She had a point. Dr. Carlhagen was his own man and not susceptible to manipulations of any kind. “I have to speak to the president again after I’m done eating. She’s dragging her feet on the legalization of my clones.”
“As I said. I’m happy to offer whatever counsel I can.” The senator gave him such a plain, open-faced look Dr. Carlhagen nearly laughed. The woman could act nearly as well as Jacqueline.
Lazarus’s face interrupted the image of the crashing waves. “Sir. Urgent call from Captain Wilcox.”
Dr. Carlhagen found the mercenary’s holo already up on the holodesk. Senator Bentilius filed in after him, but stayed out of view of the cameras.
“It’s rather chaotic in Chicago, sir,” Captain Wilcox said. Dr. Carlhagen sat at his holodesk, staring at the man he’d relied on for so long. So much skill, so much discipline. Even with all that, he failed repeatedly.
Captain Wilcox’s face hovered over the holodesk in a 2D rectangle. So the man was not at a holodesk, but on his tablet. The image was grainy and frequently froze. But the audio came through clear enough.
“Where is the girl?” Dr. Carlhagen asked. He was able to keep his voice calm because he’d taken three andleprixen a short while earlier.
“She is still with Dante and the celebrity.”
“And Vin Burnell? Have you secured her release?”
“My friends at the IPA are not answering my calls. I sense they think there’s political gain to be had. If they get to the bottom of your carbo ring, they see big promotions for themselves.”
Dr. Carlhagen bit his thumbnail and stared blankly at the pixel wall.
He considered which of his problems was biggest: Jacey, the missing Scions, or Vin being in IPA custody. If Vin told her captors about the ATR, then the president would learn of his scheme and he could kiss Protocol One goodbye. All his ambitions for the world would go with it.
But if he didn’t get the Scions back under his control, Protocol One didn’t matter anyway.
And if he didn’t have Jacqueline, nothing mattered at all.
“I have a lead on Jacey,” Wilcox said.
“I don’t want leads. I want the girl. Here. Unharmed.”
“The three fugitives used a local fixer named Siggy. He’s an IPA agent, but he freelances to supplement his income. He helps celebs stay sur-blind when they’re in town. He realized the three of them were valuable and was taking bids for Jacey.”
“Bids? To sell her?”
“Rent her.” Wilcox held up his hands. “Those were his words, not mine.”
Even with his mind dulled by andleprixen, hate flared hot and acidic in Dr. Carlhagen’s stomach. He would get his hands on this Siggy person and wring the life from him, watch the light fade from his eyes. “So you spoke to him?”
“He’s in my control.”
“Can you bring him to me?”
“Which do you want, sir? The girl or Siggy?”
“The girl. Never doubt that, Wilcox.”
“Then you’ll leave Siggy to me. He’s a lowlife, but he is well-connected here. I have, er, convinced him to cooperate.”
“So he told you where our wayward Scion girl went?”
“He didn’t know. But hundreds of people saw her leave the hotel. A half-dozen bystanders dispatched personal drone swarms to follow the fugitives with hopes of getting exclusive footage for the gossip sites. I believe that drove our quarry to ground.”
“It’s nearly impossible to stay invisible. Unless they aren’t moving.”
Wilcox allowed a slight smile to distort his lips. “Oh, they’re moving. The IPA’s surveillance network caught them three times. But the AI monitoring the feeds didn’t raise the alarm until hours later.”
Dr. Carlhagen leaned forward. “What? Why not?”
“The IPA relies on thousands of interconnected systems: AIs, human resources, surveillance systems of all different types and vintages. Many processes are automated and people forget how it all works.”
“Get to the point, Wilcox.” The soldier looked like the cat who’d caught the mouse, he was so full of himself.
“The coroner report on Ping’s death was entered into a system in San Juan. Suicide.”
Dr. Carlhagen fell back in his chair. “I see.”
“Not a murder. Therefore, no murderers to apprehend. The surveillance AI saw the report and automatically lowered priority on locating Jacey and her companions.”
“But that’s a stroke of luck for us.”
“Yes. But a time-limited one, I assure you. The IPA has now reprioritized catching Jacey and Dante. And the pop singer.” His mouth twisted with disgust, as if the undignified name “Meow Meow” would never again sully his tongue.
Dr. Carlhagen needed President Rochelle to make her statement legalizing carbos now. No one could elude the IPA for long.
The interesting thing about leverage was that sometimes you didn’t actually have to possess it. You simply had to make others believe you had it. A risky tactic, but now necessary. He would have to tell the president a whopping lie and hope it didn’t come back to bite him.
Wilcox’s attention turned away from the camera. He spoke to someone nearby, his head jerking angrily. Finally he nodded and turned to address Dr. Carlhagen. “Siggy doesn’t know where Jacey ran off to, but he knows the city better than anyone. Has lots of contacts. I’ve put him under contract with my organization. He has eyes and ears in the ganglands. His sources there recently identified an un-tagged van leaving the city. All vehicles are required to use location transponders broadcasting identity tags of all occupants. Siggy specializes in providing un-tagged transportation, so he knew this van well. Back-tracing its path placed it at a Chinese restaurant west of downtown.”
“Why is this significant?”
“The restaurant is one Siggy took the pop star to on his first detail keeping her sur-blind several years ago. It is logical that she took Jacey and Dante there. The van in question is owned by the sister of the cook at Beijing Palace.”
“That’s it. Track down that van.”
“Siggy had a cycle gang tag the vehicle with a transponder. I’ll stop them. It may be more challenging to capture her, though. I, uh, no longer have my men.”
“Why not?”
“There was an altercation with Siggy’s men earlier. My men are . . . indisposed.”
“Do what you must. Report back when you have Jacey. Keep Dante alive if you can. Kill the pop singer if you wish.”
“Sir.” Wilcox saluted and his image vanished.
“Lazarus, get me the president.”
Maxine shifted in her seat, startling Dr. Carlhagen. He’d forgotten the woman was in the room. She said, “Are you sure you want to talk to her now?”
The facility AI acknowledged Dr. Carlhagen’s demand with the words CALLING PRESIDENT on the pixel wall.
Dr. Carlhagen did not wait long. The president’s image appeared in a rectangle above the holodesk. Her face pressed very close to whatever camera she was using. Probably a personal tablet, hopefully untraceable. With regular office lighting, the thickness of her makeup and the roughness of her skin showed like a photo of a moonscape. The years had not been kind to the woman. Her red eyebrows showed the telltale falseness better lighting had concealed. The woman had no eyebrows except what a makeup artist had drawn on.
“Speak,” she ordered. One of her front teeth was paler than the rest. A replacement, no doubt.
Aware of his own youthful good looks, Dr. Carlhagen smiled broadly. “Ping’s death was a suicide. Vin Burnell can no longer be a suspect in his death. She must be released.”
“You’re in no position to make demands of me. And the judicial system is not under my command.”
“Let’s not kid each other, Annabelle. You call, Vin walks. It is in your interest to comply with my request,” he said, emphasizing the last word.
Beyond the desk, Maxine was shaking her head and slicing her hands side to side. She mouthed: No. No. No.
&n
bsp; “I’ll decide my own interests, thank you very much,” the president said. “Besides, I have questions of my own for Ms. Burnell.”
For the first time in his long memory, Dr. Carlhagen wished he’d gone lighter on the andleprixen. His cognition lost sharpness on three pills. Two was good. But three . . .
Something in the president’s statement chimed an alarm in his mind. He couldn’t figure out why. He stalled. “What kind of questions?”
“For starters, I would ask her how it feels to wake up as a teenager.”
“I can answer that. It’s wonderful. Invigorating in every way.”
“Of course you’d say that. Like asking a car salesman if the vehicles he sells are reliable. What’s he going to say? So you’ll understand if I ask one of your customers how satisfied she is with her purchase.”
“Very well, Madam President. Do what you need to. But I encourage you to do so swiftly.”
The president’s painted-on brows lifted. She was clearly not accustomed to being addressed so bluntly. “I’ll do what I please, and in my own time.”
“Of course. As a courtesy, I’m informing you that images of your Scion will be leaked to SNN soon.” Even drugged as he was, his heart pounded from the audacity of this ploy. Not only did he not have Leslie in his control, he had no idea where she was. If the president called his bluff, he’d lose all hope of pushing her to legalize the Scions.
Maxine pressed a palm to her face, still shaking her head.
None of it would mean anything if Vin cracked under questioning.
President Annabelle Rochelle’s face hardened at his threat. “You think you can force my hand?”
“I think you were already planning on issuing an executive order decriminalizing carbos of a certain kind. Might as well do it before the secret of yours comes out. Also, SNN will be curious to hear what charges you’ve filed against Vin in light of the news of Ping’s suicide.”
Maxine’s arms shot out. “Are you crazy?” she hissed.
The president’s nostrils flared. A curse spilled from her lips. The image cut off.
Dr. Carlhagen chuckled nervously. He ordered Lazarus to monitor SNN for news about the president and to notify him as soon as she made any statement.
Maxine came around the desk, leaned on it, smirking. “You should never have mentioned your concern about Vin Burnell. You essentially told the president that Vin has information you don’t want the president to know.”
He dismissed Maxine’s criticisms. Life always spun off little crises like these. It was the nature of complex systems. So far he had met them all and had defeated them. It was merely a matter of commitment. He wanted what he wanted more than others wanted what they wanted.
That was how he would impose his will on the president, on Jacey, and on the world.
“Once her temper cools, she’ll see that my recommendation is in her best interest.”
20
No. You are an AI
“Have you ever been to Turtle Island?” Belle said to the air.
She had returned to one of her favorite meditation spots, the grassy expanse at the center of the Scion School campus. She had moved the sun back to its pre-dawn position. So far Liz had left it there. The woman was probably asleep and hadn’t realized what Belle had done.
The meditation had quieted her mind, but a pulse of anxiety still beat in her. She needed to do something, but was afraid to do it. Namely, dive into the data flow the way Vaughan did. She couldn’t even create a second instance of herself.
“Vaughan? Answer me. Have you ever been to Turtle Island?”
Just off the northern coast of St. Vitus, Turtle Island rose from the waters like the back of a great green whale. Belle had seen it every day of her life at the Scion School.
Vaughan did not materialize and offer an answer. Neither did his voice whisper an answer to her ear. Instead, the knowledge of what he had done occurred to her.
A shiver tingled the skin on her forearms. She knew Vaughan had passed the information to her, but she wasn’t sure how. He had achieved some new plane of existence in the simulated world, one that allowed him to access the data of her own mind directly.
She trusted Vaughan, but the idea that he might have access to her as she was, a series of ones and zeros on a computer server . . . That was worse than being naked.
She pushed the thought away. She had her answer. Vaughan had been to Turtle Island, but only in this existence.
Interesting. Why she found it so, Belle didn’t know. She didn’t question it.
With a thought, she lifted off the ground, stretching her legs below her. Increasing her speed, she flew across the quad, passing over the bell tower, her toes nearly brushing its peak. She continued toward the coast, arms spread wide, allowing the simulated wind to brush her simulated body.
She dipped low, over the cheerful waves, casually letting one hand dip to the surface and drag along the cool water. She soared higher as she approached the small lump of Turtle Island.
It was covered with scrub, with no structures on it. The Scions had never been allowed to swim out to it, for it was too far. And they certainly had never been allowed access to a boat.
Belle hovered off the island’s southern coast, wondering if it was an accurate representation of the real Turtle Island in the world of flesh and blood.
A sandy beach stretched off to her left, sloping into crystal blue waters. To her right, the island climbed toward a blunt hilltop. Belle descended, her bare feet touching the sand, cool and damp.
So this was Turtle Island.
She teleported to the highest point and manifested an observation tower. Forgoing the arduous climb, she teleported to the top. She could just as easily have hovered at that height, but she preferred the solidity of wood beneath her feet. From here she could see farther to the north that she ever had on St. Vitus. According to the maps Vaughan had accessed from the net, there were more islands directly north. Very large ones.
Through the haze of distance, she saw a vague shape of a landmass on the horizon. She teleported to it. The foliage was the same as St. Vitus, but the island was flat.
She built an observation tower two kilometers high and teleported to the top. To the west was another very large island.
Vaughan’s knowledge passed to her. He had done this very same thing, but without the observation towers. He had traveled around the world in this way.
He had concluded that the simulated earth was not identical to the real world. He had compared aspects of the street plan of Chicago as it appeared in the simulation to current-day maps. A little more digging—the effort of a quarter second—had shown him the simulation was based on the world as it had been forty-seven years ago.
And that answered Belle’s question. She had thought that perhaps by exploring the simulated world they could find Dr. Carlhagen’s Island, scope it out before Humphrey got there.
Similarly, she thought she might be able to find a permanent safe harbor for the Scions.
She teleported back to the quad, already seated in her meditative pose. Elizabeth was walking across the quad, barefoot, but clothed, for once. She wore skin-tight pants of a stretchy material and a pink top that exposed her midriff. Her hair was pulled back into a tight ponytail. She was headed for the dojo to work out.
The impulse to do something cruel to the woman flashed through Belle’s mind, but she caught it before she acted upon it. Neither she nor Vaughan had taught Elizabeth the tricks of living in this existence. But the woman was already figuring them out. She had complete control over her physical appearance now. She could control the weather and the time of day, and soon she would be flying. Belle wondered if she had figured out how to access the data flow that Vaughan lived on.
The data flow. Her mind always came back to it. Belle closed her eyes and tried to force herself to split into two instances. It didn’t work. She held her breath and bore down, straining, as if the pressure could blow her self into four or five versions.<
br />
The effort just made her lightheaded.
She cleared the sensation with a thought. Interesting how she could control certain aspects of her bodily sensations but not her emotions.
Vaughan’s knowledge occurred to her again. She was too much identified with being a human, with being an individual. Until she let that go, she would be trapped.
What did that mean? How could she not think of herself as a human? That’s what she was.
A new thought occurred to her, one so obvious it forced a disgusted laugh from her lips. She could continue to beat her head against the proverbial wall of failure, or just accept she wasn’t going to create multiple instances. But in other ways, she was a wizard in this world. She had manifested observation towers and teleported. Perhaps there was a different way to access the data flow.
She was already walking toward the girl’s classroom. On second thought . . .
She steered for the boys’ classroom. “There are no rules here,” she said to herself.
The classroom held two rows of glass desks supported by metal stands. They were height adjustable, to suit students of any height. There were no chairs. Socrates had always said they learned better standing up.
At the front were two more desks, for the leaders of each Nine. She went to the desk that would have been Vaughan’s, had the world not been turned upside down.
She placed her hands on the desk.
“Socrates? I need you.”
She didn’t expect the real Socrates—the AI in charge of the Scions’ education—for Dr. Carlhagen had deleted him. Nevertheless, why couldn’t the simulation generate a Socrates?
It worked. He appeared as an old man with a flowing white beard and a fringe of long white hair around his bald head. His image had always varied depending on the day and the subject matter. Today he wore a black robe and a golden hoop nose ring. She didn’t bother asking why. Socrates would merely give her one of his cryptic jokes she never understood.
To test out her scheme, she asked a simple question: “What is the weather in the real Chicago right now?”
Scions of Sacrifice Page 14