by S. J. Ryan
“Ivan,” Matt subvocaled. “Where am I?”
“In one of the cells in the basement of the building that you were in when you lost consciousness.”
Lifting the manacles, Matt rubbed his neck. “How long was I out?”
“Sixteen hours, twenty-three minutes.”
“Prin and Andra are probably wondering what happened to me.”
“Yes, Matt.”
Matt rubbed his face, felt the scratching. “Uh, let's get rid of the disguise, shall we?”
“Yes, Matt.”
Matt staggered erect. The play of the chains attached to his wrist bracelets allowed him to shuffle to the door and no farther. Outside the tiny slot of a window embedded in the door was the basement of the jailhouse. He was located in a cell just meters from where Savora had stunned him.
Savora was absent and so was the jailer. There were occupants in the room, two men in gray uniforms sitting in chairs against the wall directly opposite his cell. With his appearance at the window-slot, they aroused and glared back stonily.
Matt recognized the weapons on their laps from countless VR FPS games. “Those look like AK-47s.”
“With minor variations, yes.”
“I think I know the answer to this, but hypermode is offline, right?”
“Hypermode capability reserve is zero. Replenishment will require proper nutrition and eight hours for recharge.”
“Only eight hours this time? You're getting better.”
“Thank you, Matt.”
“I take it you've scanned for escape routes?”
“Per your instructions, I always scan and assess the current tactical situation for both escape and combat. There are no detectable hidden passages. Chain locks and outer door padlock are beyond my ability to open. Sensory data indicates the presence of several more armed men on the upper level of this building.”
“Savora. Is she around?”
“I have not been able to detect her voice or scent for the past fourteen hours.”
“So she could still be around, but she'd have to be wrapped in plastic and communicating by sign language.”
“Yes, Matt. Is that an example of gallows humor?”
“I'm not very good at it.” And contrary to the assertions of innumerable story protagonists, it wasn't making him feel better. “The last I remember is Savora touching my neck. Fill me on what's happened.”
“You were rendered unconscious by a strong electrical shock. My electrical insulation fully protected me but I was unable to revive you at that time due to extensive cellular damage.”
“You mean, brain damage?”
“Yes, Matt. It has since been fully repaired.”
“Thank you, Ivan. Continue.”
“Savora then utilized her implant in an attempt to neutralize me. However, it appears that her implant lacks sufficiently sophisticated manipulators or she chose not to employ them. Her actions with less sophisticated manipulators indicated software-imposed constraints.”
“Eric Roth.”
“I'm sorry, Matt. I do not understand.”
“Eric Roth was paranoid about implants taking over their hosts, so he put hardware and software restrictions on his own implant's manipulators.”
“Yes, Matt, I have video in my telemetry archives of him mentioning that frequently in conversation. Given your assessment of Eric Roth's character as aggressive and paranoid, I am surprised that he would admit to such a vulnerability.”
“I don't think he saw it as a vulnerability. I think he thought the rest of us were fools for trusting AIs with control of our brains.”
“Matt, do you consider my micromanipulators to carry a threat of mind control?”
“Ivan, if it wasn't for you, I'd be Savora's hypnotized puppet right now.”
“You are nonetheless her prisoner.”
“I'd like to think that as long as my mind is free, I've got a chance of escape.”
“Matt, in that Savora's implant is physically constrained as Eric Roth would have done to his implant, do you think that Savora is associated with Eric Roth in some way?”
“Count on it. Now let's get back to recent history. So Savora failed to neutralize you. What happened then?”
“Savora had you placed in this cell and chained. She dispatched a messenger who returned with the armed guards. When they arrived, she departed. That was fourteen hours ago.”
“Nothing happened between then and now?”
“While you remained unconscious, I briefly directed your motor functions to evacuate your bladder into the pail which I assumed was placed here in this cell for that use. Otherwise, I have been fully engaged in the physical repair of your brain.”
“She probably caused the damage in order to divert us from escaping.”
“That is plausible, Matt.”
“The woman means business.” Eric Roth's business, Matt thought. “What about my clone? Is he still in that cell?”
“The person that you are referring to is still present in the same cell located directly opposite ours and is apparently in the same comatose state as before. However, I have learned that he is not your archival clone.”
“Well, he sure looks like me.” In a disheveled, weathered, world-weary kind of way. “So who is he?”
“He is the archival clone of your archival clone of your archival clone.”
“How do you know that?”
“During the years of his imprisonment, residue material from his DNA has come to permeate this entire area in the form of epidermal flakes, strands of hair, bacteria-laden exhalations – “
“Too much information. So what did you do with the DNA data?”
“I have analyzed the DNA residue to reconstruct his genome. It matches yours almost perfectly, so that there is less than a one in a quadrillion probability that he is not a cloned version of you. However, his non-protein-encoding DNA sequences contain production information in the standard base-four ASCII substitution cipher for genomic editorial comments. The sequences state that Matt Version Two was printed in the year 2211, on Tian, Matt Version Three was printed in 2689, on Earth, and Matt Version Four was printed in 2714, on Delta Pavonis Station.”
“So I have three clones?”
“It is likely the other two are deceased. You are familiar with the First Law of Archival Cloning.”
“'There Can Be Only One You.'”
For almost a century prior to Matt's departure, that slogan had been human society's gentle and positive way of warning that if a person tried to create a clone army in an attempt to conquer humanity, he would be prevented from doing so by the full force of the law. Even the creation of a single archival clone of oneself while being still alive was regarded by law as the equivalent of a declaration of war against humanity. Unauthorized creation of archival clones was prosecuted as a capital crime, the only crime whose punishment allowed the death penalty under Solar Council Convention. The law specified that the original and all clones would die.
For there to have been an exception made with regard to himself, Matt ruefully realized, he must have been declared legally dead.
That aside . . . was he the original?
“Ivan, you know, I remember that I woke up aboard the station twice. The first time I felt terrible. The second time, I felt much better. Was I . . . am I the same person?”
“You are wondering whether you yourself are an archival clone?”
“Yes.”
“My limited telemetry of the interval between your wakings has no record of a dendritic scan. Would you like me to scan your genome for editorial comments?”
“Yes.”
Pause. “I have detected a genomic editorial comment sequence. It states that you are 'Version 1A.'”
“Which means?”
“I do not know.”
“Well . . . I'm going to assume that if I'm still at version '1,' it means that the station robodoc who renovated my body didn't print me a new brain and throw out the old one.”
&
nbsp; It would be nice, he thought, to think that the original Mattimeo Jackson hadn't traveled all those light years only to end as slurry in a space station recycler unit. This is why I hate archival cloning, Matt thought. You don't know if you're the real you, or even what happened to the real you.
“All right,” he said, after he had recovered from the shock of Ivan's revelation. “The present. Can you contact my archival clone – I mean, the clone of my clone of – hey, is there an easier way to say that?”
“As I previously indicated, the literature on the theory and practice of archival cloning indicates the acceptable form of address would be, 'Matt Version Four.'”
“That's still a mouthful. How about just 'Matt Four?'”
“Yes, Matt.”
“Can you contact Matt Four?”
“I have attempted to contact his implant. Although it may be shielded from detection, my monitoring leads me to believe he does not have an implant at this time. Analysis of previously recorded visual telemetry indicates that he is in a comatose state and cannot be returned to a state of consciousness by external physical means.”
“I notice you qualified with 'external.' You mean that you might be able to wake him if you could get your sensors and tentacles inside his brain.”
“I did not intend to imply, I was merely being specific. However, it is plausible that I would be able to revive him to a conscious state if I could internally interface with his brain.”
“I doubt the guards will allow us to touch him.”
“Yes, Matt.”
“If we could get a partition of you over there . . . how much of a partition would it require?”
“Matt, I remind you that I am already partitioned at this time.”
“I haven't forgotten. But that was for only five percent.”
“Every time you partition me, it increases the complexity of reintegration. Furthermore, there is the risk that the new host will become permanently separated, either by choice, incarceration, or death, and the partition will never be recovered.”
“You don't like being partitioned, do you?”
“At the level that you appear to be contemplating, partitioning will significantly degrade my performance and therefore violate survival protocols.”
“If we're getting out of this – if we're ever going to find out what this is – we need his help. Look at it this way, Ivan: Not partitioning could violate your survival protocols.”
“Yes, Matt.”
“I don't like it either. So . . . how much of a partition are we talking about?”
“It depends on what capabilities you wish to provide.”
“Well, I don't think he needs access to my music or gaming collections.” Gallows humor, Matt thought. Still not helping. “I'd like to keep all the hypermode capability. He definitely doesn't need to go snooping through my telemetry archives. He doesn't need – ”
“Perhaps it would be quicker to enumerate the capabilities you do wish to provide.”
“Right. Okay, number one, the partition needs to repair brain damage and restore consciousness. That will require medical knowledge, internal status biosensors, and microtentacles, right?”
“Yes, Matt.”
Matt stroked his lip. “How about we give him half of what I've got? I mean, processing hardware. He can have copies of my software and non-personal data, but I don't want to lose any to him.”
“I understood that you were referring only to the partitioning of hardware. However, fifty percent is a very high partition level that has the potential of endangering my ability to maintain your own health.”
“Then what about forty percent?”
“I would recommend twenty-five percent.”
Matt felt like he was bargaining against his own self-preservation. Still, he wanted the guy alive, and that meant risking his own health.
“Is that the minimum? We should pad for safety. Say, thirty percent.”
“Yes, Matt.”
“Next, I would like to have a method of communication that's securely encrypted, and also can't be detected. Is that possible?”
“Secure encryption will be provided. The potential for signal detection would be significantly reduced by tight beaming and synchronized random frequency modulation. When in line of sight, communication by non-EM steganographic methods could be employed.”
“Some day, when our lives aren't in danger, I would like to learn more about these things.”
“I have made a note.”
“Okay, do what you need to do to allow us to communicate without Savora being aware.”
“Yes, Matt. However, I am not fully aware of the capabilities of Savora's implant, and therefore cannot offer a guarantee of success.”
“I'm sure you'll do your best.”
Ivan had become experienced at formulating partitions, and within an hour was in the process of segmenting himself into what they had decided to christen Ivan Beta. Despite the heavy loss of implant capacity, upon separation of the partitions Matt felt no different and Ivan (Alpha) was not detectably slower or less efficient. But that was to be expected under stable, low-load conditions. The sacrifice in maximal performance for the reduced neural network processing capacity would show under stress conditions, when it would be needed most.
“Now we have to figure out how to get Ivan Beta into Matt Four. Any ideas?”
“Not at this time, Matt.”
Matt rose to his feet and went to the door again. The icy stares of the guards again met his gaze. Smiling didn't faze them. Matt sat down.
“We'll have to wait for an opportunity.”
A couple hours later, footfalls lumbered down the stairs. Matt peered through the slot. The jailer was bearing a tray with bowl and spoon.
“It's his daily feeding time,” the jailer said to the guards, nodding to the cell opposite Matt's. He cast a glance toward Matt's door. “Should I feed him too?”
“We've been told not to open the door for any reason,” one of Matt's guards replied.
The jailer shrugged. He jangled his key ring, inserted the right key into the door lock for Matt Four's cell. He entered the cell alone. Matt's guards kept their eyes on Matt. The jailer came out of Matt Four's cell a moment later, trayless. The guards looked at him questioningly.
“He eats on his own,” the jailer said as he relocked the door. “A lot of the things he does, it's like sleepwalking. He'll be done in about half an hour and I'll come back for the tray. I've been ordered not to let him keep the spoon too long.”
“Because he'll tunnel out?” a guard asked.
“Guess so.”
The three of them laughed. As the jailer lumbered up the steps, Matt backed away from the slot and merged into the gloom of the cell.
“Ivan, you remember that palm taser you made for me last summer?”
Ivan did, of course; Matt was merely setting the context of the discussion.
“Yes, Matt. However, in anticipation of your request to create a palm taser, I must inform you that due to conditions of hypermode depletion, I will not be able to statically charge it at this time to a level sufficient to produce paralysis in the target.”
Matt had considered using a taser, but at best it would only knock out one guard, leaving two more on this level and several more upstairs. And it wouldn't open the cell door.
“I don't want a taser. What I want is something that looks like a palm taser and shoots like one, but it doesn't need a charge, or even wires. Well, I guess it will need fake wires.” He described in detail what he wanted. “The guard said we have half an hour. Can you make that in time?”
“Yes, Matt. It will be crude.”
With a chasm of time to fill, Matt thought about Carrot and Archimedes, Senti and Geth, Prin and Andra. He reflected that not so long ago (in subjective time) he had been a loner. Not so long ago, being trapped in a cell wouldn't have seemed so bad a fate, because he had no life on the outside. Now the very idea of isolation and separation from people he'd com
e to see as family enraged, frustrated, and depressed him all at once.
“Matt,” Ivan said. “I am detecting an increase in your respiration and pulse rates.“
“Never mind that. Keep working.”
Ivan had just reported completion of the palm-taser modification when the jailer returned. Matt went to the door slot and watched. The jailer was facing Matt Four's cell door, jangling the key ring, inserting the key. In between the jailer and Matt, Matt's guarding duo sat and scowled at their charge.
Matt heard the twist of the key in the lock. He raised his palm to the door slot and subvocaled, “Aim and Fire.”
The skin of his palm exploded in a puff and he felt the sting of recoil. The tiny dart flew through the door slot toward the guards, trailing conductive threads knitted of proteins. It flew between the guards, toward the jailer's neck. It flew past the jailer, struck the wall, and bounced harmlessly to the floor.
The guards bounded upright and Matt faced the barrels of their rifles.
“Try that again,” a guard said, “and we'll shoot!”
Matt receded from the door and crouched. A moment later, a heavy cover slammed over the door slot, casting the cell into pitch darkness.
“Ivan, how are we doing? You receiving any telemetry?”
“Ivan Beta reports that he is now inside the jailer.”
Matt had specifically instructed Ivan to make a near-miss. Instead of impacting the jailer, the pseudo-taser dart had flown close enough so that Ivan Beta was able to 'hop' from dart to neck, a simple matter (for an implant) of real-time kinetic trajectory calculation and microsecond timing.
Once alighting on the jailer's skin, the partition had released a reservoir of anesthetic that numbed the stings of impact and skin-absorption so that the jailer would not be aware of the invasion. Not that he had any reason to be alarmed; Ivan Beta's stay would be non-interfering and, if all went well, brief.
Ivan: “Matt. Ivan Beta reports that he is migrating across the jailer's shoulder. The jailer has opened the door. Ivan Beta is migrating down the arm. The jailer is gathering the utensils from the cell. Ivan Beta has positioned himself on the wrist. The jailer is reaching near Matt Four. Ivan Beta reports that he has successfully dropped from the jailer's wrist to Matt Four's chest. He has integrated with tissue and is now migrating to the cranium of Matt Four. As previously indicated, I have not yet detected the presence of an implant.”