The algorithm found plenty of links. I'd been his student. Later I'd worked for him. He'd mentored me for my R.C.B. Helping Ops or future Ops obtain genuine Responsible Citizen of the Bureaus merit badges was a specialty of Kirst, and he'd been proud of it ("the only time I was glad to have students fall asleep in class,” he'd often said). He'd given me a leg up on my Extremely R.C.B. later. Kirst had also written recommendations in support for my license application to the biodet czar.
I got smart and limited the results to the most recent three months. And that's when everything became both clearer and more mysterious at the same time.
A line scrolled on the screen displaying Kirst's stepdaughter and her ID number. I knew nothing about her. Kirst had married his second wife, Nadia Yates, about three years ago, and she apparently had a daughter by the name of Jennifer Yates, though I had never heard of her until now.
At first I thought there had been a mistake. What did Jennifer Yates have to do with me? A crosscheck confirmed the link and provided the details. The ID number was the same as a young assistant I'd hired two months ago—Barbara J. Marion.
* * * *
Parked on the fifth floor of a garage about three blocks from home, where I could keep an eye on the entrance to the building and the window of my eleventh-floor room, I watched for any unusual activity. Nothing appeared out of the ordinary. I'd almost decided to go in when I spotted a Yoobie officer walking out of the exit and looking around. Short, blond, and good-looking.
She might have been doing any one of a number of things, not necessarily looking for someone. And if she were looking for someone, it might not have been me—more than a thousand people lived in that building.
But I had a hunch that she was after somebody. And that somebody was Ellam K. Troy.
Maybe she was one of us and maybe she wasn't. The secrecy we maintained and the rules about members knowing only other members within their cell started to seem catastrophically inadequate. It helped to prevent wholesale snitching and disastrous Yoobie round-ups, but it also meant that distinguishing your friends from your enemies was almost impossible.
She crossed the street and entered a veg-to-go diner.
At $200 an hour, I couldn't afford to stay parked here for long. Besides, there was someone I needed to see. I decided it wasn't safe to go home, so I ordered the car to slip out of the mooring and ease onto the ramp. A minute later the car hooked up with one of the main arteries, and, under legal power, I headed for Arden Kirst's old house in the suburbs. The house now belonged to Nadia Yates.
On the way I kept looking behind me. Sure enough, someone seemed to be on my tail. But they kept their distance.
It probably wouldn't have hurt to let them follow me—nobody would have been surprised that I should want to visit Arden's widow, and I didn't think I would be putting her into any danger by doing so. But I decided not to take the chance. I fired up the turbojet and lowered the cowcatcher. After that, the only thing behind me was seasickness.
My comm buzzed as I arrived at Yates's house. Sandra's voice came from the speaker. “El, you there?"
I powered down the turbo, detached the car from the rail, and parked it illegally on top of a nearby house.
"Go ahead,” I told her. “But be quick. And don't linger at wherever you're calling from."
"Jake and I are at the Crogan Institute. It's all right, we've been here a while and nothing's happened."
Another rebellion. “I thought I told you two to hide."
"We did. In a way, I mean. This institute's a real labyrinth. I'm not even sure we can find our way out."
I sighed.
"El? You still there?"
"We're going to have a little talk about this later. Now tell me what you learned."
"Not much, actually. People weren't very communicative. According to rumor, Professor Kirst was onto something big, but no one was sure exactly what it was. Plenty of speculation, though I think most of the researchers we talked to were just tooting their own horn."
"You're probably right. But did any common thread emerge?"
"A lot of people mentioned artificial intelligence."
"AI? That doesn't make any sense. Arden Kirst was a geneticist."
"I know. But one of the projects he was working on when he died involved the genetics of intelligence. And he'd been seen studying computer science and AI engineering texts."
Something began clicking in my mind. “How about the digital signature of the AI who called me? Is it Kirst's?"
"It was."
"Was? You mean—"
"One of Kirst's colleagues told me it had gotten zapped late this morning."
There went my “client.” Funny thing. I briefly felt as if I'd lost someone—almost as if Kirst had died twice. But it'd only been a relatively unsophisticated computer program. I recovered quickly.
Sandra went on. “But listen, El. That might not be his only AI system. Several people told me that they thought Professor Kirst had designed something a lot more advanced. And he'd gotten someone to build it."
"Who?"
"Don't know."
"Is Jake there with you?"
A deep voice came over the line. “Yeah, boss."
"Have either of you heard anything from Barbara?"
"Not a peep."
I struggled with how to phrase the next question. Before I could get it out, Sandra asked one of her own.
"Is she in trouble, El?"
"I don't know. I don't even know who she really is."
"Come again?"
"Tell you later. For now let me ask both of you this. Have you spent much time with Barbara since she's been working for me?"
"You've got to be kidding,” said Jake. “You know how she is."
Sandra said, “She isn't very nice, and we've never seen each other outside of work, as far as I can recall. I think she's an intense young woman. Smart and aloof. The only time I ever saw her smile was when Jake—"
"I remember. Okay, that's what I thought you'd say.” I raised my voice. “Now hear this: Both of you go somewhere safe. I suggest Brohm's. Yoobie raided it once today, so they probably won't be back until tomorrow at the earliest. Stay there until you receive further instructions. If you don't hear anything more from me by this evening, spend the night with some friends or relatives—someone you trust. Oh, and one more thing. If either of you ignore an order again, you're fired."
I closed the link.
Kirst and AI? It didn't seem like a good fit. He'd never worked on it when I was close to him, although he could have gotten interested in it later. His research interests mostly involved the regulation of genes and gene expression—which genes got switched on and how much of the associated protein was produced, and when and where in the body this occurred.
The car floated down to street level, where I killed the fans and rolled up to Nadia's place. It was the third floor of a tetraplex. The floors were staggered so that each resident enjoyed a sunny terrace. I knew she was home because I'd pinged her comm a few moments ago. I checked in at the security gate and got permission to enter. Nadia answered the door at once and ushered me in.
She still hadn't cleaned up from the wake. I apologized for my behavior last night.
"I would have been offended if you hadn't shown some emotion, Ellam. Some loss of control. The other guests . . . I'm not entirely sure they cared."
Nadia took my hand and we navigated our way around the clutter and sat down on the terrace. “Hair of the dog that bit you?” she asked.
"Nothing for me."
We stared at each other for a moment. Nadia looked about twenty-five years old though she clocked in at thirty-three—more than two decades younger than Arden. She wore her black hair long, though this morning she'd tied it up in the back. Her face, which hinted at a tropical ancestry, had paled today, looking unusually bright in the sunshine.
A brief smile showed on her face. “You're here to discuss something sensitive?"
"Yeah.
First let me ask about Arden. I heard he was into AI?"
A bot rolled out with a tray and two glasses of ice water. Nadia set them down on coasters. “I don't know much about what Arden did at the institute. I know he was excited about something, but I haven't the slightest idea what. We didn't talk about our work. His or mine."
Examples of Nadia's work lay scattered on the terrace. Her terra-cotta sculptures had won some awards in the art world, of which I had little knowledge.
She kept staring at me. “You already know genetics and biology baffle me, and Arden never understood abstract art. What is it you really want to ask?"
I took a sip of water, clanked the ice a little. “Where is Jennifer Yates?"
"Ah,” she said. “So that's it."
I waited for her to volunteer more information but she kept silent. A painful expression clouded her face.
"I'm sorry,” I said, “but it's very important."
"I don't see how."
"Do you know where she is?"
Her voice grew hard. “Yes, I do, Ellam. She's returned to the earth."
My mouth fell open.
"She died in the influenza epidemic five years ago,” she explained.
That would have been two years before she met Arden. It would account for why I never heard any mention of Jennifer Yates.
"Can I see a picture?” I asked.
Another brief smile flitted across her round face. “Always so suspicious,” she muttered. “Wait here."
She got up and returned a moment later with an imager. It showed a series of three pictures of a teenager who looked a lot like Nadia, except her eyes were lighter and her cheekbones were more prominent.
"I'm sorry,” I said.
"Why did you want to know about Jennifer?"
"Have you ever heard of Barbara J. Marion?"
She shook her head.
"She stole your daughter's old ID number."
"But how?"
"I'm guessing that Yoobie neglected to void it. That happened occasionally during the epidemic, when a lot of deaths occurred at the same time."
"But what would this person gain by using an old ID number?"
"That's what I'd like to know.” I got up to leave. Then another thought struck me. I told her about the call I'd received from Arden's now presumably switched-off AI.
"Remarkable,” she said.
I nodded. “Almost as remarkable as the connection between Barbara and Jennifer. Do you mind if I . . . I mean, is it all right if I . . ."
Nadia rescued me. “Arden spoke highly of you, Ellam. I'm sure he wouldn't have minded if you rummaged through his personal effects."
"Won't take but a minute.” And it didn't. I hooked up my comm to his organizer, and a few seconds later the data had successfully transferred.
"Amazing,” said Nadia, shaking her head. “A man's life, compressed into some number of bytes of data."
"No. Not a man's life. Just his data."
I said good-bye and Nadia embraced me before I left. I had so little in common with her and her world that we'd probably become strangers after the removal of our only link—Arden Kirst.
No sign of anyone sniffing around, so I climbed into the rental and powered up the batteries. Next stop: Barbara's listed address.
Sure, it was probably false, but worth a look. I had nothing better to do until I could sift through Arden's data. And that would require some time, unless I had access to my computer system at home. But I remained afraid of returning home. Maybe I could find some other system of comparable sophistication. And deviousness.
After I punched the coordinates into the car, it fanned up to the guide rail and set off toward the city.
It really bothered me that I didn't know who Barbara was. My HR software performed detailed background checks on everyone I interviewed for a job. In the eight years that I'd been an independently licensed biodet, I'd never before had cause to question its effectiveness. But Barbara, or whatever her name was, did an Uncle Barry on it. All the lies had sounded good.
That kind of mistake could potentially cost a detective his life.
Why had she applied to me for a job? She certainly didn't need to learn much—she knew how to manipulate the databases as well as anyone I'd ever met. I only discovered her secret by a lucky accident, probably because she failed to adjust a few data points here and there. Which was no shame because you can never get them all, not with so much data and so many databases in the world. She was a pro. Unless, of course, someone else had done the work.
I didn't bother pinging her comm again. When she'd found out I was snooping into Arden Kirst's business, she probably figured I might latch onto her secret, so it was time for her to disappear. She wouldn't be easy to find, unless she wanted to be found.
Maybe she'd turn up again. I felt certain that her connection to Arden Kirst involved more than just the illegal appropriation of Jennifer Yates's ID. She'd used the number to legitimize her identity and routed all queries to a new file, a new person—Barbara J. Marion. That took an incredible amount of skill and hard work. And it took an intimate knowledge of Jennifer Yates's ID and data portrait. I doubted that Barbara pulled Jennifer Yates's number out of thin air.
Who was the young woman I knew as Barbara? She was flesh and blood, that much was for sure; I dismissed any thought of her being the sophisticated AI that Kirst had allegedly invented. That couldn't be true for a number of reasons, not the least of which was that bot hardware could not yet come anywhere close to approximating the human body. She was a real person and she had a past. And a reason for hiding it.
I also discovered that she had a sense of humor, after all. Her listed address contained a recyclable pillow and mattress factory. It was called “Stuff It."
My comm rang. I answered on audio.
A gravelly voice said, “Hello, Ellam. I'm Arden Kirst."
I hesitated for a moment. “The AI?"
"No. I'm Arden Kirst."
I shook my head to clear the last remaining cobwebs from last night. “You died,” I said reasonably.
"But I was reborn."
* * * *
At six o'clock that evening I parked in the garage at the Crogan Biomedical Institute and walked to the genetics building. The codes in my comm worked perfectly, and security granted me access. It was an optimal time—only a few people remained at work, but the hour wasn't late enough for my presence to arouse suspicion. The conference room unlocked at my command. I entered, closed the door, and fired up the central console. Arden Kirst's image appeared. It was sitting in one of the chairs at the table in the center of the room.
A simulacrum, like the last AI, but the institute's projection system was much better than mine. “Good evening,” it said. “I trust the data I sent got you here without trouble?"
In no mood to chat with a machine, I said, “Who's after me and why? Who is Barbara J. Marion, or whatever her name is? And why does she have Jennifer Yates's ID number? What was Arden Kirst working on when he died? What kind of AI are you?"
The simulacrum smiled—the same mischievous grin that Arden had sometimes shown—and scratched the side of his nose with his thumb, the same way Arden had done when someone irritated him.
"Always so eager, El. Just like when you were my student, peppering me with questions—"
"Save the reminiscing for later. I want some answers."
The smile faded, and those gray eyes perceptibly narrowed. Kirst was willing to humor someone just so far, and then . . . Although I knew I was talking to an AI's digital representation rather than a real person, it was easy to imagine otherwise.
"Let me tell you a story,” persisted the AI. “Of an idealistic young man who had just earned his doctorate in genetics and thought the world was at his feet, waiting to be conquered. You see, he believed in everything that he was taught. He believed in science, and he believed in the government. Oh, yes, the government, too. United Bureaus. Both genetics and Yoobie seemed incomparably intellectual."
"I already know that Kirst fell in with the Yoobie crowd when he was young. Earned his Supremely Responsible Citizen of the Bureaus merit badge by the age of twenty-four. Almost unheard of."
"Yes, but did you know how I really felt about it? Deep down inside? I believed in it, Ellam. I believed that only a large, powerful central government could solve our social problems. It was the only way—evil, perhaps, but necessary."
"And then you realized that it could solve only a few of our problems, and in the process created an even bigger one—a loss of freedom. I get it, Arden.” I paused. I had already started thinking of this machine as Arden Kirst. It seemed to have much more than Arden's memories, which even simple AIs could store and access efficiently and to some degree intelligently. This AI was using data in a humanlike way. It almost seemed to be human—and apparently thought of itself that way.
"No,” it said, “I don't think you really get it. But you're, what, thirty-two now? Not enough time. Your thoughts are still too shallow, if you don't mind my saying so."
To steer the conversation to a more pertinent topic, I asked, “Who's Barbara? I mean, really, who is she, deep down inside?"
Kirst smiled. “That's the Ellam I know. Sarcastic. But you weren't always so sarcastic. There was a time when you were more like I was, when I was young. You have, or had, great ideals."
"Who's Barbara?"
Kirst scratched his nose. “As I was saying, this idealistic young geneticist got a job at Crogan Biomedical Institute and married a responsible, idealistic young woman by the name of Cleo. You met her much later, Ellam, after the realities of life began to wring out most of the ideals of this young and initially happy couple."
Cleo, Arden's first wife, was a short-tempered and extremely self-centered person—at least by the time I met her.
"At first, the young couple decided the most responsible thing to do was not to add to the overpopulated, overburdened Earth. As time went on and their relationship deteriorated, Cleo decided to avoid even the possibility of ever having kids—at least with me. Instead, she turned to a cadre of young intellectual friends of hers, who gathered for weekend ‘retreats,’ as they called them, to read poetry or Plato and write theatrical plays that supposedly revealed the profound meaning of life. They scoffed at us mere mortals. And in the meantime, one of these poor mortals—namely, me—met a vibrant, witty, incredibly brilliant woman. A visiting professor at Crogan."
Analog SFF, June 2010 Page 19