by Todd McAulty
Perez grunted, seemingly satisfied. He slipped the card into his pocket and dismissed the robot. Zircon Border lumbered back to his post by the entrance. He passed by me, less than five feet away, and gave no outward sign of recognition.
Sergei still had not moved from his chair. After conferring with his officers for another moment, Perez walked over and laid a hand on Sergei’s shoulder. The colonel spoke in a low voice into his ear.
Sergei stood slowly. He seemed uncertain what to do. Perez guided him gently, steering him toward the door.
I tried to make myself scarce, but Perez managed to spot me before I reached the exit. He motioned me closer.
“You stayed for your friend, yes?” Perez asked when I reached them.
I nodded, not trusting myself to speak.
“Good. Specialist Vulka has had something of a trial this afternoon,” he said. “He has performed well. A true friend might take him to the bar.”
I nodded again. “That seems like an excellent idea.”
Perez gave a businesslike smile. He slapped Sergei on the back. “Tell the bartender the first round is on me.”
“Thank you,” I said. “I’ll do that.”
XXXIX
Thursday, March 25th, 2083
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It’s late and I’m very tired. But I have a few last things to say.
There are still some rough waters ahead. I’m still not entirely sure what Primrose is up to in Africa, and what—if anything—she plans to do with the Ghost Impulse source code she demanded. Colonel Perez is still expecting me to spy for him, and there’s no way that’s going to end well. I promised Domeko I’d help her find a missing robot colony under the city, precisely the kind of dangerous adventure I currently have absolutely zero interest in. And, at least nominally, I still have an actual job to do while I’m in this city, which I’ve almost criminally neglected for the last three weeks.
But you know what? The hell with all that. Today was a victory.
Sergeant Noa Van de Velde is no longer on a death list. She is, in fact, very much alive, and slowly recovering. And thanks to some quick thinking on the part of Colonel Perez, everyone on Hayduk’s suspect list has been exonerated. As of midnight, the most up-to-date list of suspects on that tablet Perez gave me has exactly zero entries. And that’s the way I like it.
Sergei delivered the antivirus safely to Dr. Thibault. Just as importantly, he also delivered Joy’s instructions on how to replicate it. Sergei manufactured enough to stem the immediate outbreak in Indiana and Illinois, and we’ll have more ready in a week. In the meantime, Joy administered the cure to the sick soldiers and civilians in isolation here. Without Hayduk actively sabotaging AGRT medical infrastructure, F5-117 is just a nasty bug with a good cure. We’re not out of the woods yet, but we’re starting to see daylight.
Renkain has his money. After expenses, and including the proceeds from the wine auction, we cleared over $45,000 tonight. Coupled with Domeko’s check, it’s enough. The first refugees will begin to trickle into the hotel in a matter of hours. It will take a while, but I know we can accommodate them all.
And Sergei is out of danger. This is no small thing. It’s no trivial matter to be accused of treason in the AGRT. That’s a stigma that doesn’t fade quickly. But just in the last few hours, Perez has made several public displays of trust in everyone’s favorite medical specialist. And that counts for a lot.
For now, the heat is off the American terrorist. As far as the AGRT is concerned, he vanished out the back of the hotel like a thief in the night. His latest antics were not picked up by the American press—thank God—and that’s what really matters. When I hear people talking about him now, he’s just a small part of the story of how Colonel Perez and his men brought down the homicidal head of military intelligence, Colonel Hayduk. There’s still two fresh battalions showing up in the next few weeks, but that in itself is not a bad thing. I’m certain Perez can find something constructive for them to do. Something that doesn’t involve hunting terrorists, maybe.
After we left the command center, I took Sergei to see Van de Velde. She had been brought into the surgical unit on the third floor—where, ironically, Sergei would have tended to her, if he hadn’t been under arrest. She’d already been examined and was pretty out of it by the time we got to her, but Sergei looked her over anyway.
“Broken collarbone,” he said. “Dislocated shoulder, possible concussion, and three fractured ribs. But no damage to her spine or internal organs. She was lucky. She will recover.”
“She saved my life,” I told him. I hated seeing her like this, with most of her torso immobilized and her right arm in an elevated sling.
She opened her eyes when she heard my voice. “Barry?” she said.
I moved closer. “I’m here, Noa.”
She smiled. She started whispering. I leaned closer. She was speaking in Spanish.
“Noa,” I said. “Speak English. I can’t understand you. Noa?”
She smiled at me again and repeated what she’d said. In Spanish.
I turned to Sergei. “I can’t understand her.”
He shrugged. “She is on five cc of Paxinim. She is probably not making sense in Spanish either.”
After a short conference with the medical techs on duty, Sergei left for his rendezvous with Thibault. I kissed Van de Velde on the forehead, and then returned to the ball.
On my way there I made a brief detour to the forty-fifth floor to retrieve my dress pants. Tucked into the front pocket I found the drone jammer—and a six-inch ball hammer. I stared at the tiny hammer for a moment, uncomprehending, before remembering that I had intended it as insurance. A way to smash the jammer, in case Hayduk made a move to arrest me. All that frantic planning seemed so long ago now.
It would have been much more convenient to slip into my dress pants then and there, but I hadn’t forgotten the strange thing patrolling the hallway on the forty-fifth floor. I gathered up the bag with my pants and the hammer, then hurried back to the elevator. I made sure the doors were closed before changing pants again.
“Where the hell have you been?” said Martin when I returned to the ball. He was looking stressed, and he hadn’t strayed far from the DJ station near the podium. “I thought you got killed in that goddamn brawl.”
“No, I just got . . . swept up in all the drama,” I said. “Things seem to be hopping here, though.”
It was true. There were about fifty people on the dance floor, and if anything the room was more crowded than when I left.
“Yeah, no thanks to you. Mac got everybody settled after all the excitement and got the mayor up on stage.”
“The mayor! Damn, I totally forgot. I was supposed to introduce her.”
“You certainly were. It all sorta began falling apart after that brawl involving Sergei, and people started to leave. But Mac made it to the podium, thanked all the right people, and handed it off to the mayor. It worked out okay after that.”
“Thank God for politicians. I guess a little drama just makes a party memorable, eh?” I craned my neck, trying to get a glimpse of the bar through the crowd. “Martin, what happened to my huge stack of wine bottles?”
“Mac auctioned most of them off. The crowd was still pretty unsettled after the mayor spoke; Mac figured they needed something to do. So she got a good auction going. Sold almost all the good stuff.” He reached under his table and pulled out a dusty bottle. “I did manage to save both bottles of 2022 Chambertin Grand Cru, though,” he said with a smile.
“Good for you,” I said, clapping him on the back. “Where is Mac? I wanted to thank her.”
“She left after the auction,” Martin said.
“O
h,” I said, trying to disguise my disappointment. I helped Martin pack up the speaker cables. “Did she . . . did she leave with anyone?”
“It’s funny, there were a couple guys chasing her most of the evening. I mean, damn—you saw her in that dress.”
“Yeah. I did.”
“But in the end, I saw her slip away all on her own. She gave me a wave just before she left. I think she broke a few hearts, to tell the truth. What are you smiling about?”
“Nothing,” I said. “Nothing at all.”
I spent the next two hours—as the ball gradually wound down—mingling, shaking hands, and making apologies. I made sure I spoke with the most vocal complainers. As I expected, there were a lot of irritated questions about Colonel Perez.
“Is he coming back? I was hoping to speak with him.”
“Where’s the damn colonel? He’s the only reason I came tonight. Shit, did you see that brawl?”
“What about Colonel Perez? Will he be back? I need to talk to him about those insane land-transfer taxes.”
I assured everyone that the colonel sent his regrets, and that he would reach out to them all personally in the next few days.
Martin and I watched as the VP of the Chicago Park District Board of Commissioners departed after accepting my assurances. Martin let out a long breath. “You’re not shy about making promises on behalf of the colonel,” he said. “How are you going to get him to honor them all?”
“Shouldn’t be too hard,” I said. “Let’s just say the colonel owes me a favor.”
I couldn’t sneak out early on my own ball, but I left as soon as it was socially acceptable to do so. I found Sergei back in the command center. Perez and most of the soldiers were gone, and Zircon Border had folded up into his less-intimidating form by the entrance. Sergei’s feet were on his desk, and his eyes were closed. I had to shake him three times to rouse him.
“You complain I do not sleep enough,” he said groggily. “And when you find me sleeping you wake me up? You are asshole.”
“Did the good doctor get her antivirus safely?” I asked.
In response, Sergei raised his right hand. I grasped it firmly.
“Dr. Thibault,” he said, “is in the wind.”
“Then come on,” I said. “You’re buying me a drink.”
We made our way to an open bar six blocks from the hotel. I could have chosen one closer, but neither Sergei nor I were interested in celebrating anywhere near Venezuelan HQ, thank you very much.
Black Winter was waiting for us, as expected. He had a small table in the back and rose as we approached. “Zircon Border already filled me in on the details,” he said. “I understand congratulations are in order.”
“Black Winter, where I come from, we call that an understatement,” I said.
There was an open bottle already on the table. Some kind of hard liquor, maybe vodka. The label looked foreign. Sergei picked it up as we took our seats. “I took the liberty of ordering before you got here,” Black Winter said. “I hope you enjoy this, with compliments from the Kingdom of Manhattan.”
I didn’t recognize it, but Sergei seemed impressed. Our server brought two glasses and poured for Sergei and me. “If Sergei’s impressed, I’m impressed,” I said. We raised our first glasses in a toast. Whatever it was, it lit up the back of my throat like an Alberta wildfire.
“What’s the word?” I asked Black Winter, a little breathlessly.
“Colonel Perez has transferred Hayduk to the Burroughs Detention Center,” Black Winter said. “Where he’s to be court-martialed. For gross dereliction of duty and the reckless homicide of two soldiers, both killed while attempting to subdue an improperly sanctioned field combat robot. Colonel Perez has also opened up an investigation into Hayduk’s recent activities, including his active suppression of crucial information related to the spread of the pathogen and his interrogation of Perez’s officers. I have no doubt he’ll find additional violations of Venezuelan military law to charge Hayduk with.”
“This is very welcome news,” Sergei said.
“What about that big research project that isolated F5-117 to begin with?” I said.
“Project Tinker,” Sergei said.
“Yeah, that’s the one. And we found evidence that incriminated Hayduk of infecting his own men with F5-117. If we can query a search algorithm to uncover that evidence, the AGRT should be able to do it too.”
“Interesting you should mention that,” said Black Winter. “Shortly after Colonel Hayduk’s arrest, two high-ranking officers in the AGRT military police searched his office, where they found an open safe. Inside was a small black case, containing two ampoules. The ampoules contained antivirus for F5-117.”
“Jesus Jones,” I said. “Are you serious?”
“Perfectly.”
“That’s the smoking gun right there!” I said excitedly. “We can easily demonstrate they didn’t come from the batch Sergei created. What more evidence do you need?”
But Sergei was shaking his head. “Nyet.”
“What do you mean, ‘nyet’?” I said, annoyed.
“I believe what Specialist Vulka is saying,” said Black Winter, “is that it’s only evidence if you can use it. And Colonel Perez will never allow evidence to be introduced in this court-martial that links the Venezuelans to the release of F5-117. It would be political suicide.”
“Correct,” said Sergei flatly.
I cursed loudly. “That’s total bullshit! What about the drone footage of Hayduk infecting his own soldiers in Indiana?”
“Unfortunately, that is circumstantial at best,” said Black Winter. “Yes, the AGRT drone search algorithm showed Colonel Hayduk making an unscheduled visit to Columbus Regional Hospital, where the first infections were reported. But without presenting the antivirus as evidence, Perez has nothing to connect Hayduk to the theft of the two vials of F5-117 from Venezuelan bioweapon stores. In fact, the very existence of those vials is highly secret.”
“Well, crap,” I muttered. “Attempted genocide is a much more serious crime than goddamn ‘dereliction of duty.’ I’d like to see him pay for it.”
“I am confident Colonel Perez will ensure that Hayduk is punished,” said Sergei.
“I agree with Mr. Vulka,” said Black Winter. “You may find this interesting, though. There have been several high-level communiqués between the Venezuelan high command in Sector Eleven and an unknown Sovereign Intelligence in Caracas in the last few hours. Burst transmissions, highly encrypted.”
“Armitage,” I guessed.
“Very likely,” said Black Winter. “In all probability, he’s attempting to find out exactly what happened to his agent.”
“He will,” Sergei said grimly. “Given time, he will learn whole truth.”
I didn’t like the sound of that. “Black Winter, are we in any . . .” I cleared my throat. “Let me try that again: How much danger are we in? From Armitage, I mean.”
“I have news on that front, as well. Hayduk’s arrest, and the circumstances around it, have made significant ripples among the higher echelons of machine society. Questions are being asked—and damaging revelations made.”
“Damaging revelations?” I said. “About Armitage?”
“Yes. Related to false accusations against the New England Crackers, among other things.”
“From where? What was the source?”
“Unknown—although I have a theory that I’ll get to in a minute. Now, Colonel Perez may not be able to definitively prove Hayduk’s involvement in the theft and use of F5-117, but the machine entities asking questions do not require such a high standard of proof. Trust me, they are perfectly capable of making the right intuitive leaps.”
Something in the way he phrased that last sentence made me pause. “Intuitive leaps . . . Any chance you helped guide these machines to the right conclusions, Black Winter?”
Black Winter’s face was incapable of a smile, but his tone conveyed very definite satisfaction. “I believe I ma
y have mentioned Modo to you?”
“The Thought Machine that runs Nightport?” I said.
“Yes. As I said, Modo sells information. He also buys information when he knows it’s reliable. I made just such a discreet sale of information to Modo today.”
“Really? What did you—?”
That was as far as I got before I felt Sergei’s hand on my shoulder. Sergei didn’t say a word, but he shook his head slowly and very deliberately.
“Ah,” I said, understanding dawning slowly. “Yes. Best that Sergei and I don’t know those details.”
“I agree,” said Black Winter. “Very wise.”
“And Armitage . . . ?”
“As a result of the recent revelations—and the additional ones I expect in the next few days—Armitage will be under intense scrutiny. For the next few months, and perhaps years, he will face a series of investigations from both the Helsinki Trustees and perhaps the Sentient Cathedral itself. It will be very dangerous for him to undertake any kind of investigative or retaliatory action, against us or anyone else, while those are ongoing. I believe we are safe. For the time being.”
“That’s a relief.”
“What about Hayduk’s court-martial?” Sergei asked. “Armitage will certainly try to influence.”
“Yes, I expect he will,” Black Winter said. “But that will be difficult to do while Armitage is under investigation as well. His best option would be to have Colonel Hayduk’s court-martial moved to Venezuela, where he has a vastly better chance of influencing the outcome.”
“Is that likely to happen?” I asked, a little alarmed.
“According to Venezuelan military law, the choice of location for a court-martial falls to the ranking officer in the district,” Black Winter said.
“Who’s that?” I asked.
Black Winter lifted the bottle. He topped off my drink. “Colonel Perez,” he said, with obvious pleasure.
We were on our fourth round when Sergei set his glass down, put his hands flat on the table, and said quietly to me, “How did you do it?”