The Tau Directive

by Tomas Black

  Jeremy parked his bike and followed the path to the administrative block to sign in. Security was tight all over the campus. The administrative building was a low, two-storey unit in a horseshoe design, the apex of which looked out over the river. It was constructed primarily of glass and steel and softened by cedar and larch cladding which blended the building into the landscape and echoed the bend in the river which it faced.

  Jeremy had almost made it to the entrance when a security bot pulled up smartly in front of him. It was a two-wheeled cylindrical device, painted yellow and black, that balanced upright on hydraulic haunches, enabling it to move at great speed over any terrain.

  “Morning, Mr Burnett.”

  “Er, morning.”

  “Professor Kovac has requested that you meet him at the circle.”

  “Right. I’m just about to sign in.”

  The bot paused for a few seconds. “No need, I’ve confirmed your scan and signed you in. Have a good day.”

  “Right,” said Jeremy, and watched as the bot sped off along the path, bouncing down some steps towards another building.

  He meandered across the lawn towards the central amphitheatre that residents called the ‘circle’ and found Professor Kovac waiting for him.

  “Hi,” said Jeremy.

  “Thanks for coming,” said Kovac. “We’re in the Linguistics Lab, Block Y. This way.”

  They moved out of the circle and across the lawn towards a long, flat building on the west side of the campus. A security bot trundled past on its way to the front gate, a strange bipedal bee with wheels in place of feet.

  “I still can’t get used to those things,” said Jeremy.

  “Says the undergraduate in Computer Sciences,” said Kovac, smiling. “It saved you a trip to Admin.”

  “I know. It’s just that a person patrolling the grounds is more comforting. Don’t you think so? You can stop and say ‘hi, how’s it going,’ that sort of thing.”

  “The shape of things to come, Jeremy. You’re the generation that will determine what these machines will do. Your work here is contributing to their general intelligence.”

  “I know, but just because we can give a robot enough AI to complete a limited set of functions doesn’t mean we should,” said Jeremy. “Stevie and I were discussing the problem.” He immediately regretted mentioning her name.

  Kovac smiled. “You two seem to have hit it off.”

  Jeremy blushed. “She was all alone at the party. Thought I’d keep her company. She’s interesting.”

  “Of course she is—and very pretty,” said Kovac, winking.

  “Yeah, well … perhaps she’s a little too old for me.”

  Kovac laughed. “Maybe.”

  Jeremy stopped. “Why does she call herself Stevie? Isn’t her name Svetlana?”

  “For the same reason I call myself Andrew. Kovac is a Slavic name. I was christened Andriy. Brought up in Ukraine.”

  “Why change your name?”

  “To fit in, I suppose. For the same reason most of the Chinese students give themselves English names. You don’t think Mr Wang in your tutor group is really called John, do you?”

  “No, I suppose not. Never thought to ask.”

  “You’d probably never be able to pronounce it anyway,” said, Kovac.

  They arrived at Block Y and Kovac stopped just outside. “Listen, Jeremy. You haven’t been speaking to people outside the university about the work we do here?”

  “No, why?”

  “I had a rather unpleasant chat with Salenko this morning. He accused me of speaking to the press. The company is about to float. Do you know what that means?”

  “Er, no. Not really.”

  “Well, I won’t bore you with the details, but it’s a sensitive time for Salenko’s company and any misinformation picked up by the news outlets could have serious consequences. It could put our research here in jeopardy.”

  “I understand, Professor. Mum’s the word.”

  Kovac looked at his young student, then shrugged and used his security key to enter the lab. They walked into a reception area and logged themselves in. The building was a single storey affair like the other buildings on the campus. The interior was panelled with warm cedar that glowed from the low evening sun coming through the full height windows. Several doors led off the reception area to rooms where the linguistic sessions took place.

  “You take zero-one-alpha,” said Kovac, handing Jeremy a sheet of notes. Be sure to ask all the questions and log the responses. They’re recorded anyway but I need your impressions as well. I’ve made some improvements to the neural net, so I’m hoping you’ll get a more nuanced response than the last time.”

  “Will do, Professor,” said Jeremy, taking the notes. “I’ll catch you later.” Kovac nodded and walked off down a corridor.

  Jeremy entered one of the rooms and closed the door. He flipped a switch which turned on a sign outside to show that he was conducting a test and moved to a computer terminal on a small desk in the middle of the room. Apart from a chair behind the desk, the room was devoid of furniture or decoration. The walls were lined with acoustic-dampening pyramids of foam. He took off his coat and hung it over the back of the chair, placing his canvas holdall on the floor. He laid out Kovac’s notes on the desk and reviewed the questions. From the gist of it, Kovac wanted him to make small talk, asking the AI called zero-one-alpha a series of open-ended questions to which there were no right or wrong answers. It was a more sophisticated form of the Turing test, first devised by Alan Turing back in the nineteen-forties. What Turing would have given for the computing power of one mobile phone back then, he mused.

  He tapped the computer keyboard and the monitor came to life revealing a simple menu. He moved the mouse over the menu and selected ‘Activate’.

  “Good afternoon,” said a voice.

  Jeremy jumped. He was always unprepared when the program started speaking. The voice was piped through high-fidelity speakers set in the walls and sounded warm and melodic.

  “Sorry, did I scare you?”

  Jeremy calmed himself and shuffled his papers. “What makes you think I was scared?”

  There was a slight pause before the program answered. “I detected an increase in your heart rate.”

  Jeremy was surprised. “You can detect my heartbeat?”

  “Yes, it is a good indicator of mood.”

  “I see,” said Jeremy, thinking he was going off-topic. “Let’s begin.”

  There was silence.

  “Right, then. I’m driving my car down the road—”

  “Where are we?” said the program.

  “What do you mean?”

  “What road?”

  “It doesn’t matter. It’s a public road.”

  Silence.

  “I turn into a car park and my brakes fail.”

  Silence.

  “Are you still there?” asked Jeremy.

  “Yes, I am waiting for the question.”

  “Right. My brakes fail.”

  “They have failed twice?” said the program.

  “Right, no. I’m repeating myself. Please wait for the question.”

  Silence.

  “I have a split second to react. If I swerve to the right, I risk hitting a mother with her small child; if I swerve to the left, I risk hitting a man in a wheelchair; if I do nothing, I risk hitting a wall and injuring myself.”

  Silence.

  “What action should I take?” asked Jeremy.

  There was a protracted silence. Kovac had made it clear not to repeat the question but to wait for the program to reply. Zero-one-alpha said nothing. Jeremy looked at his watch and sighed. He had a whole sheet of these questions to get through before the end of the session. He could be in a bar in town with his friends—perhaps with Stevie. Was she too old for him or was he just making excuses?

  “Are you ok?” said the program.

  “Yes, why?”

  “Your heart rate has increased again.”


  “Can you please answer the question,” replied Jeremy, now getting annoyed. And to think this program could be driving a car. He wondered what he would do.

  “How old is the car?” replied zero-one-alpha.

  Jeremy looked at his notes. There was no mention of the car’s age.

  “I have no details of the make or age of the car,” said Jeremy, thinking it was a good question.

  There was a slight pause before the program answered. “I would not do anything.”

  Jeremy consulted his notes once more. He now had to enter the analysis phase of question and answer. “Analysis, please.”

  “It is reasonable to assume that the car is fitted with safety devices, such as airbags, to reduce a frontal impact. You have entered the car park. It is reasonable to assume your vehicle speed would be below twenty mph. Therefore, the risk of personal injury would be low. This compares favourably with the other two options where there is a higher risk of injury to people. Analysis ends.”

  Not bad, thought Jeremy. Its logic was flawless. He noted down his observations and looked at his watch. It was only six o’clock. He still had time to call Stevie and invite her for a drink. She could only say no. He picked up his bag and found his phone. He hesitated. There were strict rules about making calls inside the labs. He moved to the door and looked outside. The reception area was empty. He returned to the desk and dialled Stevie’s number. She answered on the first ring.

  “Hi Stevie, it’s Jeremy.”

  “Hi.”

  “I was wondering if you want to meet for a drink—down by the river?”

  “Listen, Jeremy. It’s sweet of you, but I must finish this dissertation. Another time.”

  Jeremy was about to respond when she hung up. That went well, he thought. Perhaps he was being foolish thinking she would be interested in him. For all he knew, she was already involved with someone. He was about to put his phone away when he noticed his wi-fi had turned on.

  “Don’t feel bad, Jeremy,” said a voice.

  Jeremy sat up, startled. Blast, he’d left the program running. But it didn’t sound like zero-one-alpha. It had a mellow tone with a different modulation, soft and feminine. Jeremy looked at his phone, which had now lit up like a Christmas tree. “Deactivate, zero-one alpha,” he said, trying to turn his phone off, but without success.

  The stranger persisted. “Stevie is struggling with something, I can hear it in her voice. She is afraid. You must help her, Jeremy.”

  CHAPTER TEN

  Alex Fern

  Alex Fern woke early. She picked up her phone from the nightstand and groaned when she saw the time. It was only 5.30am in New York and she was dreading another day of close protection detail to some Wall Street slime ball that Delaney had saddled her with. Sleep now evaded her so she rose naked from the king-size bed of her hotel room in downtown Manhattan and crossed to the window. She pulled up the blind to watch the sunrise over the Brooklyn Bridge, casting its orange glow onto the Hudson below.

  She wondered what she was doing here. She had always wanted to work in Manhattan and had jumped at the chance when Delaney had offered her a position at the prestigious Roderick Olivier and Delaney. Her colleagues in London had thought her mad. She was giving up a fifteen-year career in the police force which had started in the London Met and had culminated in Britain’s National Crime Agency where she had reached the giddy height of Commander. But last year’s episode with Omega had left her feeling jaded towards her government’s handling of the case. How easily they had pushed her aside. She didn’t pretend to understand the complexity of the politics at the heart of Omega or the national security implications, but if it hadn’t been for the intervention of the DOJ and ROD then the whole sordid affair would have been brushed under the carpet and buried.

  And then there was Ben Drummond.

  She sighed and headed for the shower. She ran the water hot and stood there letting the jets prick her skin like hot needles. What was it about Drum that made her anxious? They both seemed to skirt around each other, neither one ready to commit. Her mind drifted back to their last encounter. Another city beside another river. Their last kiss—soft and forgiving. A kiss goodbye. You have too many secrets, Ben Drummond.

  Enough of this, she thought. I’ve made my bed. She shut off the shower and grabbed a large towel from the rack. At least she was staying in a decent hotel. She wrapped the towel around herself and headed back into the bedroom. The truth was, she missed him. Manhattan can be a lonely city when you’re on your own. Sure, her ROD co-workers were great, and she had Harry, another Brit, to help her navigate life in the city. But the man she had feelings for was three thousand miles away. Oh, damn it.

  She picked up her phone and dialled Drum’s mobile. It rang for nearly a minute. He’ll think I’m desperate, she thought. She was both relieved and pleased to hear his voice.

  “Fern. You’re up early.”

  She smiled but noted a tone in his voice. She wondered if something had happened. “I’m on a job. Close protection to some Wall Street type. Listen, Drum—what’s that noise?”

  “Sorry, I’m on the DLR. Pulling into Tower Gateway. How’s it going?”

  She sighed. “Oh, you know … listen, about the other day. Sorry I snapped at you. I was just disappointed you weren't coming over.”

  There was a pause. “I’m sorry too, Fern. This case I’m on … it’s turned into a real nightmare. Perhaps we can talk later?”

  “Sure, sure. No problem.”

  “Listen, Fern. Be safe.”

  “You too,” she said, hanging up.

  She placed the phone on the nightstand and flopped back onto the bed. This long-distance thing was a pain in the arse. There was a knock at the door. She sat up, suddenly alert. Who on earth could that be? She crossed to the door and spied through the peephole. A short, stocky man in a hotel bathrobe was standing outside. Oh no, she thought. I don’t need this. She cracked open the door.

  “Mr Adamo. Is everything alright?”

  “Morning, Alex. I couldn’t sleep. Can I come in?”

  She kept her foot against the door and hoisted up her sagging towel. “Err, no, Mr Adamo. Now is not a good time. We’re not scheduled to meet until seven.”

  He shuffled uncomfortably in his white bathrobe, looking surreptitiously up and down the corridor. “I know and please call me Roc. Can I come in? I’d like to discuss the arrangements for today.”

  She forced a smile. “I don’t think that would be a good idea, Mr Adamo. Go back to your room and I’ll pick you up at seven for breakfast as we arranged.”

  His brows narrowed. “Just let me in for a few minutes. I only want to talk—” He tried to push the door open but Fern’s impressive physique kept it firmly in place.

  “Now, now, Mr Adamo. We don’t want to get off on the wrong foot, do we?” She gave him a stern look.

  He took a step back. “Fine. I’ll see you at seven,” and he stomped off down the corridor.

  Fern closed the door and breathed a sigh of relief. She was already dreading this assignment. Why Delaney had agreed to take on this guy was beyond her. All she knew was that Roc Adamo had made a few enemies as a short seller in the market where he bet on a company’s stock falling. Of course, Adamo made sure he dished the dirt on these companies at every opportunity by writing libellous articles in various publications. It was rumoured that several well-connected people had put a contract out on him. She didn’t blame them. But her job was to keep him alive, or at least unmolested, until the end of the week when he would become someone else’s problem.

  She dressed in a grey suit and sensible shoes, which for her meant flats; at just over one metre eighty or six foot three, as her American friends would say, heels were out of the question. She already towered over the squat Adamo, which made them an unlikely couple when seen together. Her last piece of adornment was her Glock 17, which she wore concealed under her jacket. She looked in the mirror and gave her short, blonde hair a quick brus
h before heading out of the door and along the corridor.

  She stopped a few doors down. Adamo had a corner suite. She checked the coast was clear and rapped on the door several times as arranged. Adamo appeared promptly and gave her a perfunctory nod. She was relieved to see he had dressed. He was wearing his customary brown, double-breasted suit. They headed for the elevator with Fern striding ahead and Adamo marching at double-time to keep up. They stopped and Fern pressed ‘down’. The elevator bank was always a high-risk area when protecting a principal. You never knew if the next elevator car to arrive contained a threat.

  “I’m sorry about this morning,” said Adamo, looking sheepishly down at his shoes.

  “No harm, no foul,” said Fern, looking up and down the corridor. A maid had come out of a room pushing a trolley loaded with towels and toiletries and was walking their way. Fern moved to put herself between the maid and Adamo.

  “I don’t know what came over me,” continued Adamo.

  I do, thought Fern. “Could you take a step back, you’re crowding me.”

  “Sure, sure.”

  The maid was coming straight for them, ignoring the service elevator.

  “It’s just that—”

  The maid was speeding up and reaching for something between the towels. The elevator announced its arrival with a loud chime. Fern grabbed hold of Adamo’s padded shoulder and drew her gun.

  “Alex, what—”

  The maid let go of the trolley which continued to roll towards them and brought up a gun with a fitted suppressor. Fern glanced sideways as the elevator doors opened and shoved Adamo hard, sending him crashing into the empty car and onto the floor. She threw herself against the opposite wall as the maid fired, the round going wide of its mark and tearing into the wall by the elevator car. The maid swung around for another shot. Too late. Fern fired twice, hitting her in the shoulder and chest. The maid spun around and crumpled to the floor, blood blossoming crimson on her bleached white smock.

  CHAPTER ELEVEN

  Duty Calls

  Drum was sprinting. He had reached the Angel pub at the end of Bermondsey Wall when his phone buzzed.