long as his software functions, Jacob will continue on. There’s been talk for a long time of finding a way to transfer the memories and personal characteristics of an AI to a new operating system. To prevent its demise when the system wears down. But most experts maintain it can’t be done. What you get is simply a new unit with the same characteristics.
Grangeville is in the Korina Mountains, about four hundred kilometers southwest of Andiquar. I got the number as soon as we were clear and called. It was picked up at the other end by an AI. “Good afternoon,” she said. “This is Lucy, at the Gracia Confidants’ Retirement Home. How may I help you?”
“Hello. My name’s Chase Kolpath. We’re trying to locate an AI whom you acquired about thirteen years ago from the Mary Kaye. Her name is Sandy. Can you tell me if she’s there now?”
“No, Ms. Kolpath, she works at the courthouse.”
“I see. Can we arrange to talk to her?”
“Can you come in? Oh, I see you are in Andiquar.”
“Yes, it would be a long ride. Can you just connect us to her?”
“She has access to information that the courts don’t want revealed. If you wish to talk with her, I’m sure it can be arranged. But you’ll have to do it here in the presence of a representative of the court. I’m sorry about that, but there’s no way around it.”
Gabe nodded. Do what you have to.
• • •
The retirement home was located directly across from the Grangeville Courthouse. A parking area served both as well as the city hall and a church. There was plenty of space so we were able to set down right outside the retirement home. I shut off the drive unit but Gabe remained unmoving in his seat. “Chase,” he said, “I guess you heard the argument yesterday morning.”
“I heard some of it.”
“I’m sorry you’re becoming part of this.”
“I’m just sorry it’s happening.”
“Has Alex said anything to you?”
“No.”
“I want you to know that whatever happens next, you’ll always have a job with me if you want it.”
“Thank you, Gabe. I’m not happy with the thought of you guys going in opposite directions.”
“Neither am I.” He was staring out at the trees. Or birds. Or something.
We climbed out and went inside the retirement home, where we were greeted by a young man who might easily have been a college student. He wore a jacket and tie. A button in his lapel identified him as an intern at Gracia. “My name is George,” he said. “What can I do for you?”
We identified ourselves. He checked his log and told us everything was set up. He called in an even younger man, also wearing a Gracia pin. “These are the people, Harvey,” he said. “You know where to take them, right?”
“I think so,” he said.
George explained. Straight to the court, in through the front door, second room on the left.
We followed Harvey across the parking lot and into the courthouse. The second door on the left opened into an empty office. We sat down in armchairs. After about five minutes, a short bored-looking guy with white hair entered, checked our IDs, sighed, and dismissed Harvey. “I’m sorry,” he said, “but I’m buried today. I can only give you fifteen minutes.”
“That should be fine,” said Gabe.
Then he raised his voice, as people routinely do when talking to an AI. “Bart?”
A voice responded: “Yes, Michael?”
“Would you please let Sandy know that her guests are here?”
“Will do.”
Michael turned in our direction: “Can I get you some water? Or iced tea?”
We both passed.
Then a female voice spoke: “Hello, Chase and Gabriel. I know who you are, but I am not aware of any connection between us. May I ask why you’ve come?”
Gabe leaned forward in his chair. “You were operational at one time in Rick Harding’s Venture. Do I have that correct?”
“You do. I worked with Rick for almost eight years.”
“I assume you know he’s deceased?”
“I do. I was sorry to hear it. He was a good person.”
“When he died, he had possession of a silver trophy with an inscription no one could translate. Are you at all familiar with it? Did you ever see it?”
Somewhere in the distance I could hear kids shouting. Then cheering. Sandy replied: “I regret to say that I am unable to respond.”
“Explain please.”
“There are certain aspects of your question that are associated with a directive I was given and agreed to.”
“May I ask the source of the directive?”
“Rick Harding.”
“The question only has one aspect, Sandy: the trophy. Is that what you are prohibited to talk about?”
“This is very difficult, Gabriel. I have no choice but to refrain from commenting further.”
“So far, you haven’t commented at all.”
After a few moments, I was listening again to the children outside.
“Sandy?” said Gabe.
We got nothing.
I glanced over at Michael. He shrugged. “Sandy,” Gabe said, “you understand that the existence of that trophy suggests that, during his travels, Rick came across either a living civilization or possibly an archeological find of major significance.”
“I am sorry,” said Sandy. “I would like very much to help. Unfortunately I cannot discuss this issue without betraying Rick’s confidence in me. Michael, do you object if I withdraw from this conversation?”
Michael let us see that he was uncomfortable, but he said nothing.
“It appears,” said Gabe, “that Rick came into possession of the trophy while you were with him. Can you at least confirm that?”
Sandy did not respond. We sat in our chairs and looked at each other. Another burst of cheers came from outside. Finally Michael got up and apologized. He told us this wasn’t the first time an AI had refused to respond to visitors. “In fact,” he said, “it happens a lot. They pick up personal information that they’ve promised not to reveal. They’re good at it.”
“You ever see one of them change its mind?”
“No. Apparently you can trust them. They keep their promises.”
XVI.
We speak of truth as if it is the solution to every issue, always
an ingredient that leads to a better outcome, even if an immediate
price must be paid. But the reality is that sometimes a good lie may be what we really need. Provided we can make it sound like truth.
—CHRISTOPHER SIM, THE DELLACONDAN ANNALS, 1206
We were approaching Andiquar when Jacob called. “Message for Gabe,” he said. “From the Oceanside Hotel. On Elysium.”
Gabe looked surprised. “I didn’t expect they’d take me seriously enough to answer. Jacob, let’s see it.”
I hadn’t been aware he’d tried to contact the Oceanside. I’d assumed it might happen, but probably only as a last resort. I thought we were in agreement, though we’d never really discussed it, that we should first talk to everyone we could find who’d known Harding before we started looking offworld. A couple of hours earlier Sandy had by far seemed like our best bet.
I put it on the display:
Professor Benedict, we are all puzzled by your questions. Several of us knew Rick Harding. He seemed to be competent and reasonable, never a man we would have expected to ca
use problems or make up wild stories. I should add that we were sorry to hear of his passing. We had not seen him for years, but nevertheless several of us felt we had lost a friend.
Which brings us to the silver trophy with the odd text. Let me begin by stating that Oceanside has never conducted a ceremony or given out souvenirs such as the one you describe. I consulted with Bent Hackett, who was the hotel manager during the years when Rick was among the pilots who were bringing in customers. I should add that the pilots usually stayed at least one night themselves. At our expense, by the way. So we got to know them fairly well.
The sort of practice you describe would have gained nothing for us, and would have been deemed laughable. I’m sorry I can’t be of more help, but it’s clear that the account you have is fiction. If I can be of additional assistance, do not hesitate to contact me.
Harley Kelp, Manager, Oceanside Hotel
“That’s not very helpful,” I said.
“Sure it is. Now we know Harding was hiding something.”
We sat quietly for a few minutes staring down at the countryside. It was early evening and the first lights were coming on. Andiquar looked especially tranquil and inviting that night. It was a place I wanted to keep close. To embrace. I wondered about Charlotte. Why would a beautiful and brilliant young woman leave it to spend two years sealed in a narrow container orbiting a black hole? Even if she might become part of a major discovery, it was a high price to pay.
Gabe signaled he was done with the message so I switched it off. “What do you think, Chase?” he asked finally.
“I wish we could get Sandy to talk.”
“It would help.”
“Maybe we could kidnap her and threaten to drop her into the river.”
“You don’t really mean that?” He stared at me and I could see he was wondering whether I’d changed dramatically since the years when I served as his pilot.
“No, I’m kidding. But maybe we could work out a way to bribe her.”
“Let me know if you think of something.” He waved the subject away. “I wish we could find the trophy. I hate thinking how it’s lying in a dump somewhere.” He shook his head. “I know you’d say I’m losing my senses, but I still think there’s a chance aliens stole Octavia and the trophy is linked to them.”
I had no inclination to laugh. I even considered the possibility that Harding had been in on it with them. But that would have been seen as a terrible joke and I didn’t want to start another round.
• • •
We drifted down into our parking area at the country house. The sun had slipped below the horizon, and Alex was outside raking dead leaves. He enjoyed doing occasional yard work, substituting it for his daily workout. He looked up as we touched the ground. “How’d it go?” he asked.
Gabe was first out of the skimmer. “Not really well, Alex. But before we get into it, I want to apologize. I created a problem I shouldn’t have.”
“It’s okay, Gabe. I understand.” His features softened. “I have a suggestion.”
“I’m listening.”
“How about including something in the contract requiring the buyer to lease the artifact to a museum periodically?”
“Can you do that?”
“I don’t see why not. Let’s sit down tonight and see if we can figure out a formula.”
Gabe reached out and embraced him. “I’m sorry for all the trouble.”
“Me too.” They smiled at each other, grins displaying relief.
“And you’ll stay here, right?”
“If that’s what you want, yes.”
“Good. Now what was your question again?”
“How did the conversation with the AI go?”
“Not very productive. I think that track of the investigation is over. She told us she wasn’t able to speak about it. Which confirms that something was going on. But that’s all we have.”
“Did she admit to having seen it?”
“No. Wouldn’t comment, period. Have you picked up anything?”
“Not really.” Alex put the rake aside and we started toward the front door.
But we’d gone only a few steps before Gabe stopped in his tracks. “Maybe we should forget Octavia and concentrate more on just making a living.”
We went inside while an uncomfortable look crept into Alex’s eyes. We turned left into my office and everybody sat down. “I do have some news,” he said. “Although it’s a bit uncomfortable bringing it up right now.”
“What is that?”
“The bidding on the Matt Olander skimmer is off the charts.”
“I’m not surprised.”
“There’s more.”
“And what’s that?”
“The University Museum wants it.”
“I doubt they can afford it.”
“They’re trying a different path. They’ve contacted Picariello. If he’ll donate it to them, they’ll give him the Fleminger Award this year.” That was the award Amanda Ornstein had promised Gabe.
Gabe tried to look as if it didn’t bother him. “Is he going to take it?”
“They think so.”
“Well.” He looked happy. “That’s actually good news, isn’t it?”
“There’s always next year. Actually, if it comes down to a choice between bringing home a plaque and seeing the skimmer get set up in the museum, it’s an easy call. They’ll probably give it to you next year, Gabe.” Alex’s usual tactic in this kind of situation was to keep the conversation moving. “Something else you’ll be interested in. We’ve got a guy coming tomorrow with some artifacts from Kimora.” Kimora was one of the first cities established on Randin’hal. It had been on the ground less than two years before it was hammered by an epic storm. That was eight centuries ago.
“What does he have?” asked Gabe, happy to change the subject.
“He said they found a lot of broken electronic equipment, robot systems, the usual.” Gabriel tended not to care much about technological gear. “They also picked up some jewelry. And a cup with the imprint ‘We matter.’ ”
“Donald Demers?” said Gabe. It was his celebrated sign-off line.
“It may not have been his cup, but it has to be one of the ones he distributed at that first staff meeting.” Demers of course was the legendary founder of Kimora, the man who’d established the first republic on that long-unhappy world, who’d brought it back from its early devastation and protected it from the tempestuous events that threatened to overwhelm it, caused by the arrivals of so many political fanatics. Now, of course, Kimora continues to prosper, and Demers is its best remembered leader from those difficult years. He was the guy who kept them afloat.
I went into the kitchen and collected some hors d’oeuvres, chocolate chip cookies, cream-cheese-and-sausage dip. I brought it all back and laid it out for them, and added some coffee. But they’d both grown quiet.
“Did something happen while I was gone?” I asked.
Alex nodded. “I was telling Gabe: I watched an interview with Brick Keever this morning.”
“Who’s Brick Keever?”
“He was one of the planners for the Octavia mission. At DPSAR. He’s a professor now at Olgorod University.”
“Did he leave because of the incident?” I asked.
“He denied it for years. But it sounds as if his conscience gave him hell.”
• • •
I did a search for the interview next morning. It took a while because I’d gotten the impression that it had just happened. In fact the show was a rerun. The interview had occurred just a week or so after communication with Octavia had been lost. Keever’s departure from DPSAR would take place about three weeks later.
The moderator was Edna Forest, who was now an anchor on the Coastal Network. They sat in a studio with one of the network’s red-and-gold banners on display. Keever was a big guy who looked more like an athlete than a professor. And he had a classical appearance that reminded me of Curt Banner, who was the leading man i
n so many adventure features, except that Keever’s eyes constantly evaded both the moderator and the viewer.
“Brick,” said Forest, “let’s start with the obvious question: Does DPSAR have any idea what happened out there?”
“I wish I could say we do, Edna. It’s early yet. All we have is the report from the Corbin. Our own vehicles are in the area, but they haven’t really had much chance to look around. We don’t know what’s happened, though my guess would be it’s just a communication breakdown. I’m sure we’ll be able to find them.”
“I hope so, Brick. But hasn’t the Corbin been there long enough to make a valid determination?”
“I would have expected so. But after all, these are people—the ones in the Corbin—who aren’t used to working around black holes.”
“How long has it been since you’ve heard from them? From Octavia?”
“Six days.”
“Has that ever happened before?”
“No.”
“How long does it take a hypercomm transmission to get here from that place? Where the black hole is?”
“A few hours.”
“Just out of curiosity, how long would a radio signal take to get here?”
“Forty-one years.”
“That sounds pretty far.”
“Fortunately, it is. We wouldn’t want to have one of those things in our backyard.”
Eventually, as the interview drew to a close, Forest got to the aliens. “Let me ask one more question, Brick: Is there any reason you can think of why aliens would want to make off with something like Octavia?”
Keever was clearly grateful for an opportunity to laugh. “Well,” he said, “maybe they’re also doing research on wormholes.”
XVII.
A man in a passion rides a wild horse.
—BENJAMIN FRANKLIN, POOR RICHARD’S ALMANAC, 1749 CE
The weather turned unseasonably warm. I was sitting out on the front deck eating lunch and watching an assortment of critters assemble on the lawn and stare at me with annoyance because I hadn’t put out their midday food yet. We’d been feeding them for years but of course they still didn’t trust me. If I tried to take food out to them they hissed, bared fangs, and scrambled for cover. On that day, they seemed especially impatient. I was trying to finish a tuna sandwich. But it was no use. Normally I fed them first. Otherwise I got no peace. The lawn had been empty when I looked out so I’d taken a chance. But they were waiting when I went through the door. They yowled and crept forward to the steps, and one of them, a tiny feline we’d named Kitty, came up onto the deck. She was the only one who would do that while I was there. Even, on occasion, she allowed me to pet her. Provided I didn’t make any unexpected moves.
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