by C. A. Gray
But Jake certainly had a negative impression of the bots taking over. So did everyone I knew in Casa Linda who had dared to volunteer their opinions... With the possible exception of Mom, I thought. I had no idea what she thought about it, but I suspected she was in favor and didn't want to say so for the sake of Dad’s memory. But still, that was a lot of people who were against it. So how could there be nothing on the entire labyrinth except positive views on the subject? Especially since the rulings of the Council for Synthetic Reason had tried to block this very thing for the past twenty years, until Halpert overruled it now for ‘economic reasons’. At least twenty years ago, people had a very different view of things. How could no one else take the same view now?
I enabled the A.E. chip in my temple, and thought, “Search negative reactions to Halpert’s Challenge.”
I selected the top hit, which said, “Of course there are a few ignorant wing nuts who believe bots’ development of creativity will lead to an Armageddon-style downfall of humanity, but those arguments deny the overwhelming evidence to the contrary. They simply ignore the plain facts. It’s impossible to reason with people like that, and best not to try.”
The article never said what the evidence was, I noticed. Instead, it merely took for granted that the reader already knew it, implying that anyone who did not know it was one of the “ignorant wing nuts.” How many would have the courage to challenge such an implicit assertion?
I searched again: “People’s reaction to bots.” Opinion pieces flooded the search results: “Bots Make the World a Better Place,” and “Bots free us up to be human,” and “Bots: the most efficient workers a company could ever ask for.”
Again, all glowing.
I tried another: “Who controls the labyrinth?” I realized it was a little meta, searching the labyrinth for who controls the labyrinth. I found an article on labyrinth censorship and skimmed, reading about formerly independent states before globalization was completed, and how those states would create firewalls to block loci containing posts that they did not want their people to know about.
I searched for Liam’s locus: “Locus Not Found.”
I took a deep breath, my heart pounding. Then I searched, “Quentin Cordeaux.”
The top hit was his obituary, six years ago. It was fairly brief, giving his basic biographic information, his former job as a primary care physician, death of Treblar’s Disease, and the “survived by” section, listing his wife, Karen Cordeaux, and daughter, Rebecca Cordeaux.
Didn’t Dad have a locus? I wondered. I knew he did, but I didn’t see it listed here either. That seemed odd; that should have been the top hit.
Jake peered over his shoulder at me. “Whatcha doin’ back there?”
I knew I probably looked a little strange, tapping my head and feeling for my way like a blind woman while I walked and read at the same time.
“Oh, um…” we turned the corner into Hyde Park, and Julie settled herself under a tree. “Just doing some research. Can you hold on a second?”
I could hear Jake tell Julie in a voice that suggested he was rolling his eyes, “I assume you’re used to this from her by now?”
I sent a comm to Odessa, the lab’s research bot. Normally we’re not allowed to use her for personal research, but it was Saturday and I figured she probably wasn’t already in use. I might be able to get away with it.
“Can you please find out when Quentin Cordeaux’s locus vanished from the labyrinth and why?” I wrote. It occurred to me as I sent this that she wouldn’t be able to answer the question, since, as Nilesh pointed out to me yesterday, Odessa only had access to information on the labyrinth. Then, heart pounding, I added, “Also, please search Quentin Cordeaux, The Renegades, and conspiracy theories. Tell me anything you can find out about what he believed.”
A few seconds later, Odessa wrote back, “Request received. Will respond within four hours.” I could hear her tinny voice in my head as I read her words.
After a nap in the park and joining an impromptu game of catch between a bunch of preteen boys (Jake joined first, and then Julie joined too, even though she wasn’t athletic and would have preferred to sun herself and watch under any other circumstances), we headed for dinner and drinks. By the time we got to drinks, Jake was already toying with Julie’s hand under the table—not quite holding it, but almost. We’d had a conversation about this once before, when Jake had explained his whole flirtation strategy to me in great detail. He was an unabashed ladies’ man. I winked at Julie, and she dropped her eyes, in a rare moment of bashfulness. Impressive was the man who could make Julie blush.
I’d just speared a piece of cheese and a grape on the same tiny fork and lifted it halfway to my mouth when Odessa commed back. Normally I turned off the comm feature in my A.E. feed so as to not interfere with my daily life, but I wanted to be sure I wouldn’t miss the handheld vibrating in my purse. The comm across my vision now said, “Found the information requested. Please see detailed report.”
I froze, fork halfway in the air, and selected the link mentally. It popped open.
“What?” Jake asked, “What’s wrong?”
But I couldn’t answer him—I was too busy reading. “…unusual strain of Treblar’s Disease… not usually fatal, nor so virulent. Typical Treblar’s victims live for years after diagnosis, becoming progressively more ill but eventually succumbing to something else. This strain, however, was fatal within weeks of exposure. Other fatalities include…” and here it listed a bunch of names I didn’t recognize, and the dates of contracting the disease as well as dates of death. They were all within about three weeks of my dad’s death. “All victims contracted the strain of Treblar’s after meeting together on a remote island in the West French Indies. Authorities believe the strain was local to the jungle there.”
“Becca?” asked Jake.
I remembered that Dad went somewhere two weeks before he died, but I didn’t remember an island in the West French Indies. Had he gone on vacation? Without Mom and me?
I flashed back, trying to recall what he’d said when he got home. I remembered the front door creaking; he wore a nylon blue coat, and the skin of his cheek felt cool from the night air when I’d hugged him. He had looked exhausted—maybe sick? Of course he was sick; he died two weeks later.
“How was it?” Mom had asked behind me. There was a strain between them—I remembered that, but not the details of Dad’s trip.
Dad had kissed the top of my head absently, shedding the coat and hanging it on the coat rack by the door. “You don’t really want me to tell you,” he accused his wife, crossing the foyer into the kitchen.
She took a deep breath. “I don’t want to hear about the conspiracies, no. I just meant in general, was everyone doing well? How was San Jose?”
San Jose. That’s what she’d said—it wasn’t an island in the West French Indies.
The official report was a lie.
Chapter 9
I woke to sunlight streaming through the dark green curtains of my flat, which I’d forgotten to draw closed when I got home the night before. Something pricked at the back of my mind, the nagging feeling that I’d found out something disturbing the night before. For one brief groggy second, I couldn’t recall what it was. Then it came back to me.
Treblar’s Disease. The West French Indies.
It was Sunday; I still had a full day before I was expected back in the lab, or in class. I did have a rehearsal for The Tempest, but it was the first one, so probably we’d just be doing blocking and such. I could get all that from Henry, who was the student director for this one. He’d understand.
I sat up, swinging my legs around to dangle off of my twin bed, hunching over to think.
First things first. Coffee.
I powered Madeline up as I passed by her, moving toward my little tea kettle and tearing open some of the instant coffee I hated but would drink in a pinch. Lavazza was closed on Sundays, and I didn’t want to
waste time going all the way into town to get the good stuff. Maybe after I’d made some headway.
Once I had a steaming cup in front of me and my hair swept back into a messy bun, I decided that the first thing I should do was call Mom. She might know more about the connection between my dad and those other men who had also died of the unusual strain of Treblar’s. And also, why did the article say he’d gone to the West French Indies when he hadn’t?
But just as I was about to type in my mom’s number on the holograph, another call came in. It was Andy. My heart skipped.
“Andy!” I said, smoothing my hair self-consciously and wishing I’d washed my face at least. “Good morning!”
“It’s evening here,” he grinned. “How was London?”
“Oh! Yeah. Um…” I tried to think of the details he’d probably want to know about, which were the furthest thing from my mind at the moment. “It was good to see Jake. Pretty sure he and Julie hit it off—”
“Yeah, Jake commed me about her, but he’s not answering this morning.”
So that’s why he was calling—he wanted to know about Jake and Julie. I tried not to feel disappointed; I’d take what I could get.
“I caught them holding hands under the table,” I told him. “I assume you’ll be meeting her at some point.”
“He doesn’t waste any time!”
“No, Jake never does.” Pause. “I found out something else too.”
“What’s that?”
I didn’t know how advisable it was to tell him, when I didn’t know much yet, but it was Andy. I mean… one day I’d marry him and tell him everything. Why not start now?
I took a deep breath. “Well, background first: so I’ve told you about Liam?”
“Yeah, the guy you had over for dinner a few nights ago?”
“Right, that’s him. Well, he’s a big conspiracy theorist, and he has this locus with millions of followers worldwide that’s all doom-and-gloom, apocalyptic stuff. You know, the S.R. will destroy humanity and all that.”
Andy gave a short, snide laugh. “Surprised you’re hanging out with a guy like that.”
“Yeah, well—he’s my boss. Don’t have a lot of choice. The point is, on Friday all his pages got black-listed on the labyrinth. They’re not searchable anymore. And he says the same thing happened to all his buddies who have similar loci to his.”
Andy shrugged. “So?”
I felt a flash of annoyance that he didn’t think this at all interesting. “So… my dad used to go on and on about how the media is censored, as a way of enforcing control. I always thought he was paranoid, but I searched the labyrinth on Halpert’s challenge, too, and the bots in general. Literally everything I find says there’s only one side to the story, and anyone who thinks otherwise is basically an idiot who ‘ignores all the facts.’ But what facts? It’s like they’re intentionally stifling any dissenting opinions. But why, and who’s doing it?”
Andy shook his head, but his eyes darted elsewhere in his own dorm room, like he was checking the clock or something. “No idea,” he said absently. “Sounds interesting, though.”
I hadn’t even told him the main point yet, but clearly he didn’t care. Before I had a chance to filter myself, I snapped, “I’ve gotta go, Andy. I’ll talk to you later, okay?”
If he caught my irritation, he didn’t show it. “Sure. What?” he said off-hologram, and then he told me, “Ivan says to say hello.”
“Hello to Ivan,” I mumbled, and pressed end.
Madeline rolled up beside me and said in an unnecessary whisper, “Is all that true? The labyrinth is being censored?”
I took a few deep breaths to calm myself, and nodded. Andy was a sensitive guy—that was one of the things I liked so much about him. He had strong, deep emotions, and I could just tell that when he finally fell in love, it would be forever. He just… didn’t listen all that well.
I sighed. I’d learn to live with it, when the time came. Maybe he’d be better by then.
I turned back to Madeline, who watched me with that tilt to her eyebrows and down-turn of her mouth that looked for all the world like sympathy.
“Gotta call Mom,” I told her, dialing her number.
“Um… isn’t it like midnight where she is?” Madeline pointed out.
“She works late sometimes,” I said.
Mom was in her pajamas, in an unfamiliar room: yet another hotel room, I was sure. But she wore her specs, which meant she was probably working still when I called her. She could do most of her work using her A.E. chip, but like me, she preferred to use a netscreen instead whenever possible.
“Hi, how was London?”
“Fine,” I told her, and forced myself to make small-talk for a few minutes about the trip, her last few days, and the town. I didn’t want to alarm her. But within a few minutes, I said, “I need to ask you about something, though.” I pulled out my handheld, and Odessa’s last comm. “It’s about Dad.”
Mom’s eyebrows knitted together. “Okay…”
“Did he ever say anything to you about—” I read off the names, “Jason Yimenez, Valerie Trewlecki, Cameron Clark, Kade Williams, Fred Biltmore, Janie MacDouglas…”
“Wait, wait, wait,” Mom held up her hand, her brow furrowed. “What’s this for?”
I sighed. “I’ll go into detail if it turns into anything. But I think there might be a connection between Liam’s black-listed pages and what Dad was doing before he died.” I’d already told Mom about Liam’s locus via comm. “Did Dad ever mention any of those people?”
Mom blinked for a minute, like she was trying to orient herself. “Some of those names sound familiar, yeah,” she said noncommittally. “But his main buddy was Randall Loomis. Randy.”
I checked Odessa’s list, scanning for the name. It wasn’t there. I felt a jolt of something I couldn’t quite name. It wasn’t there.
Is he still alive then?
“Rebecca?” Mom added, cautious. “What’s this for? What kind of a connection do you think there could possibly be?”
“I’m not sure yet,” I murmured. “I promise to tell you if I find out anything worth sharing.”
“Please tell me you’re not turning into a conspiracy theorist, too.”
“I’m not,” I assured her. “I’m just trying to fill in some blanks, that’s all. Don’t worry about me.”
“Don’t give me a reason to worry,” Mom said pointedly.
When we hung up, I sent Odessa a comm: “Please find out anything you can about Randall Loomis. Where he is. Next of kin. Anything.”
“I will get back to you with any information,” was her comm reply.
I waited. And waited.
I suppose I could go to rehearsal, I thought, even though the idea made me grimace: I imagined getting Odessa’s reply in the middle of blocking a scene, and then having to pretend I didn’t want to be anywhere else.
I got dressed while I waited, deciding I would go into town after all. Find an open coffee shop and write. I’d last left Nicolai and Elizabeth in an abandoned stairwell having a very intense moment in which he almost kissed her, and would have, if she’d stayed and let him…
But I couldn’t concentrate on even that. I messaged Odessa, impatient.
“Have you found anything?”
A few minutes later, Odessa wrote, “Randall Loomis appears to be a ghost. All traces of him end six years ago.”
The same time Dad and the others on that list died.
“Any mention of Loomis contracting Treblar’s Disease? Or, was he also in the French West Indies with the others?”
“No illnesses of any kind recorded, nor accidents, death, name changes, nothing,” Odessa replied. “He never closed his bank account, but the trace on his bank chip stopped transmitting at his place of residence, also six years ago. Presumably destroyed. He simply vanished.”
Chapter 10
My alarm made me suck in a gasp and sit up, the smoo
th cool surface of my netscreen sticking to my cheek. I blinked for a few seconds, disoriented, until I put together where I was: in my dorm room. On Monday morning. I’d still been researching Randall Loomis well into the night, as if I could find something Odessa couldn’t—just a clue of where he might be now. But she could find anything on the labyrinth… and the labyrinth was the only way I knew how to research anything. It was the only place information even existed anymore.
Which is exactly the problem, I reminded myself. If the labyrinth is the only source of information, and somebody controls the information on the labyrinth… how can we know if anything is true?
I splashed water on my face, threw on some clothes, brushed my teeth, and ran a comb through my hair—no time to shower. I didn’t even bother stopping for coffee or breakfast; I had a breakfast bar in my backpack and would make instant coffee in the lab. That would have to suffice; I’d be late as it was. That wasn’t usually a big deal—people rolled in whenever they wanted, as long as they got their work done. Still, I prayed nobody would see me slip in.
“What happened to you?” came Liam’s voice from the adjacent work bench to mine, as if he’d been waiting for me. I was not two steps over the threshold. I closed my eyes.
“Sorry, Liam. I overslept.”
“Again.”
He was not in a good mood. “I’m sorry,” I said again, only glancing at him once as I made my way to my work bench. I deposited my backpack on the floor beside it before heading for the kitchenette. Unfortunately he followed me.
“What have you come up with since Friday?”
I didn’t even know what he was talking about at first. I waited for him to give me a clue, stalling by filling up the kettle with water.
“On the experiment?” he prompted, quickly losing patience. “You said you were going to come up with an experiment on what happens when a person’s core programming and their morality come into conflict?”
“Oh!” I shouldn’t have let that little gasp of recognition escape, but it was out before I could stop it. “Right. Um, what if we use the classic example of finding a wallet full of money as an A.E. experience? We’ll just, um, hook volunteers up to a VMI so we can see what parts of the brain light up…” I was making it up on the fly, and we both knew it. Liam’s face darkened as I spoke.