Beautiful Intelligence

by Stephen Palmer

  There was a pause, then, “Some kind of hanging oasis… a garden perhaps.”

  “Okay, spex off.”

  Leonora turned and said, “What is it? Are we safe?”

  “Uh-huh. It’s locally produced, but sensed by the nexus, and displayed. Some kind of freeform illusion. Man, I’m wondering if Zeug’s producing it.”

  “Zeug?”

  “You think maybe he’s dreaming?”

  Leonora crawled over to the fire and sat next to him. “Now wait a moment, are you beginning this whole argument again? Just because we dream does not mean that Zeug dreams–”

  “I know, I know, it’s only a suggestion. I walked inside it. It’s dreamy. Yet the palm trees and bushes are lifelike, as if he’s creating them from memories.”

  Leonora shook her head. “You may be correct, but we have little idea of whether Zeug has created an unconscious, with all that entails. I designed him to have an unconscious, but I did not design him to dream.”

  “Maybe Yuri did.”

  “Yuri did as he was told.”

  Hound gazed into the fire. “You sure of that?” he asked in a quiet voice.

  “What do you mean? Do you su–”

  “No. I don’t suspect anything. Just asking questions nobody else has.”

  Leonora slapped the sand with her hands. “The AIteam is becoming fractious, and I do not like that.”

  Hound shrugged. “Man, we’re only human,” he said. “Can’t I watch him?”

  “Must you?”

  “You ever notice his walk?”

  She frowned. “His walk?”

  Hound knew she had not. “He’s got a walk, okay? Left leg a tad stiffer than the right. Turns his left foot inwards as the left leg moves forward. You never noticed? Seems like back trouble to me.”

  Leonora gave a sigh of frustration. “Zeug’s muscles are electroactive structures, Hound, two layers of conducting carbon grease separated by a stretchy insulating polymer film. It can stretch by more than 300 per cent.”

  “Man, I’m not denying–”

  “When a voltage is applied it is like a capacitor, positive and negative charges accumulating on either side of the insulator. As the opposite charges attract one another the insulating film is squashed between them, flattening and stretching. Turning the voltage off contracts it to its original size.”

  “Listen, you can lecture me all you like to prove you’re more brainy–”

  “Please restrict yourself from now on to matters of security,” Leonora said, standing up and brushing the sand off her clothes. “Yuri, Dirk and I will do the speculating.”

  “As you say,” Hound replied, without a trace of emotion in his voice.

  There was a pause. Then she sighed. “I am sorry. I know your worth.”

  He shrugged.

  She apologised again before walking away. He watched. She’d changed. But she was paying him well enough and she was a good woman. He’d shut his mouth. But then he wondered how long he wanted to do this dangerous, unpredictable job. An oasis of his own, out of the way… that sure sounded good.

  Next day they hit a trail and began noticing signs with legends such as: Algeria 50km and Border 40km, then Border 30km.

  “Tonight we shall eat a final firecamp meal, oui?” Sandman Entré said.

  Hound nodded. The desert was becoming hilly, the Tell Atlas mountains ahead, the city of Annaba the only large conurbation in the vicinity.

  “Difficult times lie ahead, ami,” Sandman Entré told him. “The hautes terres, the mauvais sable. You will manage, you think?”

  “You ride home to Tunis, man,” Hound grunted. “We’ll be fine.”

  Sandman Entré laughed. “They say, il vaut mieux agir tout de suite.”

  “Do they? Okay, let ’em.”

  And Sandman Entré laughed again. “We shall meet again, ami, I feel certain. I am your Tunis frère in white linen, am I not?”

  Hound did not deign to reply.

  Supper that night, while pleasant, seemed to foreshadow tricky times ahead. On the following day, with Algeria five kilometres away and low cloud covering the sky, Hound took a look at the environs with his spex. The oasis had reappeared the previous night; now gone. But he saw something else.

  It was faint, a ghost. But it seemed to be himself.

  He called a break, saying, “We all need food and water.”

  Leonora looked pleased – she found the heat difficult to cope with. Hound strolled off as if for a waz, then took another look at the nexus artefact. Too difficult to see… too vague. Maybe he was seeing a mirage.

  He turned up the rez on his spex then put on his fly-shades to reduce realworld glare, though that was little enough today. Images pixelated, melted, then stabilised. Something out there… a spectral form, a man, and if a man, maybe himself. But why?

  A figure tracking the group was significant in a way the oasis was not. Perhaps a computer had spotted them. But Hound had never heard of this form and type of follower. The very last thing the nexus would display if somebody was tracking them was a human figure. Just too obvious.

  They rode on. A blue wall approached in Hound’s spex signifying the border between Tunisia and Algeria.

  “Here we are man,” he said. “Gotta say our goodbyes.”

  Sandman Entré hugged Hound, then shook the hand of everyone else, except Zeug, who he hesitated before, then bowed to with a look of mild distaste. Zeug bowed back, face impassive.

  Then Sandman Entré said, “The mountain tracks take you city to city, oui? Annaba, Constantine, Ouzou, Alger, Oran, Sidi-bel-Abbes. I advise you not to risk the uncharted ways – the cities Algérie are often safe. Do not risk the seashore either, it is full of the immigrant Européen, with their guns and their stinking camps. Then you have a choice of cities Maroc, or perhaps the Atlas Haute. Au revoir!”

  He turned his camel around and trotted away.

  Hound watched Sandman Entré depart. He felt sad, and not a little sick. And the ghost still faced him, a hint of mist, bleached white with no great detail. Ethereal mirage. But something in the stance, in the set of the head reminded him of himself.

  He glanced back. The others were drinking bottled water, chatting.

  He took his wristband and initiated a full link check – a risk because it would send a ripple through the nexus, and time consuming; as much as three or four minutes.

  He waited.

  “Come on, Hound!”

  He turned and called out, “I’m checking maps. Won’t be long, man.”

  Beep! He ran the wristband’s report through his spex.

  Object link status: active. Nexus file: BB2/F544*66/df/7hd32. Coherence: very high. Origin: unknown.

  Data: object is a nexus artefact created over a period of time: 6 d, 13 h, 12 m, 57s. A reservoir of verbally and visually created impressions with no emotional content. The artefact displays no purpose but is responding to an (unknown) source, and is being updated realtime on a rapid basis. 75% likelihood that artefact is mirroring the (unknown) source.

  He muttered to himself as he turned to rejoin the group. “Origin unknown? That’s not good.”

  CHAPTER 11

  A long time after Pendleton they reached the Columbia River, which rippled to their right as the road through the Blue Mountains bent due west. Then the soltruck broke down. Manfred watched (he knew jack about vehicles) as Pouncey, cursing to herself, dismantled the top half of the solar-powered engine, found a leak, repaired it, then reassembled the engine.

  It didn’t restart. Manfred glanced up and down the road. They had met nobody since the guy with the rifle. This high, this remote, there weren’t even any local, self-sustaining communities; at least, none that wanted to be seen. Probably the BIteam was safe for a short while. He took Pouncey’s binoculars out of the front comp, then surveyed all he could see.

  Nothing, except trees, streams, rocks and grass. The weather was cool. Snow on mountain tops blinded him. The scenery was gorgeous, yet it hinted at
madmen in bunkers. The boundary between the empty gulf in the middle of America and its inhabited coasts was a place of nervous, aggressive energy.

  He glanced at Pouncey. She sat in the middle of the road with an engine unit on her lap. She glanced up at him. “Compression unit computer’s lost a connection,” she said.

  “Jeez… you can repair it, mmm?”

  Pouncey nodded. “Fetch me the tool box. I think there’s a roll of thin copper wire in there. Get me a pair of cutters and a spool and I’ll make a jump connection. Should work.”

  “It better work,” Manfred muttered as he followed her instructions.

  Joanna accompanied him back, Indigo in her arms. The trio sat on the road, bathed in sunshine. But Manfred shivered; he was getting the creeps.

  “Don’t like being broke down,” he said. “What if we can’t run–”

  “Do be quiet, Manfred,” Joanna interrupted. Indigo wriggled in her arms, like an annoyed cat trying to escape.

  Manfred watched. Though blind, it was facing Pouncey, and seemed to want to join her. “Let it go,” he said. “It won’t run away.”

  “What?”

  “Let it go, Jo. We crossed a Rubicon – it won’t escape.”

  “What do you mean?”

  Manfred shrugged. “We know it understands we’re part of its group. Or that it’s part of our group. Wouldn’t have rescued us from the shooter otherwise, mmm? Go on! Let it go. It wants to go to Pouncey.”

  Joanna, with reluctance, bent down and allowed the bi to hop out of her arms. It turned at once to face Pouncey, then walked over. Manfred watched. The dark blue dye in its body was striated, he noticed, something he had not observed before. Its arms seemed shorter, and it appeared taller and thinner.

  “It’s modifying its body,” he whispered to Joanna. “It still has some flexibility.”

  She nodded. “Identity still forming,” she said. “Like a child.”

  Manfred nodded. “Kid stuff. Watch it. It knows Pouncey’s doing something with electric current. I’d bet you any money it can sense–”

  “Shhh!”

  Manfred nodded. Joanna pointed as Indigo reached the engine, bent over it, and placed its right hand inside.

  Pouncey watched, too surprised to do anything. Then she leaned over. Manfred crawled across the road until he was a couple of metres away. “What’s it doing?” he whispered.

  Pouncey ignored him: looking into the engine. “Ah!” she said. “The circuit breaker’s died. I see!”

  “What, what?” Manfred said. “What’s it doing?”

  “Circuit breaker’s got a dodgy connection,” Pouncey said. “Shorting out. I get it!”

  “Did Indigo diagnose that? Did it?”

  Pouncey hesitated. “I think so.”

  Manfred closed so that he could see what Indigo was doing. Without doubt it had sensed the tiny field disturbance caused by the shorting connection. It was sensitive. But did it know anything more about engines? Was this a random act of sensation, as he might notice a spot of blue sky amidst clouds, or did Indigo grasp that the engine was a device of many complementary parts?

  He ground his teeth together in frustration. So annoying that Indigo did not speak. “Patience,” he murmured to himself.

  Pouncey glanced up at him. “You’re gonna need it,” she said. “These things are like animals. They’ll never be human. What’s it like to be a bat? We don’t know–”

  “Yeah, yeah, we’ve been through all that. I want ’em to understand English!”

  Pouncey shrugged, pushing Indigo away, then tapping the compression unit, which wheezed into life. “Time to go,” she said. “Good.”

  Back in the comp, engine sorted, Pouncey keyed the soltruck into life. It moved, and she grinned, then nodded.

  Manfred glanced aside to Joanna. “Indigo’s doing a bat… a whale,” he said.

  Joanna flashed a look of query at him.

  “Making a picture of its surroundings using all its senses. Hearing mostly, but also electromagnetic. No wonder it senses the nexus.”

  “We shall have to be careful,” Joanna replied. “It could give us away.”

  Manfred took a deep breath. “Yeah, hmmm, you’re right… if anybody in the nexus notices anything… and they will be looking. They’ll be looking for artificial entities, they’ll know the template of the BIteam, they’ll know we’re not the AIteam. Yeah! That really could be a problem.”

  “We cannot stop Indigo’s development.”

  Manfred nodded. “Agreed. Then what? Suppose Ichikawa’s actively searching for nonhuman traces in the nexus? Suppose he’s guessed where we are?”

  Joanna did not reply.

  Manfred felt his body tense and his stomach flutter as realisation struck him. Indigo – their marvellous, heuristic, intelligent creation – could do something, something simple and careless and accidental, like a naïve child giving away a family secret. It wouldn’t know about Japanese corporations. It wouldn’t know about murder, secrets, money. It was exploring its wonderful environment with all the uncontrived joy of a toddler. Definitely their Achilles Heel…

  “Pouncey saw a sigil z on the nexus,” he said, “but on the West Coast that’ll be drowned out. We need to hurry on west, get into inhabited areas, then vanish beneath the noise of the nexus.”

  Joanna nodded. “As fast as possible.”

  ~

  They halted one evening as they approached The Dalles. In the distance Manfred saw the beginnings of a belt of forest that marked the western edge of the mountains: beyond it Portland, and much else. But here they were still in wild country, filled with rock, woods and the noisy, white-flecked, fast flowing Columbia River. Bear territory. Many midges. Very likely GM-modified mozzies, escaped from ’Frisco bio-labs. Very likely people too, also escaped from ’Frisco.

  They sat in late afternoon sunshine beside the river, eating, drinking. Indigo and the three warm spectrum bis were out of the soltruck.

  Manfred watched them. Joanna had strung them to a tree with a fragment of bailing twine. He shook his head. “Nah,” he said, “that’s not right. Let ’em go, mmm?”

  “What are you talking about?” Joanna asked.

  “They’ll be runnin’ off soon as look at yer,” said Pouncey.

  “But will they?” Manfred said.

  “Too risky,” replied Joanna.

  Manfred stood up. “No. We’ve got to think of this from their point of view. Like wolves, like whales, they can’t be alone. I don’t think they’d run off, I know they’re aware of their own group, and I’d bet they’re aware of us as some kinda other group, attached to theirs. We’re like dogs to them. Part of the group, but different, yeah? We’re all a big society now, we’ve had adventures, we’ve rescued each other, we’ve spent time in each other’s company. We can’t just treat them like stupid brats. They’ve got to know they’re free–”

  “They must have boundaries, Manfred,” Joanna interrupted. “Is that your idea of fatherhood? Let them run free and unattended, and see what happens? That is irresponsible.”

  Manfred felt anger rise up inside him. “No, no, no! This is what the BIteam is all about – creating a society. Leonora got it wrong, I got it right, I know I did. Beautiful Intelligence exists in a society and nowhere else, just like consciousness only exists in a society. I’ve proved my case. Yeah, I separated them in Philly, and, oh no you all screamed, you’ve cut them apart Manfred, but then they became individuals and I was right. And I’m right this time too. They’re growing up. They’re individuating. They’re all different, mmm? Red is lazy and Yellow isn’t. Indigo is totally an individual, we all agree to that. Don’t you see?”

  “The risk is too great,” said Joanna, “even though Indigo has not run away… which I must admit I thought it might. But Indigo is different. It has been alongside us, in our company, far more than the others–”

  “We balance the risk,” Manfred said. “There’s an equally dangerous path, yeah? The path of keeping them in
cages and stunting them forever.”

  Joanna hesitated, watching the untethered Indigo. Manfred also looked – the bi was motionless, balanced on legs set apart, as if listening. Once again Manfred noticed that its dye was striated.

  “Look!” he whispered, pointing to the three tethered bis. “Dye movement.”

  They all looked. Manfred lay down on his stomach, as if to minimise the intrusion caused by his presence. The only sounds were those of the river and the wind in the trees. Then, far off, a hawk cried out.

  Indigo turned to listen. The dye patterns moved, and so did the patterns on the surfaces of the other three bis. Manfred stared.

  “Communication,” he said. “I think that’s emotional communication. It likes what it hears. It’s moved by the experience.”

  Joanna nodded. “It could be.”

  “But the sound could be a kinda music to Indigo,” Pouncey said. “Hawk cries, they got a music to them. Maybe the bis got their own artistic culture.”

  “It might be that the dye patterns are like octopus skin patterns,” said Manfred, “sending out basic level information – threat, fear, and so on. Or it might be a form of self-adornment. The earliest human self-detritus is rouge for painting, beads for decoration. We want the bis to decorate themselves, that’d prove they’re aware of themselves in some way, aware of their individuality.”

  He got to his feet.

  Joanna did too. “No, Manfred. Don’t cut those tethers.”

  “I’ve got to. Jeez, I’ve got to, they need their freedom. They know they’re one of us. They won’t stray, I promise.”

  “Manfred, promises mean nothing.” She gestured at the tethered bis. “This is science. We go on facts, not the guesses of individuals. Manfred!”

  “Fuck that,” Manfred said as he ran to the tree where the bis stood. Joanna cried out, but moments later the bis were free.

  Pouncey hurried across to the soltruck, retrieving the net on a pole that she had fashioned after the incident with the shooter. “I’m with Manfred on this,” she said, “but, hey, just in case… I run pretty fast for a spy girl, and no bi is gonna outpace me.”

  Joanna ran to the tree. The bis watched her. Manfred watched them back. They acted like sedated children – quiet, calm, observant. They did not run off. Orange and Yellow fingered the lengths of twine attached to them, as if trying to understand the implications, but Red lay down on its back.