by Reality 36
“Or use it himself,” scoffed Hughie. “Karlsson was a borderline anti-numerist. A terrorist.”
“That’s as maybe,” admitted Richards, “but without him, Qifang would never have been able to get out of the country. He had his mind speed-downloaded for a post-mortem simulation without anyone knowing – that’s what he kept going to see Karlsson about. The autopsy showed a clean brain, nothing foreign in it at all. I found a direct neural imaging unit – a painful process, but it would have done the job.. I doubt it was much fun.”
“Improbable,” said Hughie. “DNI is fallible.”
“They are improbable.” Richards pointed to the wrecked Qifangs wrapped in opaque orange plastic bags, the larvae of tomorrow waiting in their cocoons. “I don’t think the probable and improbable mean much now. Someone’s been moving the technological timetable up; this is forced acceleration, that much is clear.”
“If it can be predicted, and I believe in the accuracy of k52’s curve, then it can be anticipated, and apprehension achieved more rapidly,” said Hughie. “So what? One of the reasons k52 calculated the curve in the first place was to establish probabilities and push research in the right direction.”
“So what? Qifang had himself speed-copied to a pimsim, something that he was avowedly against, and split his copied mind into three while he still lived. He waited for his three doppelgangers to jump the country, then killed himself just so he could talk to me. That’s a really big ‘so what?’ Hughie.”
Flats, who was inhabiting a medical carriage almost identical to the one he favoured back in New London, trundled over to the base unit and began to berate the technical staff on the correct positioning of cooling units. He was working away as he shouted, one of the Qifang’s heads on a tray, Flats’ deft metal spider fingers weaving the ruined Qifang’s cerebrum into as complete a whole as possible.
“Really scared,” continued Richards. “It has to be an AI that forced this, otherwise why go to such lengths to hide himself? I mean, he was pretty much as anti-pimsim as he was pro-AI. But for some reason he seemed determined to live on. That’s why these.” He indicated the cydroids. “No one knew they existed, so anyone who came across one of them would take him for the real deal. The only real problem he faced was that the cydroid carriages were not sufficiently advanced to accommodate a full human mind. You’d get a One in there with room to spare, no doubt. But we’d never fit. There’s enough processing power in those artificial brains for a human ego skim, not much more. Qifang and Karlsson decided that if they got three of them, put bits of the deeper man into each with an ego skim running the show on top, he could be put back together at the other end. That’s what I figured out from what Flats and Smith told me back at the morgue; each of them has differing memories. Qifang went on the run while he stayed at home, killing himself to throw the scent of his copies until these things could lose themselves. It’s pretty bold.”
“Which was evidently to get here, to you.”
“Right. So you see, he always meant for us to do this. You’re wrong about me murdering anyone.”
“Ah, but is it what this fragment now wants?” said Hughie, returning to his legal cogitations. “That is the point. We should at least put it to him.”
“Can it, will you? I suggest we don’t ask him and so sidestep the issue, just in case. Do you want to find out what this old sod went to quite ridiculously elaborate lengths to tell me or not? Or would you rather we go to the International Court of Sentient Rights and piss away time until whatever Qifang was trying to warn us of lands on our heads like a ton of shit?”
“Yes, you are right,” said Hughie, unabashed. Even in agreement he somehow managed to make everything sound like it was all his idea. “Of course. It is clear that we have a rogue AI on our hands, that is of far greater concern.”
“Or rogues. They must have had spies in Karlsson’s factory, usurped it from under him, then sent out more cydroids, these primed for assassination, to look for the Qifangs, once they’d found out what Qifang was up to.”
“And to try and kill you.”
“And to try and kill me. They meat-puppeted Karlsson, killed off his friends, and personality-stripped the AIs in the building and left it there to fend for itself. That’s why we didn’t know anything about it until I went in, and that’s why they tried to kill me. Although Karlsson was a paranoic, I’m sure he’d have talked a little if he’d still been alive.”
“What would we do without you?”
Richards ignored the jibe. “Thing is, how many other copies are there? Who else have they got out there who isn’t who everyone, or indeed themselves, thinks they are?”
“I have already taken that into account,” said Hughie dismissively. “You are quite safe, nothing untoward will happen to you here.”
“I felt quite safe until someone used a counterfeit centenarian Chinaman to blow me up with a nuclear bomb, so you’ll forgive me if I hold off on the tearful praise.”
“That was out there, Richards, not in here.”
“Out there’s supposed to be safe too, Hughie. That’s what you’ve been telling us for years.”
“You’ve assembled quite the story there. But you said no one else knew about the cydroids. Someone did. The person or machine working on them in the futurist labs in the servers.”
“I know,” said Richards. “It all keeps coming back to one name.”
“k52,” they said simultaneously.
A couple of uniformed techs tapped commands into their phones. The base unit intended for Qifang’s reformed mind hissed as it sealed itself, plumes of supercooled nitrogen venting from the sides. “They made him watch, Hughie, they kept Karlsson alive so that he could see his work being turned against him, see his friends being killed. That’s pretty sick.”
“Indeed,” said Hughie, “though I am correct in saying that it was your assault that actually killed Karlsson.”
“He couldn’t have been saved,” protested Richards sharply, though he knew nothing of the sort. “Right then, let’s see what this message is all about.”
Qifang listened to what the android was telling him. There were two of them, one the physical manifestation of the AI from the garden, and this stranger in the far humbler body. His voice was kindly. In his fuddled state, Qifang was thankful for that. In the end, kindness was all you could depend upon.
“This procedure, it will help me?” asked the professor. “Will it help me recover my memories?”
“Yes,” said Richards softly, “it will.” He laid a comforting plastic hand on the emulant’s shoulder. “All you have to do is sit in this chair, and we’ll attach this cable to you, and it will tell us what is wrong with you.”
“The cable?” said Qifang unsurely. It was obvious he was struggling, his memories and state of being sliding apart as he spoke.
“It is a new diagnostic tool, it interfaces directly with your central nervous system,” lied Richards. “A spin-off of cybernetics technology. It’s amazing what they can do these days.” He had no choice, he didn’t want to tell the man he wasn’t a man, and had an interface port directly below his skin on the back of his neck. “It will tell us what is wrong, and we’ll have you back to normal in no time. I just have to ask you a few questions while it’s in, neural patterning, that kind of thing.”
Qifang nodded. He had once understood things like this; no longer. He looked nervous at his helplessness. “Thank you,” he said hesitantly. He lay back as directed, a hole in the chair giving access to his neck.
“Close your eyes,” said Richards.
A medic anaesthetised the back of Qifang’s neck. “Can you feel this?” the woman asked, prodding the skin with a needle.
“No,” said Qifang. “Nothing, but I feel drowsy.”
“That’s normal,” she said as she neatly excised the skin over the port with a scalpel, revealing it and the black carbon bone it was set into. Blood pattered on to the floor. “There’s a mild sedative in the anaesthetic.” A technic
ian wiped away blood from the port and plugged in the cable. He nodded to Richards. They were ready.
“Well, then,” said Richards, with a cheer he did not feel. “A couple of baseline questions first. What is your name?”
“Professor Zhang Qifang,” replied the professor.
“How old are you?”
A flutter of the eyelids, a sign of inner panic. “I, I don’t remember, not exactly.”
The technician manning the workstation monitoring Qifang looked up in alarm. Hughie frowned at Richards, indicating that he should get on with it.
“I am Richards, Professor Qifang, what is your message?”
The facsimile of the old man did not speak. Richards looked to the technicians and medics and Hughie and shrugged. “Professor Qifang?”
With inhuman precision, the cydroid sat bolt upright, like a vampire rising from its coffin in an old 2D flick, pulling the cable up through the chair until it went tight. Its mouth moved awkwardly, the rest of the face frozen, eyes dead. No sound came from the machine for a few moments; it might have been pattern-matching Richards’ Gridsig. Then it began to speak. It was calm and at odds with the grimaces the face pulled. The effect was a chilling pantomime of human speech, the voice of a genius from the face of an idiot.
“Richards,” the cydroid said, its softly accented voice firm and authoritative, the confusion in it gone. “I do not know you personally, but I have heard much about you. I fear that you are the only one I can trust. I am sure you know of me, and the work I have done for your kind. I hope that you will listen to what I have to say, and trust me in your turn.
“I have sent three of these mechanisms to convey this message to you. I pray at least one reaches you, for all our sakes.
“As you are probably aware, for the last few years I have headed a team based out of the UCLA artificial intelligence department. We have been examining the development of the remaining 32 Realms, a policy instituted in conjunction with the VIA by the Five that calls itself k52. ‘To better understand our place in the universe.’” k52’s voice issued from the machine, its placidity an insufficient shroud for the raw power of his mind. k52 had always been amongst the most powerful of their kind. Qifang’s voice returned.
“Four weeks before my death, I happened to run a deep scan of the empty Realm lots. You will understand that this was prompted by more than curiosity, for the state of the Realms is in flux: some grow, while others shrink. I was interested to see if the free space influenced this in any great way. It was, however, little more than a whim.
“After the four Realms were destroyed, the spaces they once occupied were turned over by k52 to a small group of scientists, human and AIs both. Supposedly, they were using the processing power of the servers to work on predictive modelling, an attempt, I was told, to prove k52’s technology theorem, accelerate human development and sidestep further disasters like the Icesheet Tip and the Five crisis. The study of predictable futurities lies beyond my field but, as you are aware, many AIs believe that a large degree of predictability is inherent in the structure of our existence, and k52 has long sought to exploit that theoretical causality for man’s ends.
“He was, I believe, primarily concerned with ‘a little push here and there, my dear professor.’” k52’s voice again. “Once areas of interest were detected, subsidiary research projects would be instigated to pursue these new areas of study, or entertainments would be specifically created to seed new ideas in the greater populace to bear fruit in future generations of researchers.
“The body I speak to you through is the result of one such project. The workspace they utilised is inconstant in size, and supposedly entirely blank when not in use. I ran my deep scan of the Realms server to ascertain if these redirections of the Realm computers’ processing power had a direct and physical impact on the Realms themselves. They did.
“k52’s logs were a nonsense. Where there should have been nothing, there was most assuredly something, patterns suggestive of another virtual world, a Thirty-seventh Realm, a world that should not be.” His emphasis on these words was strong. Saliva ran from his lips freely with them. “I reported this to k52. He promised he would look into it, and later that same day assured me that it was a lesser AI running a temporary historical simulation that had not been logged or approved, nothing else. I was content to let the matter lie.
“I then became caught up in medical matters relating to my own health. I was absent from work for some time. I was diagnosed with an aggressive gastric cancer and not expected to survive the year. The diagnosis was a shock. I have received the best of all healthcare in my life, I take regular healthtech and pharmacological anti-gerontics. My gerontologist was baffled, but was regrettably forced to inform me such things can still happen. He advised me to go home and put my affairs in order, but I resolved to go back. I felt it better to finish my life working as I always had, rather than skulking at home. I do not believe my return was expected.
“I might have believed what k52 had told me were it not for the fact that nobody, nobody at all, appeared to have any concerns or any knowledge of my discovery. The moment I found that my own records had been amended was the turning point, I think.
“I checked deeper. The patterns had gone. The building Six appeared to have no recollection of my requesting a call to k52. Why had this been done? Had the explanation k52 advanced to me been genuine? Why had my own department’s records been changed? I became suspicious of k52. I began to wonder if the disease I had only so recently been diagnosed with might have been an attempt to silence me. I reminded myself that I have had excellent medical care my entire life. Dying of cancer, in this day and age? I began to fear more direct methods would soon be employed to remove me.
“I have had a long and uneasy association with Peter Karlsson, a brilliant man, if unstable. He helped me a great deal with my sentient rights campaigning, only to turn on me unpredictably. His paranoia toward the AI strained our relationship, but we had, however, remained in touch. It transpired he was right and I was wrong. I had no one else to go to. Over the course of two terrifying weeks, he helped me enter this Thirty-seventh Realm unnoticed. He helped me conceive this plan to get the message out, using technology he had been stealing from k52.
“What Karlsson and I discovered was that the workspace is a Trojan horse, it is hollow. In its outer shell, work does go on – towards the creation of these carriages I wear, for example. Within is the construct which I was fortunate enough to catch a glimpse of, the new world on the Grid.
“It is a world unlike any other Realm. k52 has usurped the free space of the Realm servers and constructed his own simulated universe. From the glimpse I snatched, it seems that they have done this with the utmost scrupulosity, their construct one of unparalleled detail. It would be a marvel if it were an end unto itself. It is, alas, not. I do not believe it can be. He is manipulating the space-time continuum of this world, intervening in its development in the most brutal of ways, showing no concern for the lifeforms that have evolved within it. He has to be stopped.
“I swore never to allow another intelligent mind to languish in bondage, but I am too old to carry on. I am dying as I record this; as you listen I am dead. I must pass the baton on to someone else.
“Richards, I come to you because you have a reputation as a maverick. As one who sits outside the common camps that divide the Fives. They say that you, of all the machines, are the most human. That is what I have to say, Richards. I hope you will act upon this information. Do not let the crimes of your fellows go unpunished.” Another pause.
“As I said, there are three of these machines in total. If, by some chance, all should reach you, then we will be able to discuss this matter together, after a fashion. I have recorded certain aspects of myself into each. I never intended to have one – for me my given life has always been enough – but you should be able to create a full post-mortem simulation with the data contained in all three. If not, this recording will have to suffice. In
either case, these will remain the last words of the true Zhang Qifang.”
The message ceased. Qifang’s head lolled, his mouth slack, his gown wet with spittle. The medic and technician hurried to his side, ran instruments up and down his body. The medic looked up, shook her head.
“Christ,” said Richards. “k52 has gone rogue.”
“Unfortunate,” said Hughie, “and disappointing.”
A shout went up from the other room. Flats, unable to traverse the corridor because of the cabling on the floor, called at stupendous volume across the way.
“Richards! EuPol Central! Come quickly! The procedure worked! It worked!”
Chapter 27
Respite