Corrupted

by Phoenix Ward

  Phoenix Ward

  Corrupted

  Installed Intelligence Book 2

  First published by Phoenix Ward 2019

  Copyright © 2019 by Phoenix Ward

  All rights reserved. No part of this publication may be reproduced, stored or transmitted in any form or by any means, electronic, mechanical, photocopying, recording, scanning, or otherwise without written permission from the publisher. It is illegal to copy this book, post it to a website, or distribute it by any other means without permission.

  First edition

  This book was professionally typeset on Reedsy

  Find out more at reedsy.com

  To my mother Dorothy - nurturer of possibilities

  Contents

  Preface

  Launch

  Headlines

  The Couple

  Theories

  Simon

  Trishilan

  Coffee

  Murder

  Vicky

  Greetings

  Offer

  The Hunt

  Deceived

  Warning

  The Mall

  Danger

  Off the Grid

  Radar

  Rendezvous

  Rubik

  Lobo

  History

  Surrounded

  Standoff

  Rescue

  Resistance

  Dr. Miller

  Insurrection

  The Stranger

  Paranoia

  Refuge

  Propaganda

  Nathan

  Broken

  The Holdout

  Attack

  Hard Storage

  Failsafe

  Questions

  Answers

  Martyr

  Defeat

  Heads up!

  About the Author

  Also by Phoenix Ward

  Preface

  An installed intelligence (I.I.) is a digital backup of a human mind that can think and act of its own accord. Legally and practically, they cannot be activated until after their organic counterpart — their body — has died. At first, they were almost novelties of technology. Then, they gained equal rights when their sentience became clearer. For some, however, that wasn’t enough.

  This is the second act of the Installed Intelligence saga.

  1

  Launch

  “It looks like the astronauts are secured in the cockpit — and the hatch has been sealed,” one of the announcers said as millions of people watched the vessel’s main opening close.

  “If it weren’t for the cameras within the Picard, this would be the last time we would see the three crew members until they are set to return to Earth in ten years,” a second announcer commented.

  A bit of the footage from the cockpit was broadcast, showing the ship’s three occupants adjusting themselves for takeoff. After buckling up, one of them waved at the camera and smiled.

  “That’s Dr. Ahmed Mirza giving us a goodbye wave there,” the first announcer said. “Looks like Dr. Tamberlin is still adjusting the restraints in her seat. I can only imagine the anxiety and excitement these three must be feeling right now.”

  “Oh, I am sure it is palpable. I can hardly stand the climb on a rollercoaster, let alone launching off for the surface of Mars.”

  The stream cut back to the announcers, in a sort of translucent booth over the launch site.

  “For those of you joining us late, we’re a mere five minutes away from sending Expanse Aerospace’s new Captain-class colony ship to our neighbor, Mars,” the first announcer explained.

  “The ship, which is called the Picard, is an experimental new vessel designed to be repurposed into a colony after touching down on the red planet’s surface,” the second presenter continued. “Made of immensely durable material, the ship’s hull can be taken apart and reassembled into a biodome capable of turning over fifteen acres of Martian surface into a habitable, arable plot of land.”

  “The first year of the mission will mostly be spent assembling the dome, during which the astronauts will share a small capsule no larger than a dorm room. After the outpost is constructed, the three crew members will conduct a series of scientific experiments to determine how best to terraform larger portions of Mars. Over the course of nine years, they will send data back to Earth. Scientists here at home will use that information to design and perfect a second wave of colonies set to follow the Picard in ten years — with civilian passengers.”

  “Over their term on the red planet,” the second announcer took over, “the astronauts will be joined by more scientists until they have a full staff of two-hundred-forty. More specialists will travel to the Martian colony as studies into their fields become more relevant.”

  “But that’s enough about the future of the Picard,” the first presenter said. “Today, we are looking at the present. The Picard is the first Expanse ship to feature their new top-heavy propulsion system, or the T.H.P.S. The method of gravity-fighting ignition combined with sleek aerodynamics is the brainchild of Drs. Martin Fore and Samantha Turner. The pair were able to design the Captain-class ship and the T.H.P.S. from scratch in just three years thanks to a mindshare research partnership the two shared.”

  “Speaking of mindsharing, today is actually the fortieth anniversary of the process. A fitting day for a launch that mindsharing birthed,” the other presenter said. “The mindshare process was first performed by Drs. Karl Terrace and Maynard Batiste. Long before the days of the standard neural implant — when cerebral computers were the norm — these scientists dared to ask, ‘what problems could be accomplished if two minds were tackling them as one?’

  “Simply put, a mindshare is created when an installed intelligence — the digital manifestation of a human brain — is downloaded into a living person’s neural implant. Back in the day, this was achieved with a simple cerebral computer and was used to pursue scientific advancements. Though it is still used for this purpose today, mindsharing is more commonly seen as a modern take on a traditional marriage.”

  The first presenter took over again. “Almost everyone watching knows of someone engaged in a mindshare with someone else,” he said. “It’s become a common part of today’s society, but on the fortieth anniversary of this incredible breakthrough, we think it’s important to look back and acknowledge where we came from.

  “From mankind taking its first step on the moon, to even further back when Sputnik was first sent into Earth’s orbit, humanity has always looked to the stars. Ever since the landmasses of the planet were claimed and settled, people realized the door to the next set of discoveries was churning above our heads. Like the Picard’s fictional namesake used to say, space is ‘the final frontier’. The last expedition for the future of humanity.”

  “Everyone here is getting pretty excited, Henry,” the second presenter said. “We can hear a lot of commotion stirring behind us, so I would guess they are getting close to countdown. Let’s return to the launch site and watch as history is made.”

  The footage cut back to the Expanse Aeronautics Launch Site in Texas. The motion seemed still aside from the crowd of spectators bouncing up and down and waving in excitement. Some flew handmade banners and signs, reading things like “Mars, please don’t attack!” and “Today, we all grok as one!” A tall red tower reminiscent of scaffolding held the ship upright, so its nose pointed straight to the heavens.

  The Picard was an oddly shaped vessel constructed of some shiny metal that glinted the sun’s light into the camera lens. It was shaped like a skinny football, resting atop a towering bundle of rocket thrusters. It looked like a solid piece of chrome, devoid of any windows or doorways. In reality, all the seams were so precise that a common spectator couldn’t tell a vi
ewport from the rest of the hull.

  Suddenly, a low roaring overtook the volume of the crowd. The Picard almost seemed to vibrate as a thin cloud of smoke wisped out from the rockets.

  “Oooh! It looks like the moment has arrived!” the second presenter exclaimed.

  “Now, let’s have some quiet while the Expanse technicians initiate the launch,” the first said. “According to our sources, we are just a couple minutes from liftoff!”

  The other presenter, obviously excited, shushed his partner before the audio from their studio dropped off.

  Even the crowd stilled, waiting with bated breath for any updates. They remained like this for a full minute before the site’s loudspeakers — which were connected to the audience’s neural implants — groaned to life.

  “We will be initiating our final launch check in one minute,” a voice boomed to the crowd. “Please stand by.”

  At those words, the people erupted. It was like someone started the New Year’s countdown that was held every year in Times Square. The sheer energy seemed enough to ignite a firework show, but when the speakers sounded again, everyone quieted.

  “The crew is ready and all systems are a go,” the launch announcer said. “Countdown beginning in sixty seconds.”

  The tension at the site was so thick that one might be able to slice through it with a knife. The banners stopped waving and everyone waited.

  “Thirty, twenty-nine, twenty-eight,” the countdown came.

  The cheering started to rise with the volume of the ship’s rockets. The Picard started to shake violently, like it was a time bomb about to detonate.

  “Nineteen, eighteen, seventeen….”

  “Here we go!” one of the presenters said off-screen.

  “Five, four, three, two, one. Liftoff!”

  The rocket boosters roared to life. Flames started spouting from the bottom of the cylinders and the ship started to rise into the air. The tower that held it broke loose and fell safely to the ground.

  “All systems are normal. Takeoff is a success!” the speakers boomed.

  “Look at it go!” one of the presenters said with awe.

  The rocket was a good hundred feet in the air before it started to tilt, angling its flight to reach the atmosphere as quickly as possible.

  Then the ship exploded, scattering flames and debris over the launch site below.

  2

  Headlines

  “Everyone at the company is still in shock over yesterday’s terrible tragedy,” the man behind the podium said. Tears clung to the edges of his eyes as he tried to keep his voice steady. “A memorial service will be held tonight for the three Expanse astronauts where people can donate to a fund for their grieving families.”

  The high-resolution screen on the podium introduced the speaker as Talon Merker, the C.E.O. of Expanse Aeronautics. There were no visible microphones reaching up towards him, but his voice boomed through the briefing room with perfect clarity.

  “We will never forget the sacrifice made by these brave men and women. The names of David Finder, Helen Tamberlin, and Ahmed Mirza will forever echo in the halls of scientific legends. They put their lives on the line in pursuit of a brighter future and the betterment of mankind and ended up paying the ultimate price. As the head of Expanse, I feel the most responsible for this terrible loss. Every measure will be taken to make sure nothing like this happens ever again.”

  Without saying anything else, Merker waved farewell to the audience and walked off stage, his head hung low. The crowd made little to no noise as a somber silence draped over them.

  “That was Expanse Aeronautics’ C.E.O. Talon Merker earlier today at the company’s San Diego headquarters,” a news anchor began. “The press conference was recorded a mere fifty minutes before it was discovered that the Picard’s explosion was not an accident, but a deliberate act of sabotage.”

  The digital pattern on the anchor’s tie changed shape and color with a whimsical animation as the camera showed a still frame from a video. A large man dominated the screen, glaring into the camera with frozen malice. The footage seemed to be taken from within the Cloud, based on the subtle artificiality of the man’s face.

  “A video was sent to several media outlets, in which the Liberators terrorist group allegedly took credit for yesterday’s explosion,” the anchor explained before the clip came to life.

  “This is Master General Blake Tarov of the Liberators,” the artificial man said. “I’m here to claim responsibility for the destruction of the Picard and the deaths of those aboard.”

  He paused for a moment for dramatic effect.

  “This is merely a warning. The long reign of human superiority is coming to a close. Before the long fight is over, the destruction of the Picard will be forgotten when compared with what comes next. On behalf of all installed intelligences — the war on humanity has only just begun.”

  “Once again, that was Blake Tarov, the self-proclaimed leader of the Liberators terror group,” the anchor explained. “His organization is well known for their radical hatred of organic humans. They are connected with a series of human slayings, which are usually recorded and used as propaganda to recruit more extremists.

  “This is the third fatal attack by the Liberators in two months. Earlier this summer, they claimed an autocar explosion that killed two border officers, followed by a deadly shooting at Arizona State that left three dead. The authorities assure us that they are making every effort to bring Tarov and those responsible for these senseless killings to justice. The Liberators have been placed at the top of the global terror list.”

  A snowflake drifted into the cabin of the autocar. Beth squinted at the thing when she recognized what it was. How’d that get in here? she pondered. With one hand, she made a platform for the flake to fall upon. It vanished as soon as it touched her skin.

  Beth Dylan looked around the vehicle as it sped along the freeway, seeking any possible leak in the warm bubble she traveled in. Her vehicle wasn’t so luxurious as to include a full bed or any kind of grooming station, but it gave her enough room to recline and daydream on commutes.

  She tried unfocusing her eyes, hoping to catch another snowflake in the corner of her vision. However, it seemed the autocar was entirely enclosed.

  Perhaps I imagined it, she thought. Just a little fuzzy in the vision; a protein on the cornea.

  Without another thought, she relaxed again. She let the sounds of the news broadcast ebb in from her cerebral computer and float around in her gray matter without putting any effort into translating them. Her eyes pointed up through the translucent roof of the vehicle, gazing out at the clouds in the sky as she zipped by underneath them.

  The commute to work shouldn’t take this long, depending on where she was needed in the city, but she preferred to go out this far for the scenery. It gave her a good sense of calm before she started going over a crime scene or interviewing a witness.

  “The Picard attack is, unfortunately, not the only of its kind this week,” the news program went on. The words formed and finally registered in Beth’s brain, so she started listening again.

  “That’s right,” the anchor started. “On Monday, a group of anti-I.I. extremists managed to break into an installed intelligence storage facility in New Mexico, deleting one-hundred-four I.I.s. The Human Foundation, a hate group led by Dixon Marx, is said to have used a malicious virus to delete the victims. The virus was designed to seek out every instance of an installed intelligence during the deletion process, in order to prevent any backups from surviving. Families and friends are still reeling over this terrible loss of human life.”

  “But that’s enough melancholy for the morning,” the anchor said in a suddenly upbeat tone. “We’re going to take a short break here, but don’t get up because we have some important messages from our sponsors.”

  The image of the news studio and the sound of the man dissipated like an unfocused thought. Slowly, the image of a human form — walking against a star
k white background — came into Beth’s mind.

  None of the person’s features could be discerned, but Beth could tell it was a woman. She didn’t seem to have any hair, but that could just be a trick of the lighting.

  “Freedom in a real world,” a man’s voice said.

  The woman kept walking until, gradually, light washed over her front. She was dressed in an elegant red gown, one that glittered like the embers of a fire. Her face was immaculate, perfectly symmetrical and without blemish or flaw. The only thing off about her was a faint seam in her black skin, one that glowed neon blue. The seam followed her jawline and appeared to connect with her eyes.

  As perfect as she was, she wasn’t real. At least, she wasn’t organic.

  “Sleek, beautiful, and strong,” the announcer said.

  The woman made a pose before slipping into a smooth, rhythmic dance. The camera started to encircle her, taking Beth’s vision with it.

  “The all-new StellarTek bodyshell.” As the words were spoken, the company’s logo appeared. “Ask your technician about ‘Perfection’ today.”

  Wow, Beth thought. Those bodyshells are starting to look almost like the real thing.

  Bodyshell technology had come a long way in the last thirty years, she acknowledged. It wasn’t long ago that installed intelligences were confined to computer hard drives, destined to spend years just floating in the vast nothingness of digital subspace. Someone, however, had seen the cruelty in that kind of existence and sought to free the I.I.s. Thus the bodyshell was invented.

  Looking back, it seemed like such an obvious advancement to most people. Giving I.I.s a robotic body that they could occupy was rather simple. No advanced artificial intelligence needed to be coded — no behavior written. They were just empty mechanical shells, like a suit an installed intelligence can slip on in order to step out into the world.

  At first, they were quite rudimentary. They lacked faces or intricate motor functions. They had no toes, and their fingers were simply a pincer. Even their voices came out rather monotone and artificial, clearly from some speaker built into the bodyshell’s head unit rather than from a throat or a mouth. Now, however, they were becoming less and less distinguishable from ordinary humans. If it weren’t for the neon seams or the off-temperature flesh of these newest models, there’d be no way to tell the difference without surgery.