She heard grimness revive. No, she realized, it had been there all the while, under the surface.
“Unfortunately, we can’t lay that straight a course. For openers, I wonder if I have any safe place left me, anywhere in this country. The more I think about it, the more I suspect who’s behind the whole halloo. The worst enemy I could have.”
The breath hissed between Lee’s teeth. Had he guessed? Kyra could merely whisper, in sudden cold, “Who?”
“Myself.”
“What?”
“My duplicate. My Doppelgänger. The copy of me that went to Alpha Centauri.”
Memory stormed back. How old was she when the Juliana Guthrie came home? Seven, eight? Yes, seven. The event was not a triumphal entry. After all, the data had been beamcast ahead, received long in advance. The samples being brought were necessarily few and small, their molecular structures already analyzed, mere trophies. Nevertheless, that arrival was oddly muted, and everything about it dropped out of the news, out of public attention, with a speed that in retrospect seemed equally peculiar. She had half forgotten it.
Guthrie went on. His matter-of-factness was more frightening than any dramatics. “We downloaded into each other, he and I. I had more experience to enter, of course. He was inoperative for a lot of years in empty space, outbound and returning. Else he’d’ve gone bananas from boredom. But the idea had been that I would be on the trip, and yet not miss out on everything that happened to me at home. While he was gone, things changed in the Solar System. I never wanted to stay in charge forever, but I decided that under present conditions Fireball had better have a backup. So I arranged to keep his return as inconspicuous as possible. By agreement, after he was brought up to date we deactivated him and I had him tucked away against a day of need.”
And when that second Guthrie was awakened again, Kyra thought, it would be as if no time whatsoever had passed for him.
Momentarily she wondered which of the two she confronted physically, the original or the double. Then she saw that it made no difference.
“In North America,” she foreknew.
“Yeah. A silly choice, with the Avantists in power? Shouldn’t we have stashed him someplace really secure? Well, a judgment call. When Fireball built new headquarters for this country, I had secret crypts and capabilities put in. I’d seen the Renewal and the Jihad and a slew of lesser disasters, and Avantism was then on the horizon. Be prepared. It seemed to me he could be as safely hidden there as anywhere on Earth, more safely than in most locations. Off Earth, this one of me ought to have ample protection.
“The Synod was making the Union government heavier-handed every day, and our conflicts with it were getting worse, but I never expected it’d dare violate our contractual rights the way it’s done. I smelled too many weaknesses under the preaching and the swaggering. I knew the Kayos in embryo, as an organized resistance, already then. Nothing that happened since, till very lately, caused me to change my opinion. Someday in the not too distant future, all hell was going to let out for noon in North America. At that time, it might well be important to have another me on the spot, taking charge locally. That might save quite a lot of lives and property.”
The part of Kyra that stood aside wondered whether this was conceit bordering on megalomania. No, she decided. Guthrie had proved himself too often, and he was too realistic to be modest. The plain truth was that he, hooked into a net, could steer Fireball, or a cut-off section of Fireball, through a crisis better than any junta of humans or any purely artificial intelligence. The power sprang from more than experience, knowledge, innate generalship. It was authority. Divine right, almost; something that could call on men to die, and be heeded, because it spoke for that which gave meaning to their lives. He was the founder, the master, the presence. He was Fireball.
But leaders could fail and their causes perish.
Kyra heard a sigh. Wryness recognized that Guthrie had shaped it without lungs, as he shaped every word he uttered. “When the troops occupied that building, I was caught flat-footed,” he said. “Suddenly there was no way to reach my double, let alone brief him. The best thing I could think of to do was have myself sneaked to Earth and into the Union.”
A bold move, Kyra thought, but it had worked well until now. Instead of being paralyzed, dependent on communication with a center which the Sepo now oversaw, the company’s North American subdivisions acted shrewdly, on their own, in the Fireball tradition. Their directors protested and negotiated. Meanwhile a shipment of isotopically pure titanium ordered by a government plant in the Union somehow went to Québec, which somehow chose to keep this treasure despite the indignation of its powerful neighbor. Meanwhile the company’s Southwestern energy receiver central regretted that for technical reasons it could no longer feed surplus megawatts into the national grid. Meanwhile guardsats reported mysterious small objects arcing over the ocean between California and Hawaii, and a Guatemalan delegate to the World Federation Assembly called for the Peace Authority to investigate what might be a North American violation—
“I hoped we could force a settlement that’d give us back our status and leave the Synod weakened,” Guthrie continued. “Again I’ve been surprised. The big crackdown’s begun, and we three are on the lam.” (Kyra guessed that that meant they’d perforce gone hyperbolic.) “Why? Are they so hard up they’ll court a retaliation that could ruin them? None of the intelligence I’ve collected suggests that. They’re in a bad enough way that they’re willing to take risks, but they aren’t kamikaze yet. They must think they have a pretty fair chance of coming out ahead of the game.
“How? Each minute of the past few hours, I’ve gotten more convinced that they’ve clapped hands on my other self.”
Concentrating on the background of events, Kyra had not seen what that implied. Awareness came like a blow to the belly.
“But they didn’t know where he was,” Lee protested, as if trying to fend off the fact.
“Somehow the Sepo learned,” Guthrie replied. “With hindsight, I can make a guess. Three persons besides me knew. I won’t name names, even to you, but they were close associates of mine. Two still are, off Earth. One, a North American, was visiting here several months ago when he was killed in an accident. Or so the world was informed, in the usual way, with the usual material, including the body. I was sorry, but I’ve said goodbye to many friends. … Now I recall how such things can be faked, if you have very good technicians and a very well-organized operation. Including a synthesized corpse. It wouldn’t need to pass close inspection, only to fool his relatives. It was cremated according to his wishes.
“I suspect he was kidnapped and deep-quizzed. Probably with no specific object in mind, just to get a lead on anything that might be helpful against us. Sayre is capable of arranging any outrage. He’s also a bright son of a bitch, who must know that if his government doesn’t soon do something drastic, it’s doomed. If I’m right, he learned about my twin.”
“What really became of your friend?” Lee asked low.
“Dead, after they finished with him,” Guthrie answered flatly. “I hope. For his sake.”
Kyra shuddered.
“If the Synod knew my double was hidden in our HQ, it could invent a pretext and seize the building,” Guthrie proceeded. “Then the government would stall, make a fuss, claim it wanted to compromise, but drag matters out, while it—” the machine voice barely stumbled—“reprogrammed its prize. Now it has me on its side, knowing most of what I know.”
“Surely not!” Kyra cried.
“Not everything, but enough,” said remorselessness. “Everything that was in his personal memory, which means more or less everything a human would retain, including the locations of my old-established hideaways. News of the last two decades, easily downloaded into him. Ample information about the company, from the discs they’ve seized—nothing top secret, of course, but Fireball doesn’t have many top secrets.
“Mainly, he knows how I think. He knows I’ve entered the country, becaus
e he’d’ve done the same, because he is me. He’ll make some almighty shrewd estimates of what I’ll do next.”
Kyra kicked out against the nightmare, like Lee. “Are you sure of this? It sounds awfully far-fetched.”
“If you can suggest a hypothesis that fits the facts better, I’d be delighted to hear it.”
“But could they really … change him … and not destroy him, make him useless? How?”
“They could,” Lee told her. “The theory of it touches my field, so I can imagine the methods.” Briefly, his hand touched hers. “I would rather not describe them.”
3
Database
THE CONTROL PROVIDED by the World Federation Meteorological Service was limited, and over weather, not climate. Northwest Integrate would always have more rain and clouds than clear skies, until Earth as a whole had profoundly changed. However, the previous week a lengthy wet spell had yielded for a while to dazzling sunshine. On the first day of this, Enrique Sayre took a moment to admire it.
The local Security Police building was broad and deep rather than high, a fortress. Still, the view from the roof bore comparison with what he saw from his flitter before he landed; and after he stepped out, a boisterous cool wind laved his face and yodeled in his ears. It smelled of salt water, with the slight tang of chemicals and ozone that bespoke energies at work. Traffic sounds rose through it, an oceanic murmur, up toward soaring gulls and glinting aircraft. The city climbed likewise, from streets, bridgeways, monorails, dymaxions and other lesser edifices, to prideful tower heights. Biospaces glowed intensely green; although they were negligently maintained of late, nature was moving in, grass, weeds, saplings. Some distance off, Elliott Bay shone argent, less troubled than formerly by shipping and sailboats. Beyond the structures on the farther side, Cascade snowpeaks raised white against blue.
Sayre could understand why Anson Guthrie located his North American headquarters here. The man had been born and raised in Port Angeles, on the Strait and not far from the Olympic Peninsula’s mountains and forests. The disembodied program must have yearned back. Sayre threw a glance at the Fireball building. It reared on Queen Anne Hill, its lines suggestive of a spacecraft at launch, arrogantly higher than his. But now the infinity flag flew on its pole too.
Guards saluted as Sayre walked from his flitter. He returned the gestures. The men were mainly ceremonial, an adjunct to robotic monitors and guns, but ceremony was important. Xuan himself had admitted that human-kind remained largely a creature of instinct and emotion. Taming the brain stem and limbic system to the service of the cerebrum would be the work of lifetimes.
Sayre had progressed sufficiently in the disciplines to recognize, and not to care, that he was physically unimpressive—a short, slight man, sharp-featured but with a receding chin and blond hair plastered in thin strands to a round head. He had refrained from getting any makeover except correction of myopia and of a liability to stomach ulcers. His uniform was plain, hardly distinguishable from a common officer’s. It was what he did that rated salutes.
Entering a fahrweg turret, he descended to the office he had commandeered. Personnel sprang to their feet with more salutes. Impatient, he brushed past them and sequestered himself in the room beyond. From his desk he phoned the laboratory. The line switched him immediately to Clarice Yoshikawa.
“Sir!”
“Is the new program ready?” Sayre asked.
“Yes, sir,” replied the chief of the technicians whom he had summoned from Central Command back east in Futuro. “We were testing all night.” More than that showed in her haggardness. Stim and supp would keep a person going only up to a point, and Sayre had driven the team pitilessly since they arrived.
“Have you gotten it right at last?”
Exasperation, close to anger, spoke, however levelly: “Sir, you know we have just the single piece of Guthrie hardware. All we can do is make copies of the software, revise them, and check them out in limited ways, till we put them in that one computer and they become conscious.”
“While you’re at it,” Sayre replied, “tell me what month this is.”
Fear stirred behind the firm visage. “I’m … very sorry, sir. Wasn’t thinking. Dead tired.”
Sayre smiled. “I know. You people have worked like engines. Never fear, the files will record your loyalty. I may be overstrained myself. This is so important, so urgent.”
He heard the quiver of relief. “Gracias, sir. I hope this time we’ve succeeded, not produced something that raves or gibbers.”
“We’ll find out.”
Yoshikawa ran tongue over dry lips. “You realize, sir, even if it seems right, we won’t know for sure. Excuse me for repeating what’s elementary, but psychomedicine isn’t an exact science yet. A live person given ideational reconditioning can still surprise us occasionally. Here we’re trying it for a download. There’s scarcely any experience with them.”
Sayre clicked his own tongue. “You are exhausted, aren’t you? Talking like that. However things develop today, you and your team shall have, m-m, twenty-four hours of deep sleep and twenty-four of recuperative treatment. Keep going for another two or three hours first. Can you do that?”
“Of course, sir,” Yoshikawa said, instantly livening. “We’re anxious to know the results too. It’s for the Transfiguration.”
Sayre’s finger drew the infinity sign. “It is.” He leaned forward. “As for the uncertainty, yes, I’m well aware of it, not merely because you warned me at the outset. If the new Guthrie appears satisfactory, the government will go ahead with him. My duty will be to keep close watch, as one does over any important person whose loyalty isn’t unquestionable. If he seems to deviate, we have punishments to bring him back in line, and rewards to offer for good behavior. With luck, given computer speed, we’ll soon condition any remaining intransigence out of him.”
His statement was so obvious that he wasn’t revealing any secrets, although Yoshikawa and her people had not been told explicitly what the authorities planned. To give a self-aware program a virtual hell or a virtual heaven should be technically simpler than to do it for flesh and blood. The trick was to discover what were horror and ecstasy in this particular case. Sayre’s career had made him skilled in finding such things out.
“Eventually,” he added, “we’ll have to let him go forth on his own, but by then we ought to be sure of him.”
“Muy bien, sir,” Yoshikawa said. “Shall we make the change immediately?”
“Stand by,” Sayre ordered. “I want a preliminary private session with him as he is. I’ll call you when I’m ready.”
He left the office and proceeded to the laboratory level. At first, as he strode down those corridors, activity buzzed and clicked. For the most part it was machines at work. Reports flowed in, this suspicious activity, that incorrect idea expressed, such and such a citizen who had dropped out of registry, now and then an outright crime that the civil police thought might be politically motivated, inquiries from other command posts throughout the Union, intelligence from abroad that had relevance to the tasks of Security. The computers assimilated, scanned, retrieved, made correlations, determined who should have what information. Nevertheless plenty of personnel sat at the consoles or went from room to room, carrying materials. Humans still had to make the final judgments.
Soon that should not be the case. Sayre often regretted that none of the current progress in artificial intelligence was North American. But when government insisted that the mind was algorithmic, because this was what Xuan had said, and scientists who suggested otherwise got into trouble—
Sayre had argued on their behalf. In his position he could dare do so. The quantum-mechanical, nonalgorithmic approach was not necessarily subversive, he maintained whenever circumstances allowed. It simply required careful handling. Were it true, Xuan’s great insights would stand basically unchallenged.
Within his own mind, Sayre shrugged. The work going on in Europe and on the Moon was bearing him out. Doct
rine would have to adapt itself to reality. And consider what power would soon be available, to revitalize Xuanism by striding light-years toward the Transfiguration. Not the obsolescence and extinction of humankind, but its apotheosis in union with the thinking machine—for thought had proved to be of a subtler nature than cyberneticists foresaw, yet it was a set of physical processes.
As witness Anson Guthrie. Sayre quickened his steps.
Halfway down a certain hall, two guards ported their shock guns when he appeared. Pistols were holstered at their sides. Beyond them reached empty rooms and quietness. His team had taken over the psych lab. That handicapped the Northwest cadre, but they could refer any problems elsewhere. As imperative as secrecy was, Sayre had instructed that Guthrie be moved no farther than from the Fireball building to here. A closed door showed where Yoshikawa and her subordinates waited. Sayre went on. Near the end of the passage, he signalled another door to retract and entered a small, viewless, sparsely furnished chamber.
The box on the table turned its eyestalks to look at him. “Alpha,” Sayre greeted with Avantist formality.
Predictably, Guthrie did not respond, “Omega,” but formed a grunt.
Sayre kept his tone mild. “Surliness is stupid, you know. I hoped that sheer boredom, if nothing else, would have made you ready to communicate.”
“I’ve got my thoughts and memories for company,” said the download. “When I’m not subactive.”
“That state interests me,” Sayre remarked. “Equivalent of sleep, but none of your kind has ever made quite clear what it … feels like.”
“I couldn’t make clear what any part of being a download feels like,” Guthrie answered. “Not that I’d try for you.”
“Do you enjoy your condition, or dislike it?”
Guthrie sat mute. For a moment, irrationally, chill went along Sayre’s backbone as he wondered what this truly was before him. Humans and their machines had made it. Did they afterward understand it? Would they, ever?
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