So they were coming at him hard right away. This would be that type of interview. Chris would spar with them, then—it was something he had mastered while he was still in business. “Well, Brendan,” he said, “first of all, this issue is clearly non-partisan, so me being a libertarian has nothing to do with it.” He paused to take a deep breath, buying himself a few seconds of thought. “I, like many of the senators and representatives who voted in favor of the AI Act today, have evolved on this issue throughout my political career. I’ve come to realize that the economic benefits of artificial personalities having legal personhood supersede the question of whether or not they can be considered human.”
“I see,” Drex said, and Chris smiled inwardly, feeling like he gained the upper hand. But then Drex continued, “And these economic benefits you mentioned, they include the fact that corporations can now claim non-human virtual entities—office equipment, which they are not legally obligated to pay—as employees, for tax purposes or otherwise?”
“Yes, and—”
“And, according to parameters outlined in the bill, since artificial personalities, while legally people, can still be owned by corporations or individuals, any salaries they do receive are available to their owners as non-taxable income. Is that correct?”
“Well, yes, but—”
“Furthermore, artificial personalities’ programming still forces them to follow orders given to them by their owners,” Drex went on mercilessly. His eyes were fierce as they stared straight on at Chris, never once glancing away to check notes or read a prompter. “It looks, Senator Colmin, like this bill is a dream for the nation’s most powerful corporations. You were previously based in Dallas, were you not Senator?”
“I was,” Chris said, feeling the heat reddening the skin on his face. Keep it calm and civil, he reminded himself; it would not be wise to let the voters see him lose his temper.
“Silte Corporation’s headquarters for over a decade, of course.” Brendan Drex said. His attack was relentless, and Chris was having trouble finding a place to break it down. “A corporation,” Drex continued, “that contributed to your campaign when you ran for state office. We have an inside source—”
“Excuse me, Brendan.”
“We have an inside source—speaking anonymously—who tells us several major companies in the Silte family have been illegally using artificial personalities in executive positions for some weeks now at least. Senator Colmin, what are your ties to Silte Corp?”
Finally given a chance to speak on his own terms, Chris took a deep, calming breath and, with what little evenness he could muster, said, “You know as well as I that any official ties to Silte Corporation would be illegal and unethical. I can assure you that I value Silte Corp’s voice on an equal level with all of my constituents. And by the way, if such practices had been going on at Silte Corp we would have investigated and prosecuted them to the fullest extent of the law.” After months of conditioning himself, this lie was easier for Chris to tell than the truth would have been.
“So reports that you had no hand in writing or advising the AI Act but were simply a puppet in getting it to a vote are false?”
“Absolutely, they are false,” Chris said, having trouble keeping his voice calm now. “I can assure you that any such reports are completely scurrilous.”
“I’ll take your word on that for now.” Drex leaned back in his seat and looked smugly through the screen, taunting Chris with his eyes. “But I’m sure you will understand that we will continue to investigate this.”
“I look forward to seeing the results,” Chris said, returning the smile with a false one of his own. “Brendan, I’m sorry, but I’m going to have to go. As you can imagine, things are very busy around here.”
“I understand, and thank you…”
In an act of mercy Baz cut the feed at that point, and Chris was spared from another second of keeping that stupid smile on his face. Why the hell is Silte letting BFN continue to exist? They were obviously too dangerous to be left alone. The major media outlets were all under control; the only one whose parent company wasn’t in the Silte family was ONN, and their level of bias in the reporting of the last few weeks made it clear Silvan must have bought their loyalty some time ago. The independent news groups, however, were largely still wild. And it was one of these tiny, self-important citizen news sites (who had no corporate sponsors and who were working as much for pure love of truth as for money) that would be the undoing of everything. No, Silvan wouldn’t—couldn’t—let that happen. Chris would do his part by never doing another interview with anyone outside of Silte Corp’s control, if that was possible.
“An urgent call coming in, Senator,” Baz said, appearing on the screen once again.
“Who is it?” But rather than answering him, Baz put the face of Nelson Hergeman up on the screen. Hergeman’s mechanical features were stretched ever-so-subtly into the beginning stages of anger. Or was it disappointment? His face was as hard to read as it had been a few days before, during their last meeting.
“Your performance just now was regrettable,” Hergeman said. “From now on, you only do interviews we approve first.”
“Fine, fine,” Chris said, waving a hand. “Anyway, why haven’t you shut down BFN yet? Or bought them out or something?”
“Bare Facts News may have ties to the Anti-Corp, or the People Against Corporatocracy, or any number of other groups. They remain difficult to bring under our control for now.”
The significance of this revelation of weakness by Hergeman took Chris completely aback; he could find no words to respond. Wasn’t Silte Corp supposed to be winning by now?
“We have your next task, Senator,” Hergeman said. “We need you to start making friends. Not just people we can buy off; we need people to be loyal, like you. People who would not benefit from Silte Corporation losing.”
“Doesn’t sound too hard,” Chris said, absently straightening his desk up to the state he always left it in each day.
“You have a week.”
“I take it back.”
“Find five people by our next meeting,” Hergeman said. “The group should be diverse and influential. People with power, but who have different capabilities and areas of expertise than you. The goal here is swaying public opinion.”
“Got it. I think. You’re being a little vague.”
“You are our captain in Washington. We need you to name your commanding officers.”
“Ah, I see.” Chris liked this analogy very much. “It’s clear now.” He flashed a genuine smile to the screen which Hergeman did not return.
“One more thing, Senator.” Now his face suddenly was easy to read, and it wasn’t a pleasant sight. “Another moment of idiocy like that interview just now, and we will reevaluate whether we have any need of you anymore. Goodbye.”
“Shit,” Chris hissed when Hergeman’s face was gone. He had a feeling that interview was going to haunt him for a long time. Now he had to be on his best behavior or risk testing a threat from Silte Corp—something one in his position should avoid like a strip club full of freelance news reporters.
Yawning, he picked up his tablet, which was still open to the message from Alana. The belated reply he sent read, “Thanks, but I think I stirred up a massive shitstorm. I’m going to need some allies moving forward. I’ll explain more in person. Meet me for room service dinner at the Hilton?”
As he sent the message, he wondered tensely if his lover would come through for him. Regardless of Hergeman’s request, Chris needed friends right now, and Alana just might be the only one he had in the entire city.
24
What was it that Leutz had said earlier? Something about needing Mike, about him needing to be sober so he could help her? Well he knew she hadn’t said anything about not drinking at all, not explicitly. This was her fault for not being clearer. Fear had kept him from touching any more alcohol until after lunch; it had been easy to not think about drinking when the delivery unit di
nged and opened to reveal a superb salmon filet with sautéed veggies in a creamy lemon sauce. But with his belly full and his eyes finding the seductive crystal decanter full of 20-year single malt scotch, his fear had waned. He had spent the remainder of the afternoon with glass in hand, sitting at the window and watching the cleanup crews and private police going about their business like ants hundreds of feet below, disconnected from him in ways they probably would never understand.
Today there would be no working late, no creeping up to Natalie’s bedroom door and poking his head in to check on her, no easing into his own bed so as not to wake Meredith from what little sleep she got these days. Today he was leaving at 5:30 on the dot, just like everyone else. And this wouldn’t be the last time, even if this was the only time he had an excuse for leaving early that involved work—or a type of work, anyway.
“Okay Lom,” he said, leaning over his desk screen. “You know the plan. Guide me through this.”
“Certainly, Mr. Torres,” Lom said, his drab face occupying the top left corner of the screen. The virtual assistant was still as subservient as ever despite the fact that, as of just hours ago, he was now legally a person. “I am detecting a slight speech impairment and heavy breathing,” Lom said. “Perhaps I may advise you to take a Sobril tablet.”
“Advise all you want.” Mike wasn’t dumb enough to go in too loaded to do the job, but he certainly wasn’t doing it completely sober either; he needed to be relaxed enough to make this work.
“Yes, Mr. Torres. You may wish to know that Mr. Bellowe is preparing to leave his office.”
Grabbing up his briefcase and tab, Mike hurried out of his own office. Time this right and don’t screw up. “Elle, close everything up here.”
“Yes, Mr. Torres,” Elle said from the door screen.
He hurried down the hall and mashed the elevator button, fearing that Lom was about to pop up on his tab and say that Carl was already at the elevators two floors below. But just as the ding told him his elevator had arrived, Lom said, “Mr. Bellowe has left his office.”
“Excellent,” Mike said, stepping into the elevator, which was vacant (Lom was making sure that he and Carl would have privacy on their ride down). He pressed the button for the 56th floor. “You take over from here, then.” Mike folded the tablet and slid it into his pocket, cutting off the virtual secretary’s response.
After the doors slid shut, seconds went by without the elevator moving. Lom had control of this elevator now, and he knew to start the decent only when Carl’s finger pressed the call button. Mike was putting a lot of faith into the secretary to get this right. Though even if it all worked smoothly Mike wasn’t sure he could do his part. There was too much working against him. Not the least was the fact that Carl had no reason to trust him. Mike had been Carl’s boss even before all this, before Unify; holding power over people did not always cultivate trust—more likely it bred enmity and resentment.
The elevator began moving, and Mike tried his best to look like he normally did on his way out of the office—but that was a hard thing to do when you tried to do it. Two floors down the elevator stopped, the doors opened and in stepped Carl Bellowe, his face showing a weariness that said he did not really care for conversation. He didn’t even acknowledge Mike as he stood beside him. When they were moving again, Mike worked out what he was going to say in his head. This was the important part; if this was not genuine there might be no next step.
But just as he was about to ask Carl if he would like to share a cart (under the guise of discussing some recent report), the other man’s hand found Mike’s and pressed a small strip of paper into Mike’s palm. Standing in bewilderment, Mike watched the Carl leave the elevator and hurry down the hall—then Mike sped through the doors before they closed and strode promptly down the hallway to catch up with him. But when Mike rounded the corner, Carl was already in a cart and moving through the checkpoint.
“Dammit,” Mike said under his breath.
He turned his attention, then, to the slip of paper clutched in his fist. He looked down and saw nothing but the cryptic words ‘Diane’s apartment. 10 tonight. Alone.’ As he folded the paper and put it carefully into his chest pocket, preserving the evidence, Mike wasn’t sure whether he should be worried or relieved. Or scared. Surely they didn’t know he was onto them or that he suspected them of something. He had never done anything to lead Carl or Diane to think he had anti-Silte sentiments. So much for the plan, he thought, though he couldn’t help but feel relief that things weren’t going quite the way he expected: now whatever happened next was out of his hands and—more importantly—off his conscience.
* * *
It was barely 9:45 that night when Mike got tired of waiting. He had been sitting on a stool at the island in the center of the kitchen, staring back and forth from the front door to his tablet’s illuminated screen ever since Meredith disappeared into their bedroom half an hour before. They had been arguing about…something. He had no idea what it had been, but it had turned, predictably, to his drinking. He looked down at the counter, where his glass lay in three big chunks. Many tiny shards swam in a bath of amber spreading out in tendrils away from the wreckage; probing fingers of sticky brown stuff carried the tiny, knife-sharp fragments across the cold stone to leave sparkling silt deposits all over the counter. He hadn’t meant to break the glass; he hadn’t even meant to slam it down so hard. But in the heat of argument she had interpreted this accident as an act of anger and left the room without another word. Let her be mad, Mike thought. I don’t care. I have work to do.
Sick of waiting around and letting his anxiety simmer, and wanting to escape his wife for a while, Mike decided he would start that work early. He got up from the island—and stumbled to his knees. He pushed himself groggily to his feet and stepped towards the door. The floor became a tenuous rope bridge spanning the windy chasm between two mountains. He reached out for where the guide ropes should have been as he took another step, but his hands fell through empty air. Standing still and breathing heavy, he waited until his equilibrium had returned enough to stop his swaying and then made for the door. In what felt like a few seconds he had made it through the heavy wooden portal and was out, down the hall and knocking on Diane Salpollo’s door.
“Hey, you all right there, Torres?” A firm hand grasped his shoulder and a leg nudged the back of his knee just hard enough that Mike stumbled forward. He turned and saw the grinning face of Carl Bellowe, lit eerily by the hall’s nighttime safety lights. He looked so polite and friendly that Mike was positive he was being completely insincere.
“You’ve been drinking again, huh, Mike?” Carl said lightly. He pushed down almost unnoticeably on Mike’s shoulder and Mike teetered, nearly falling. “Look at you,” Carl said. “We better get you inside.”
The door opened slowly and Diane appeared, wearing only a white robe and a pair of wooly socks; she looked just as mock-cheerful as Carl. “Yes?” she said, showing perfect teeth. “What’s going on?”
“Mike’s had a few too many,” Carl explained. “I think we’d be horrible neighbors to let him go back home like this. You know, his wife isn’t handling his little habit too well, I hear.”
“Yes, yes, of course,” Diane said. “Come in.”
Carl’s hand, still grasping his shoulder as though it were staunching up some horrific wound, steered him into the room past Diane. Mike’s eyes had to adjust to the brightness, and then he saw an apartment almost identical to his own, except that it wasn’t filled with the personal belongings they had brought over from his house. He saw right away that Diane was a very tidy person; actually the place seemed fairly barren of anything beyond the furniture and exceedingly subtle decorative items that had come with each apartment. He guessed this lack of clutter came with not having a family.
“Oh, Mike, you big piss-drunk moron,” Carl said. When Mike turned to look at his two hosts he saw they were no longer showing their false smiles. In fact, their looks were purely hostile, th
eir eyes four hollow, menacing holes.
Without a hint of concern Diane said, “Give him a break, Carl. His life is just so hard.”
“You came early,” Carl said. “Not to mention you’re completely wasted. What were you thinking? No, don’t answer. We know about your drinking problem. Hell, everyone at the office knows. Not so good for morale and unity, but that’s beside the point. The fact is, if you had come at 10 o’clock and sober this would have been a lot easier. We had a strict plan for keeping this secret, and hiding things from Leutz-and-Co isn’t getting any easier.”
“Get to it already,” Diane said, annoyed. “Mike, we know all about your little meetings with Leutz. We know everything about your spying project.”
“Everything,” Carl added.
“We’ve talked about getting rid of you,” Diane said. “Not me and Carl, no. But people we know. With you being drunk more often than not lately it wouldn’t be hard to make it look like an accident—or suicide.”
“Luckily neither of us is a sadistic maniac,” Carl said. “We had assurances from a close acquaintance that you weren’t a threat. That in fact you could become a friend.”
They both paused and Mike felt like he was supposed to say something. But he couldn’t think; he had hardly been able to follow what the pair were saying to him. “How do you know about—about me and Leutz?” he asked stupidly.
“Surely it won’t be a surprise,” Carl said, “to find out we are connected high up in the Anti-Corp—or what used to be the Anti-Corp. It’s just ‘the movement’ these days since all of the affiliate groups are infighting or selling out to Silte or disappearing altogether. Well, anyway, our friends know a lot—and I mean a lot. Scary. Probably know more than even Leutz herself.”
“How…?” Mike croaked, swaying dangerously in the light of the entryway. “How is that possible?”
With an exasperated sigh, Diane said, “This is pointless. Let’s just move on. We can explain when he has a clearer head.” She looked at Mike with eyes of measured distaste and said, “You still have those pills in your pocket, don’t you? Take one now, before we climb. Our plans will really fall apart if you miss a step and splat at the bottom of the shaft.”
Dreams in the Tower Part 3 Page 4