by Astrotomato
“Wait. Can you keep an eye on me? An independent observer?”
“My pleasure, my lady,” the panther leapt, invisible, into a gap between ghostly equipment displays.
Kate sat on a holo seat, an ivory white anti-grav field.
“Focus, Kate, focus,” she sat, eyes closed, breathing deeply, waiting for Doctor Currie to arrive.
The city square was filled with Jonahs dressed as mime artists. They pushed against invisible walls, cleaned non-existent windows and walked against the most bereft of winds. One climbed into a bag and made unusual shapes as he made his mimes in secrecy. Djembe watched this one. The mime's act evolved. The bag took on shapes, the impression on the outside obscuring the human form within. The mime made its bag look like a tree, a remarkable act considering the lumpy seed the bag had started as. Djembe wondered how this helped with the consequence planning. What were they processing through this? Around him Jonahs sitting in cafés and taking tourist images clapped and started talking to each other. Their hands flew in the air, like startled birds, making points, their eyes dancing after them, quick clay pigeon shooting. The conversations became play, sport, deadly serious hunting.
The Librarian appeared. “My good man, here you are! Whatever are you doing in the square? Aren't you supposed to be working for your General?”
Djembe raised an eyebrow and waved his datapad, “I was creating some tools to get into this file. It's very well protected. What can I do for you, computer?”
“Verigua, please. Must I keep asking? Your General wishes me to accompany you on your visit to the tunnels.” The Librarian waggled its eyebrows, pulled a chair over from a nearby table and sat down, “I have a map!”
Djembe laid his datapad on the table, next to a coffee cup. “It's time I left these programs to do their work. It may take thirty minutes or so to break through the defences.”
“So Commander Djembe, here I have the parchment.” The Librarian pulled the map from inside its waistcoat, lay it on the table, unfolded it, smoothed away the creases, “Perhaps there's treasure, eh?” As it traced a yellowing nail across the tunnel network, the Librarian caused a three dimensional projection to appear, bearing the same colour as the parchment, “The old tunnels join up here. What do you say we go and explore?”
Djembe took a sip of coffee, “Very well. Please lock this room. Make sure no one can get in.” He left the holo suite with Verigua in tow.
On the journey down to the Colony's bottom floor Djembe became annoyed. Verigua had decided to sit on his shoulder, without permission, as an animated mouse, dressed mostly in the Librarian's clothes, though with prominent gaiters and wearing a hat sporting a single feather. This was the sort of thing Win would enjoy.
Verigua was chatting away to him. “I went off world once, did you know that? I sent an avatar, put a horrendously reduced version of myself inside an automaton. My intelligence and mental capacities were terrifically limited. It might be that I was only twice or three times as intelligent as a human. Can you imagine, Mr. Djembe?” The mouse looked up at Djembe's ear, “Possibly you can't. It may be beyond your capacity. I've no idea how you've all created so much with such limited stock. Up there, you know?”
When the lift doors opened, Verigua was still talking. Djembe's eyes were hooded, an enforced patience, a stillness of mind that he kept alive by narrating to himself sections of his report on Jonah's innovations. He walked down the corridors he remembered seeing on the map.
“I travelled quite broadly. Occasionally I would get updates from myself when I entered AI Thought Space. Two years I was away. A most interesting time. I merged with a Level One Mind. Unbelievable. You have to try it, my dear Commander. So much freedom and space. And texture! It filled an entire solar system. You can imagine, surely, how it feels to be so small and insignificant and to suddenly be so vast.”
“Which way?”
“I say, what's that, Commander? Which way? You're not lost, surely?”
“For an AI of such intelligence, you can be quite confusingly dim at times.” Djembe looked around, “This is not my Colony. I've never been here. This way looks much the same as that way.”
The mouse ran down his body, skittering across the smooth floor. It turned back, “Right.”
Djembe stepped to his right, while Verigua's mouse headed to his left. “That would be my right, Commander.”
Djembe took a deep breath, closed his eyes, “Of course.” He strode over the mouse, walking forcefully down the corridor. Behind him he heard Verigua's voice, “I wonder if you ever saw my avatar, Djembe? Are we on first name terms again? I do hope so. My avatar was red, about half your height, and ro...”
Djembe quickened his pace, hoping to force the AI to quieten, though he knew it was useless. It was just a holographic projection, after all. Verigua could hold conversations with every Colonist simultaneously without pause. As he turned into an adjoining passage at the corridor's end, Verigua's voice faded away. Perhaps Verigua had got the message after all? He carried on in silence, feeling calmer. He preferred to work alone. The AI's personality quirks disturbed him.
A few metres further he stopped at a solid-looking door in the right hand wall. It was smoother, cleaner than the ducts and maintenance hatches and the exposed pipework. It looked different. A security device kept it locked.
“Verigua, is this it?” Djembe turned around, and was surprised to find himself alone. He looked up and down the corridor, but there was no sign of the AI. Two automatons were plugged into pipework, making machine code burbles to a wall-mounted control pad. With a frown, he retraced his steps; the automatons turned their heads as he passed. At the corner he turned and almost trod on Verigua's mouse. Off-balance, spotting the holo creature as his foot was going down, he stumbled backwards. In front of him, the mouse was walking on the spot, and though it was very quiet, he could just hear the mouse talking.
“Computer.”
The mouse continued to scamper without going anywhere, chattering away to itself.
“Verigua?” Djembe waited a few moments, watching the mouse. Something was obviously wrong. The computer didn't seem to notice that it was stuck on a loop, that it wasn't moving forward, or that it was no longer able to see him. Djembe started to look around the walls, searching for a broken holo projector. Amongst the confusion of pipes and similar features, it was difficult to see anything. In many buildings they were integrated into the furniture and building services, making them difficult to find if there wasn't a diagnostic map to hand. He inspected a few nodules and projections, but the technology was outside his expertise; a meaningless exercise. Instead he decided to step over the looping mouse, to see what would happen.
“... and a sun larger than our two combined. A giant. They have a Habitat there that occasionally orbits through the outer layer of the star. Can you imagine? It's very cool, the star is bloated, near the end of its life. Millions of years from now, of course, and... What are you doing behind me?” The mouse snapped its head round, “Was I talking so much that I lost attention? My dear Mister Djembe, whatever must you think of me? Are we stopping?”
Djembe's eyes flicked around the corridor, Verigua following his gaze.
“Is there something wrong, Commander?”
“Before you noticed me behind you, where was I? What was I doing?”
“Commander, this is most unusual for you. I never had you as one for mysteries. Walking here, appearing there, asking odd questions.” Verigua's mouse shuddered and flapped out into a small owl. It ruffled up to a pipe, high on the corridor's wall, settling its talons and wings. The owl inclined its body towards the corridor-end, keeping its large eyes on Djembe, “You were just walking ahead of me, there.”
“How far ahead?”
Lifting a talon, “From where I was, two metres forty six centimetres. From here three metres ten, to be precise.”
Djembe nodded, as if answering a question only he had heard, “And humour me, Verigua. Can you fly to the spot where I was
furthest ahead?”
The owl cocked its head, “Well, if you have time. I did think you were busy,” it blinked its radiant eyes, extended its wings and hopped into the air. It wheeled first over Djembe's head, banked, flew back down the corridor, “It was just about... And it will consume its outer planets which currently enjoy balmy climates, absolutely perfect for life. Humans are settled all over that system. Seventeen moons, five planets and ten Habitats. There are billions of you there. They've developed an interesting sport, which you may have heard of; Flare Racing it's called. Undoubtedly you know well its rules and team performances, but it was a...”
“VERIGUA!”
The owl flapped backward, flipped over, fluttered back to the pipe. “What are you doing behind me? Was I talking so much that I lost attention? My dear Mister Djembe, whatever must you think of me? Are we stopping?”
“Something's not right here.”
Verigua's owl extended a wing, splayed the feathers, drew it back in.
“Verigua, how far is it to the wall, on the corridor that crosses the end of this one?”
“Three metres eight from my perch.”
“Before you noticed me behind you, where was I? What was I doing?” Djembe's feet slid apart. Involuntarily, he dipped his head and watched Verigua from under his brow. The AI was corrupted. Or if this wasn't part of its infection, then something was amiss. There was a filter, a barrier it couldn't pass. Either way, Djembe was worried.
“You were just walking ahead of me, just there.”
“How far ahead?”
“Well, you shouted at me, most rudely I might add, just as I reached the crossing corridor. But from there, you were two metres forty six away.”
“And how wide is the corridor crossing this one?” He eyed the owl carefully, looking for flickers in its holo, something which might give away what was wrong.
“The crossing corridor is one metre fifty exactly, standard width. I don't see what that... Oh my. That can't be right. How were you over two metres in front when the corridor is only one point five metres wide? My internal map must be out of date. Excuse me, I'll just fly it and measure it again.”
“No!”
“My word, Commander.” Verigua's head snapped round, its wings at full stretch. “You've turned rather vigorous. You must be a hit with the ladies, eh? Moody, quiet, and then rather forceful.” The owl coo-ed.
Verigua's frivolity was turning Djembe's worry into annoyance again, “Listen to me. Twice I have found you stuck at the corridor junction, talking to yourself about a red giant solar system, thinking you are moving and talking to me. There's some sort of barrier there that you cannot cross.” He painted the air with his hand, “Beyond it, if you turn down the corridor to the left, there is a door, with heavy security features, and of a different design to all this around us. Where the fault line intersects the corridor.”
The owl flowed into a violet mist, pooling into the corridor, forming the Librarian. It doddered a moment, looking back and forth from the corridor junction to Djembe, “I don't sense anything. And look here, in this book, the diagnostics for the corridors contain no such information.”
Djembe stepped around the Librarian, “I'm going down there and I am going to record my passage with my wrist communicator. Can you record me, too? I'll show you the results after.”
He walked to the corridor's end and back.
The Librarian looked amazed when he returned, “Well now, young man, there's quite a parlour trick. However did you manage that! I must say you Military Intelligence types are rather aptly named, aren't you?
“What happened? Play me your recording.”
“I think you've made your point, Commander, really.” The Librarian adjusted its shirt cuffs, which poked out from under its jacket's sleeves.
“OK, I'll show you my recording, then.” Djembe held his wrist. An image showed Djembe walk from Verigua, to the wall on the crossing corridor, then back. The Librarian was mute, motionless in the holo. “I really think you need to show me your recording.”
The Librarian sighed, “Very well,” and took an ancient, millennium-old box camera from within its waistcoat. A flickering image sputtered into life, in grainy black and white, identical to Djembe's for the first couple of seconds. When Djembe reached the corridor end he disappeared. The image showed the Librarian turn around and start stacking shelves which suggested themselves out of pipes and shadows and overly detailed conduit panels.
“We have a problem, Verigua.”
“I fear you are correct, Commander Djembe.” Verigua's Librarian stiffened, adjusted its waistcoat and ran a finger around its shirt collar. “You should run along to your General, I need time for a think. This,” it motioned towards the corridor end, “is not without consequences, eh?” It walked a few steps along the corridor and turned back, “Please, Commander. I need some time. I suggest whatever's round there, it may not be somewhere you want to be caught. Be a good chap and run along.”
“Very well. I will have to follow procedure and report this. I'll be in the Operations holo suite.” Djembe re-traced his steps to the service lift. When the lift doors opened, a small automaton rolled out, weaving around his legs as he stepped over it. He watched it trundle away as the doors closed on the bowels of the Colony. The lift doors closed on his last comment in the depths, “I have a very bad feeling about this.”
“Open door.”
Doctor Currie appeared in the doorway, the room's white light spreading thickly over his face, painting a temporary look of wonder over his irritation.
“General Leland, hello again. I understand you wanted to see me?”
The room was ghostly. White light obscured its walls, its floor. Gauzy wisps of holos on standby suggested some form, some feature, but were difficult to see. When Doctor Currie stepped in he looked too solid against the light.
“Doctor.” Kate glanced at the dull matte of her MI uniform, contrasted against the narcotic light. She must also look hyper-real. She adjusted her seating position in the supporting antigrav field. “Thank you for sparing me more of your time. I won't keep you more than a few minutes.”
Masjid stayed quiet as he walked into the room. The wall became a seamless veil, a diaphane ivory.
“Interesting meeting room,” Kate looked around at the blank nothingness, “you'd never get away with stylistic features likes this on a Hab. Or an MI Hab, at least.”
“Computer: chair.” Masjid sat in hard light chair, styled around a half-sphere, and pulled at one of his fingers, “I remember all too well. Fall may be isolated, but it has its attractions to compensate. A semblance of comfort, some style,” he motioned to the room, “freedom from interference.”
Typical colonist, Kate thought, always have to mention interference. She stayed diplomatic, and laid the bait of flattery, “So I hear. I'm starting to understand how significant your work is. I think isolation has served you well.”
She watched him relax, take the bait, “You have no idea what meddlesome controls MI places on research out in the Settled Quarters. My research puts us on the brink of the next level of human evolution. It took me years to convince the Cadre to allow me to direct the programme, even though I conceived it.” He smoothed the strands of white hair on his head, “This place is liberating. Have you ever had true freedom, General? To create your own work and be left alone to pursue it?”
She shook her head, “No, Doctor. My job is to respond to other people's emergencies.” As soon as the words were out, she saw the look on his face: pity. She couldn't bring herself to be upset. It was exactly what she'd been thinking before they'd been assigned to Fall. She wanted some space, some freedom to pursue her own work. Kate slipped off her chair, went to a transparent suggestion of movement. In the air a molecule coloured out of the whiteness, rotating.
Masjid looked over. “Ah yes, my neurocomputational protein. They call it Compound X. I imagine you want to know why it's never made it off Fall?”
She looked back,
considering her answer, “I presume an agreement with MI. That's not my area of interest.” She walked around the molecule, “The compound was in Doctor Maki's blood.”
“Yes, they all use it.”
“There were unusually high concentrations in her blood stream.”
“Am I being interrogated?” Daoud narrowed his eyes. Kate noticed he was still pulling at one finger, which was covered in something.
“I just need an understanding of certain aspects of the molecule, to rule out drug-induced psychosis, suicide or nano-control by external agents. That sort of thing.” Masjid was nodding now. Kate was framing her questions carefully, putting him in the role of teacher. “For example, these methyl groups in this side chain, and the partial protein cluster here, they share characteristics of some hormones and gene activation molecules, the kind parasites use in their reproduction cycle. Could you describe how they work?”
Rising from his seat, Masjid walked over to the molecule, put his hand in his lab coat pocket and stepped past Kate, reaching into the image, “A common question, General. Well, common amongst my better students. I'm impressed. If you look under the guanine chain...” Masjid described the molecule's structure. Kate watched him carefully. She was only asking to get him comfortable and used to talking, so she could bring the interrogation proper.
“Is there anything else, General? Or was it just this compound?” Masjid returned to his seat.
“I need to talk with you about why Doctor Maki was on the surface. Specifically why no one came to pick her up at the end of her work.”
Masjid gazed at her and was silent for some moments. She allowed him the time and waited patiently. Eventually, “Is this interrogation room classified?”
“Yes. Article Seven of the Colony Defence Code.”
He nodded. “And your training and biology training. Does it extend to procedures like memory erasure?”
Kate frowned. She wasn't sure where this was leading, “I am rated, yes. I have to perform them occasionally. My pilot will have to undergo one after we leave Fall to ensure the installation remains classified. I prefer to do it myself, out of respect.”