by Greg Rucka
Cassandra flicked her fingers across the keyboard in front of her, cycling through the messages that had arrived, thinking. All three of the urgents were from the marketing and media division, begging for her attention regarding the rollout of AirFlow 2. Two of them concerned the actual staging of the event: reminded her that a rehearsal had yet to be scheduled and that they were rapidly running out of time. The third queried her wardrobe and when she would be free for a makeover.
There was nothing from Dr. Ventura, no update on Arthur’s progress.
Cassandra looked back to Velez, who was still waiting for a response.
“No,” Cassandra said. “You’ll come with me back to Paris.”
Velez looked as if Cassandra had just asked her to eat the oil glands off of a rotten skunk. “Madame Director, I cannot—”
“You really don’t want to tell me what you can and cannot allow at this point, Anita. Not after that fiasco this morning. I’m going back to Paris, I have to start prepping the rollout, I’ve got marketing climbing down my back, and I’ve heard nothing from Ventura since he returned to DataFlow. I’ve been here long enough.”
“I do not believe it is safe for you to return home, Madame Director.”
“Are you saying you can’t protect me, Anita?”
“It would be easier—”
“I’m not interested in easy at this point. I’m interested in what can be done. Are you saying you can’t protect me?”
“No, Madame Director, not at all. Only that I will be unable to do both that and pursue the target in question at the same time.”
“I’ve got a solution for you, then. Contact Colonel Shaw, have him meet me in Paris.”
The color that had leached from Velez’s face at the start of their conversation returned, flushing her fair skin almost to red. “I think that would be remarkably ill-advised, Madame Director. I think that would be, if I may say so, approaching folly. Their record of late has not been distinguished, not between their failures in both Hovoro and Los Angeles.”
“You feel they shouldn’t be given another chance?”
“Failure should not be rewarded.”
“I’m sure former-Director Mack agrees with you,” Cassandra said. “I want more men on the field, and Shaw can bring the Hawks to bear. We’re approaching rollout, Anita, and I don’t want to have to worry that I’m going to be shot while unveiling Arthur to the world.”
“But Colonel Shaw—”
“Is getting a last chance,” Cassandra DeVries said. “Just like you are.”
She flew back to Paris late that night, paradoxically arriving early the same morning, and went directly from the dataDyne hangar at De Gaulle to her offices via motorcade, Velez riding with her the entire time. It was just past six in the morning when she reached DataFlow, and the building was mercifully silent, only the skeleton night shift working the upper offices. She dropped her bags, told Velez that she expected to meet with Shaw in exactly one hour and fifteen minutes.
“I’ll be back shortly,” Cassandra said.
“Where are you going?”
“The lab. Just to check on progress.”
“I’ll accompany you.”
Cassandra stopped, trying to hide her annoyance. She supposed that she could issue a direct order, that she could simply tell Velez to leave her—for the time being, at least—the hell alone. But as she watched the older woman move to catch up with her in the hallway, saw the same fatigue on her face that Cassandra was feeling herself, it seemed like a spiteful thing to do. She was angry about the failure in Veracruz, guilty about the deaths of the men and women working for dataDyne, but in truth, her ire was directed more at Joanna Dark and, by extension, Daniel Carrington, than at Mack and Velez for their failure.
She supposed, if she were a different CEO, that she would have demanded Velez’s resignation as she had accepted Mack’s. Certainly, if Zhang Li were still in charge, he would have done no less—and, Cassandra was coming to suspect, probably a great deal more. The corporate culture of dataDyne expected as much, really; failure was, as Velez herself had said, not something to be rewarded.
Yet she hadn’t asked for Velez’s resignation, had, in fact, not even truly considered asking for it, though she had known that Velez would offer it if requested. The woman had all but done so.
Riding together in the lift down to the AI lab, Cassandra knew why she hadn’t. It wasn’t simply that Anita Velez was her friend, or at least the closest thing to one she was likely to have for a long time. It was that Anita Velez was her only friend, at this point. There just wasn’t anyone else. Whether by duty or by choice, Anita Velez had remained the only constant in Cassandra DeVries’s rapidly changing life.
And Cassandra didn’t want to be alone.
Dr. Ventura was in the lab when they arrived, working at his private terminal outside the quantum optical chamber, lit by the tower of white light that emanated from the datacore. He didn’t hear them enter, and Cassandra was grateful for that, because it gave her a chance to look around unmolested for once, Velez’s shadowing notwithstanding.
She approached the glass wall surrounding the datacore first. It was an old habit, and Cassandra supposed it was as close to allowing the spiritual into her life as she ever came, to stand in the cast of its brilliant white light, to look down at the spinning heart of illumination and feel swept away, if just for a moment, by the raw power inherent in the machine. Billions of terabytes processed per millionth of seconds, how could she not feel that this was her cathedral, how could she not feel moved? This was the pinnacle of modern computing; there was nowhere else to go to find a machine that could do more, and do it faster.
Which, following that logic, meant that Cassandra DeVries was committing a heresy of a sort, she supposed. Because that’s what Arthur was, what she wanted Arthur to be. The next stage—not the present but the future. Carrington had changed the world with null-g, and Cassandra had helped to make that change a true one with AirFlow.Net. But an artificial intelligence, a truly thinking, sentient machine—that would make null-g look like canned beer. It would change everything.
Resting her forehead against the glass, the brilliance of the core burning against her retinas despite her closed eyes, she could see it, see how it could work, how it would work. The beauty of it, and its simplicity. A machine that would understand not only what was said to it, but what was not. A machine that would empathize, that would care. A machine that would think, on its own, by itself. A machine with a soul, and if she could make it happen, if she could do it right, a machine with a soul that was pure.
A machine that would shame me for what I have done, Cassandra DeVries thought.
She could see it. Not Arthur, not yet, she knew that. But soon. The machine that would be Arthur’s brother or sister, Arthur’s son or daughter. And Cassandra would help him do it, not for the sake of vanity, not to etch her name in history.
She would do it for the same reasons she had written Air-Flow.Net. She would do it to make the world a better place.
Velez touched her elbow lightly, pulling Cassandra back from the reverie, and she straightened, stepping back from the observation wall. Ventura apparently hadn’t seen them yet, still bent to his terminal. Cassandra moved closer, examining the work that had been left out on lab tables and desks, the stacks of code and memory modules. Ventura continued to type, and she couldn’t help but smile at that. There had been times herself when she’d become so lost in the code that the very building could have collapsed around her, and she would only have noticed because the power had gone out.
“Edward?”
Ventura’s head came up as if caught in a noose, his expression almost comical in its surprise and alarm, and Cassandra had to bite her own tongue to keep from laughing at him. He put out both hands, as if to steady himself, sending his keyboard clattering from the desk even as he stumbled to his feet. At her shoulder, Anita Velez made a small sound, part disapproving, part curious.
“Ma’am.
” Ventura bent, scooped up the keyboard, settling it awkwardly back at his desk. “Ma’am, sorry, I … I didn’t realize you were back.”
“Just got in. I apologize, Edward, I didn’t mean to surprise you like that.”
“No, no, it’s all right. I just …” Ventura gestured at his monitor, then abruptly leaned forward, striking a couple of keys, frowning. “ … I was distracted, as you can see.”
“I’ve been known to get the same way.”
Ventura nodded, responding to her smile, then glanced over to where Velez was now examining the contents of a nearby desk. He looked back to Cassandra, waiting, and when it became apparent that she’d rattled him so much that he wasn’t about to offer, she sighed and gave him the cue.
“And how’s Arthur?” Cassandra asked, gently.
“Good, he’s good. Ninety-nine percent. We finished the last of the modules just after midnight, I sent everyone else home. Fighting with a bug in the Outland interface, it’s the one I told you about last time, he’s getting confused with verbal instructions. There’s a lost line in there, something, I’ve been looking for it since two, maybe three this morning.”
“Can I help?” Cassandra asked. “An extra pair of eyes, even if they’re not fresh, might do some good.”
Velez cleared her throat before Ventura could answer, and Cassandra glanced to her, saw that the woman was subtly indicating her wristwatch. Cassandra nodded, smiled apologetically at Ventura.
“Spoke too soon, I’m afraid,” she said. “I’ve a meeting to attend, it seems. Probably should get myself cleaned up before it, as well. I can only imagine I look quite the fright.”
“Oh, no, ma’am,” Ventura said. “You look beautiful.”
Cassandra laughed. “That’s very kind, even if it’s both untrue and unnecessary, Edward. Let me know when you have the interface back up and running, all right? We can route Arthur into my office, he and I can have another chat.”
“Yes, ma’am, absolutely.”
“And you might want to see about getting cleaned up yourself. You look like you haven’t slept in days.”
Ventura reflexively smoothed his necktie, then tightened the knot at his neck. “You know how it gets.”
“That I do.” She turned to Velez, saw that the other woman was watching Ventura with what Cassandra took to be an amused smile. “Let’s head back, shall we?”
“Certainly, Madame Director.”
“Edward?”
“Yes, ma’am?”
“Tell Arthur I’m looking forward to talking to him again.”
“I will, ma’am.”
She used her private washroom to shower, thinking she would have to dress in the same clothes she’d been wearing, only to discover that a new suit had been laid out for her by one of her personal assistants. As was becoming expected, everything fit perfectly, from the lingerie to the new shoes.
Cassandra emerged to find Velez waiting where she had left her, but with the addition of a fresh pot of coffee and a brightly polished green apple. Cassandra took the coffee gratefully.
She’d finished half the cup and taken the apple when Velez said, “I wish to remind you of our conversation about the need to delegate.”
“This is about Arthur.”
“I recognize that the project means a great deal to you, Madame Director. But I feel it is both inappropriate and unnecessary for you to extend as much time and attention as you have done to Dr. Ventura. His job is to bring the project you have authorized to completion in whatever way necessary. You have all but told him that you are on call for him should he need your assistance.”
“I’ve done no such thing,” Cassandra said. She moved to her desk, taking a bite of the apple.
“You offered your assistance in debugging the code.”
“That was a courtesy.”
“And if he had accepted the offer, Madame Director? Would you have canceled your meetings for the day?”
“You’re being absurd.”
“I am merely illustrating my point.”
Suddenly annoyed, Cassandra said, “Anita, let it go.”
“Of course.”
She took her seat behind her desk, flipped on the sequence of holographic projectors, then went through the ordeal of logging into her account. Velez checked her watch again, then moved toward the coffee service, pouring herself a cup.
“It does mean a great deal to me,” Cassandra said, suddenly. “That doesn’t mean my interest in Arthur is solely personal.”
Velez nodded slightly, as if to say that she was waiting to hear the rest.
“It’s professional, as well. However much it means to me personally, it means much more to dataDyne. AirFlow 2 has to succeed, Anita, or else we lose everything we’ve gained in AirFlow.Net. Upgrades are a tricky business: they fill the public with uncertainty and doubt, and if they don’t work as designed or as promised, it can cause tremendous damage. We don’t want to lose the AirFlow share to CMO or Carrington.”
“No,” Velez said, slowly. “Of course, you are correct.”
“All right.”
The holograph to her left shimmered, redrew, and her appointment secretary appeared. “Madame Director, your eight-forty has arrived.”
“Send him in, please, Adrianna.”
“Yes, ma’am.”
Velez set her empty cup back on the service, moving to the door. “I have a few things I should look into, Madame Director. I trust you do not mind if I am not present for your meeting with the colonel?”
“What sort of things?”
“Regarding your safety now that you have returned to Paris.”
Cassandra frowned, wondering if Velez was being petulant, then dismissed the thought just as quickly. Petulance was an indulgence, and nothing about Anita Velez indulged.
“I’ll be back to escort you home,” Velez said.
“I’ll expect you then.”
She watched Velez leave the office, passing Colonel Leland Shaw as he entered without saying a word. Cassandra got to her feet, moved to shake the colonel’s hand.
Then she told him exactly what she wanted him and his Hawk Teams to do to Joanna Dark.
Core-Mantis OmniGlobal Health and
Healing Facility (Executive Branch)
Benghazi, Libya
January 27th, 2021
Jo opened her eyes to a world painted white. The ceiling and the four-bladed fan spinning lazily on its housing above her—both white. The bed and the sheet and the pillow and the hospital half-dress she found herself wearing—all white. The floor tiled in white, and the walls, including the windowsill and frame.
But outside the window, visible through the white curtains that fluttered on a warm and salted breeze, she saw a slash of blue, and pushing up onto her elbow for a better view, she knew it was the Mediterranean as much from the hue of the water as the smell of it in the air. Her father had shown her the Med not too many years before, chasing a bounty from Moscow to Vienna to Marseille and then, finally, to Tunis. He’d promised her a vacation after they’d made the skip, turned him in.
She couldn’t remember the name of the bounty, Jo realized. It had been that insignificant. But she could remember that they hadn’t gone swimming. The bounty in tow, they’d headed straight back to the US, to exchange their prize for cash.
Her throat hurt, too dry, and when she ran her tongue over her lips, they felt like straw. She swallowed, and the pain diminished, and she decided to try sitting fully upright, just to see if it could be managed, and to see if there was anything that she might drink.
She managed, but not without effort. Along her abdomen, around her torso especially, there was a constant, dull ache, but nothing that was impossible to endure. She could breathe, too, and she knew that was important, because she had a dim memory of not being able to, and that hadn’t been pleasant at all. Yes, she still hurt, but at least it wasn’t as bad as it had been in … in …
Oh, bloody hell, Jo thought.
It would come
back to her, she knew it would, but for the moment she was drawing nothing, a big fat zero. She was registering aches and pains throughout her body, some of them she knew as older than others, but it was difficult to tell which was which. Her abdomen itched, and she put her right hand against her belly and saw that her hand had been bandaged, wrapped tightly in white gauze that kept her three middle fingers in a splint. Beneath the wafer-thin cotton of her hospital gown, she could make out the edges of an artificial skin patch.
Where I got shot, she remembered. During the job in Los Angeles. I was shot in Los Angeles. Dr. Hwang patched it up, and then I tore it all to hell, and Dr. Cordell patched it up, and I tore it all to hell again.
Who patched it up this time?
She swallowed again, felt something burn at the back of her throat. There was a stand beside the bed, with a pitcher and a cup, and she reached for the pitcher with her left, and had to hold her breath during the stretch. As she took hold of the pitcher, she caught sight of the status monitor built into the wall beside the headboard, listing her name and her vitals, her blood pressure and respirations and oxygen saturation. Then she saw the shining black and gold disk mounted on the wall, directly above the bed.
Core-Mantis OmniGlobal. I’m at a Core-Mantis facility, somewhere on the Mediterranean.
She’d never heard of a CMO medical facility placed on the Med—at least, not that she could recall.
“This,” she said aloud, her voice croaking like a frog in a steam bath, “might be a very bad thing.”
Her memory had returned fully by the time Portia de Carcareas came to see her, bearing a fresh pitcher of water in one hand and a shopping bag with the CMO logo on it in the other. She set the bag at the foot of the bed, hanging it off the footboard by its handle, then refilled Jo’s cup before setting the pitcher on the stand.
Jo watched her without comment, and without any real sense of malice, trying to determine what she now thought of the woman. It was confusing to Jo, because her philosophy thus far had been to simply hate everyone and everything that was hypercorp or hypercorp affiliated, with the sole, grudging exception of those things Carrington, and with the worst of her ire reserved for dataDyne. By all logic, at least according to her own ethic, that put CMO squarely in the “hate them but not as much as those bastards at dataDyne” camp.