by Frank Tayell
“How are you, Mr Ludd?” Ruth asked.
The man they only knew as Ned Ludd looked up from his rake. Ruth knew it was Ludd’s rake because it was made of slender birch branches, recently cut and roughly trimmed. Ruth would have called it a broom, but he was using it to move leaves around the sundial in the convent’s walled garden.
Ludd gave Ruth a thoughtful scowl. “I know you,” he said. “They know you, too. They’re watching. They’re always watching. You know why? It’s because of the secret. I know the secret. I won’t tell. You shouldn’t either. Understand?”
Ruth didn’t. “I won’t tell anyone,” she said. “How are you?”
“They’re watching,” Ludd said. “They’re always watching. Listening. Waiting.”
“Do you remember a man called Mr Squires?” Ruth asked.
Ludd stopped moving and muttering. His eyes narrowed.
“He was the man who recruited you?” Ruth asked.
“I was recruited by Ned Ludd,” Ludd said.
“But you know who Mr Squires is?” Ruth asked. “We need to find him. Do you know where he might be?”
“Watching,” Ludd said. “Waiting. Listening.” He swept the crude rake along the grass with renewed vigour.
Ruth smiled, and walked back to the picnic table where Captain Mitchell sat.
“Anything?” he asked.
“Sorry,” she said. “Nothing coherent.”
“I thought he might speak to you,” he said. “Then again, he’s not spoken to anyone else, so perhaps it was a vain hope.”
There was a loud clatter from the roof of the convent. Ruth spun around, her hand dropping to her holstered revolver.
“It’s fine,” Mitchell said. “Relax. That’s just one of the wardens.” He peered upwards, and raised a hand. “Corporal Spinacre, I think. He’s a Marine, sent home from Calais due to stopping a piece of shrapnel with his thigh.”
“Then should he really be clambering across a roof?” Ruth asked.
“He went with Rabbi Cohen’s expedition to Jerusalem a few years ago,” Mitchell said by way of reply. “Now, that’s a story worth telling.”
“I’d rather you told me the one about Emmitt,” Ruth said. “But will Ned Ludd really be safe here?”
“For now,” Mitchell said. “Until I can think of somewhere better. I asked the mother superior to send for Mrs Zhang. Do you remember her? Isaac’s associate who runs the funeral home. She’ll provide close protection, but she’ll also send for Kelly. Set a sniper to catch a sniper. Of course, that means Isaac will come with her, but the good and the bad often arrive together.”
Worried he’d changed his mind about telling her, she went for the direct approach. “What did Emmitt mean about a hotel?”
“Yes, that’s troubling,” Mitchell said. “Not the hotel itself. That’s immaterial. He was talking about the Blackout, about the day it began. Maggie, Isaac, and myself were there, but no one else was. No one except the people who came to kill us.”
“You mean Emmitt was one of them?”
“Maybe. When we first met Emmitt at that tumbledown house where they were counterfeiting the notes, I thought I recognised him. I wasn’t sure. It’s the scars on his face, they make it hard to know what he looked like before. On the other hand, he’s had the chance to kill us on more than one occasion, and yet he hasn’t.”
“There have been plenty of other times that he’s tried,” Ruth said. “What happened at the hotel?”
Mitchell looked from Ruth to Ned Ludd, then at the ground, and finally at the sky. “It’s a story I try not to think about much these days, but I suppose you deserve to know.”
Chapter 14 - The Blackout
August 2019, Russell Square, London
The eighteen-year-old Henry Mitchell stared in confusion at the computer screen on the hotel-room desk. “You created an artificial intelligence?” he asked. “You mean like the assistant on my cell-phone?”
“No,” Isaac said, his eyes never leaving the younger man’s. “Not like on your cell-phone. That’s a narrow AI, good at completing the same task over and over. In the case of your phone, that’s adding a conversational overlay to the results from a search engine. What we’ve created is more than simple Boolean algebra. It’s the world’s first artificial consciousness. It’s alive, Henry.”
“Can it talk?” Henry asked.
“Would you expect a baby to talk? You’re still thinking like this is a virtual assistant. It can communicate, but we haven’t added a voice component yet. Besides, giving it a voice would mean giving it a gender, and that’s a philosophical debate too far for the professor.”
“What does it do?”
“Do? Do?” Isaac half laughed, half growled in frustration. “This is life, Henry. Artificial life. A conscious being. Do you ask a human what they can do?”
Henry looked around the small room in the Russell Square Hotel, searching for something familiar with which to anchor himself. There was nothing at all familiar about the strange hotel on the wrong side of the Atlantic.
He crossed to the window. Outside, red buses, black cabs, and bicycle couriers crammed the narrow road. It reminded him of a movie. It reminded him of the establishing shot of every movie set in London he’d ever seen. Up until an hour ago, he’d thought that was funny. Up until an hour ago, he’d actually been enjoying himself in England.
The professor and her odd assistant had hired Henry Mitchell to be their bag-carrier. Since they’d arrived at the hotel, there had been nothing to carry, so he’d played the tourist. He’d visited the monuments and museums, been to The Globe, and had his first legal drink in a pub once frequented by Charles Dickens. It had been the break he’d needed, a way of finally dealing with the death of his father, his disastrous year at college, and the future ahead of him. That was up until an hour ago.
“This is big, isn’t it?” Henry asked.
“There’s nothing bigger,” Isaac said. “It’ll change everything. The personal computer came first, then the World Wide Web, then social media. Now it’s this. It’s going to change the world.”
“How?” Henry asked. “I mean, what exactly will it change?”
“Everything,” Isaac said. “Our understanding of what life is, what death is, and what it means to be human. I’m sure there’ll be a few commercial applications, and those’ll net us a few trillion dollars apiece, but it’s the philosophical ramifications that will have the greater impact on society.”
The glib way the man threw in that impossibly large number irritated Henry. Isaac wasn’t more than a few years older than he, yet in that time he’d helped create… create… Henry still wasn’t sure.
“So it’s not an AI? What do you call that?” He pointed at the screen.
“I call that a laptop which I’ve used to access the University of London’s email server,” Isaac said. “It’s not our creation.”
“The university’s email server, why?” Henry asked.
“Because we sent out a video demonstrating the consciousness about an hour ago. Think of it as a teaser, or a trailer, if you will. We sent copies to some of the more sensationally minded tabloids, but I also sent some to our… I won’t call them peers, but they’re academics at the university who are attending the conference. I want to find out how people react to our creation before we put on the feature presentation tomorrow.”
“You’re hacking a university? That’s illegal.”
“Now that, Henry, depends on how you define the law. I can think of a few intelligence agencies who, if they knew what we were about to announce, would seize every computer, drive, and scrap of paper we’d ever scrawled a note on. In five years time, me hacking into the university will simply be a nicely dramatic scene for the movie they’ll make about my life.”
“You mean we could be arrested?”
Isaac gave a weary sigh. “Of course, Henry. With every great leap forward, there is risk. One of the reasons we decided to make the announcement in London is that we�
��ll be afforded similar legal protections as if we were home in America. At the same time, we’re safely distant from the NSA and the other acronymic intelligence services. They will learn what we’ve done at the same time as the rest of the world. Then we will have the far greater protection that is only afforded to the successful scientist. As to the morality of what we’re doing, and whether any government has a right to suppress it, let’s leave that to future generations to discuss in ethics classes. This is the next step on a road walked by Pythagoras and Pingala, Newton and Einstein, Lovelace and Turing, Hopper and Berners-Lee. This is the next step, the ultimate step. Everything changes after today. Even the laws.”
“And if it goes wrong, if it takes over, if it replaces us, what then?” Henry asked.
“You’ve seen too many movies,” Isaac said. “If we can create an artificial consciousness, we can overlay it with the memories and experiences of the now-living. We can replicate the very essence of anyone. Even you. We can all live forever.”
“As a few lines of code,” Henry said. “What kind of life is that?”
“A better one than most people have now,” Isaac said. “The robotics will catch up. And then… Think of all that’s to come. We can go to the stars, all of us, because we will no longer have our frail bodies holding us back. It will be a brave new world, Henry.”
“A dystopia with a paper-thin veneer?”
“Too many books, too,” Isaac said. “Is anyone thrusting Soma down your throat?” He turned back to the keyboard, and tapped out a few lines. “Now, the professor and I don’t want to deal with the press, but they will be clamouring for stories, so why don’t you come up with some. I suggest you ask for an eight-figure advance for your first memoir. High eight figures. Why don’t you go down to the bar, enjoy that it’s legal for you to drink in London, and start working on the first chapter. I’ll call you when it’s time.”
Time for what, Henry wanted to ask, but didn’t. In truth, he could do with a little time to process what Isaac had said, and so better formulate the questions he needed to ask.
He opened the door, and stepped out into the hall. The hotel was old and musty. Little natural light penetrated the narrow corridors. Despite its name, the hotel was five confusingly irregular blocks from Russell Square. The location determined the price, and the location was worth it. It was on the edge of Bloomsbury, close to the British Museum and the University of London’s dozens of colleges. Outside, every building had at least two small plaques pinned to the wall recording the names of famous dead residents. Poets, playwrights, politicians; everyone who was anyone had lived there once.
“Maybe I’ll get a plaque,” Henry murmured as he headed for the elevator. “No, definitely not.” This was a holiday job, though he’d already decided to quit college. He’d applied and been accepted for the police academy. The rest of his life would be devoted to protecting the public and upholding the law. The trip to London had been his chance to see some of the world. He’d seen London, and he was glad. The entire city was like a museum. Like a museum, its contents had no place in his future. Henry wanted to get back home to America so he could begin his new life.
He pressed the button for the elevator. “Lift,” he corrected himself. “When in London…”
The lights on the numbers above the door illuminated one-by-one. After a minute, the lift arrived. It wasn’t empty. The professor stepped out.
“Ah, Mister Mitchell,” she said in her schoolmarm voice. “And how are we this evening?”
Whatever Isaac and the professor had thought they’d created, and however badly their presentation went tomorrow, Henry had only been paid half the money in advance. The rest wasn’t due until next week, and he’d need it to cover his next few months’ rent. Though the corridor was deserted, talking about their secret project aloud wasn’t going to endear him to the woman. “Fine, Professor. Isaac gave me the rest of the evening off.”
“Yes, of course. Have fun,” she said absently, and headed towards Isaac’s room.
Henry stepped into the lift. The door began to close, but Henry shoved his hand out to stop it. The doors slid open. Henry didn’t move.
Something else had just occurred to him. Isaac was hacking into the university’s servers. Someone might notice. If they did, they’d call the cops. There would be an investigation. It might take a while, but they’d discover who was responsible. Actually, considering that it was the University of London, the security services might get involved, in which case it would be discovered quickly. It was unlikely that Henry would face any charges, but it might shred his chances of joining the police force back home.
“Damn.”
He stepped back out into the corridor and let the door to the lift close.
“Elevator. It’s a damned elevator.”
He walked along the corridor, back towards Isaac’s room. He’d have to tell Isaac to stop, and do it in front of the professor. He’d have to threaten to report it to the police. But what if Isaac didn’t stop? Then he really would have to go to the police.
“Damn.”
Along the corridor, three doors ahead, a man stepped out of his room. He was of average height, had a military buzz-cut, and tinted glasses over his eyes. His suit was a dull black, and so were his boots. They were so thickly padded that they distorted the otherwise razor-sharp crease in his trousers. He gave Henry, in jeans, blazer, and high-tops, barely a glance before walking down the corridor away from him.
Henry slowed his pace, not wanting an awkward confrontation in the hallway. He’d had enough of those since they arrived. Conversations always began with a variation of ‘what brings you to London’, and he’d not come up with anything that didn’t make him sound like a teenager on a holiday.
The man took the corridor down which their rooms were on. That was annoying. Henry slowed his pace further. He’d thought he might be able to speak to the professor before she got inside.
Henry took the turning. He saw the professor at the door to Isaac’s room. The man in black had sped up a little. That was odd. There was nothing down this corridor but the fire escape. That and their rooms.
The professor looked down the corridor. She saw the man. The man half turned, reaching for something in his back pocket. No. Not his back pocket. He had a holster at the small of his back. Acting without thinking, Henry ran at the man.
The man drew the gun, and was bringing it up and around when Henry dived into him, knocking the man sideways into the wall. The man spun around, recovering quickly from the blow. While Henry was still bringing his fists up, the man lashed out. His palm slammed into Henry’s jaw. Henry rocked back, tasting blood, seeing stars. He reached out, grabbed the side of the man’s head, and shoved him sideways. The man’s head hit the corner of a brass light-fitment. He crumpled to the ground, unconscious. Henry hoped he was only unconscious.
Spitting blood, Henry staggered back a step, turning his head, trying to clear it. His foot stepped on something. He looked down. It was a semi-automatic nine-millimetre pistol fitted with a suppressor. He picked it up, flipped the safety on, and for want of anywhere else to put it, slid it into his waistband.
The professor stood, open mouthed, next to the door to Isaac’s room.
“Call the—” Henry stopped, and spat again, clearing the blood from his mouth. “Call the police,” he said to the professor. Gingerly, he leaned forward, reaching out to check the man’s pulse. He half expected the man to spring to his feet. He didn’t, but he was still alive. Henry checked the man’s jacket. There was nothing in the pockets except two spare magazines. He put those into his own pocket and stood. What he’d been looking for, what he’d been half-hoping, half-dreading to find was a badge, but police didn’t carry silenced pistols, assassins did.
“What are you really doing—” he began as he looked toward the professor, but she had already gone into Isaac’s room. Leaving the assassin on the floor, Mitchell hurried inside.
The professor was loading external dri
ves into her bag. Isaac still sat at the small table, his fingers dancing across the laptop’s keyboard.
“Did you call the police?” Henry asked.
“Did you kill him?” Isaac replied, not taking his eyes off the screen.
“Kill him? Of course not. He’s unconscious,” Henry said. “Are the police on the way?”
“How much longer do you need, Isaac?” the professor asked, ignoring Henry.
“Two minutes. Three at the most,” Isaac said.
“No, there’s no time,” the professor said. “There’s no time at all. We need to leave, now. There’s a fire escape at the end of the hallway. Mister Mitchell? The fire escape. We’re leaving this hotel. It’s not safe, not any more.”
“Why not. What’s going on?” Henry asked.
“Isaac!” the professor snapped. She turned back to Henry. “He was an assassin hired to kill us and destroy what we’ve created. If we wait for the police, more killers will come. They will shoot and we will die, along with an untold number of guests and staff in the hotel. No, we can’t wait here. It will be safer for us to go directly to the authorities. There is a police station a block away. Isaac, now!”
“Fine!” Isaac snapped the laptop closed. “After you, Henry.”
The assassin lay more or less where Henry had left him. He’d slumped to the floor, curling almost into a ball. The professor ran toward the fire escape, Isaac was close on her heels. Henry was halfway there when the professor pushed at the door. The fire alarm sounded, high-pitched and loud. Automatically, Henry turned around. The assassin was on his knees, a small gun in his hand. Of course the man would have had a back-up piece. And as Henry realised it, the assassin fired. The shot went wide, thudding into the ancient plasterwork.
The assassin fired again. Again the bullet went wide. The man shook his head, then raised his free hand to the gash where he’d hit his skull against the brass light-fitment. Henry took that as his chance, and sprinted for the fire door. He dived through and into the dark stairwell. A pair of bullets thudded into the closing door.