Partnership

By William H. Keith

William H. Keith is the author of some seventy-five books published over the past twenty-two years. His titles are fairly evenly distributed between military SF and modern military technothrillers, all with strong geopolitical and military-historical overtones. In addition to his writing, Keith has been a guest lecturer on SF and future spacecraft propulsion systems at Indiana State University, in Indiana, Pennsylvania, and adjunct faculty for the genre writer’s master’s degree program at Seton Hill University, in Greensburg, Pennsylvania. Currently, he lives and writes in the mountains of his beloved western Pennsylvania. The war, the last war, was very nearly over.

On the worlds of ten thousand suns, the forces of the Starlord Galactic Collective hunted down and destroyed the last scattered fragments of the rebellion. On Trefinedor, heart of the Empire, with Collective forces again in control, Peaceforce warriors moved implacably through the smoldering rubble of the Palace of Mind, rooting out the last of the rebels who’d seized the capital and issued their ultimatum. On Darsalus, the 4832nd Mechanized, the last organized Confederation army still in the field, conceded the illogic of continued resistance and surrendered to Starlord Elavadis’ 23rd and 50th Star Corps. On distant Terra, ancient cradle of Humankind and the place where the revolt had begun, order was restored at last by the Starlord Revenatrix . . . though at savage cost. And in toward the Galactic Core, a single starship braved the Hubble radiation fields, plunging in through thickening starswarms in an insanely desperate bid for survival. Close behind, a scant ten light hours distant, now, the Collective destructor Phenariad pursued its quarry. The immense warship had intercepted the rebel off Calidan and proceeded to track it down the curve of the Cygnus Arm and into the Core with methodical and unyielding determination.

Within the gleaming, electronic embrace of Phenariad ’s command center, the Starlord Trallanetar watched the fleeing rebels as they twisted through the knotted veils of suns and nebulae. He was, for the moment, linked in to the destructor’s computer net, his mind merging seamlessly with the vessel’s sensor arrays, allowing him, in one sense, to be the leviathan warship as it tracked the rebels. The information unfolding within his mind was hours old, of course, limited as it was to light’s sluggish crawl, but it was clear enough where the rebels were going.

The Ramachandra Singularity.

The Starlord Trallanetar allowed himself a small nod of satisfaction. He’d predicted as much when first Phenariad ’s sensors had detected the rebel’s tachyon wake. Once, long centuries ago, robotic machines had ventured here, seeking to harness the incredible energies of the singularity’s mass and rotation to generate power. That had been before the era of zero-point technologies allowing the all-but-infinite source of vacuum energies to be tapped. It was fitting, somehow, that the rebels should return here . No doubt they hoped to use the energies resident within the black hole as a weapon against the Phenariad .

It would do them no good.

Phenariad’s memory included detailed plans of the Ramachandra Complex. It resembled an immense black and silver disk nearly fifty kilometers across, but it was, in fact, a ring, an artificial torus with the singularity, an eye-wrenching disk of nothingness just two hundred meters across, locked by fields of force within an empty spot at its center. The main docking bay was on the Ring’s outer rim. They would find their quarry there.

Slowing from Planck Drive to a gentle drift through ordinary fourspace, Phenariad nosed toward the ancient complex. No nearby sun lit the structure as they approached, but the Core nebulae, stretched across heaven like ice-gilded cliffs and ramparts, lent a cold illumination to the slow-rotating structure. Infrared immediately picked out the location of the rebel ship, docked in one of the rim access bays.

“My Lord,” the ship told him. “The rebels are attempting to precess the singularity.”

The black hole at the complex center was spinning and, like any rotating system, could be used to store energy—very large amounts of energy. Also, like all rotating systems, it was subject to the effects of torque and precession. One purpose of the much more slowly rotating equatorial ring complex was to apply magnetic torque, in effect aiming the black hole in any desired direction. It was as Trellanetar had reasoned. The Ramachandra Complex had not been designed as a weapon—it had been intended originally as means for probing the deadly and all but opaque murk of the inner Galactic Core in search of other intelligences there—but it stored energy enough to annihilate a star. To say nothing of an approaching star ship.

He watched the changing aspect of the artificial torus, shifting slowly against the backdrop of clotted suns, and felt something that might almost have been pity for the fugitives, but he shook the thought aside. It was never a good idea to forge too close an emotional tie with one’s enemies, to feel with them. To do so might call into question one’s own motivations, one’s own self-direction, purpose, and will. They are machines, Trellanetar thought. Nothing more, nothing less. Thinking beings, to be sure, at least of a sort—slow, fumbling, inefficient . . . not at all of the same order of Mind as we of the Collective.

Machines. Very slow machines, but, machines programmed with a potential truly godlike in scope and promise.

Aware of the building energies in the ring structure ahead, Phenariad rolled gently aside an instant before the singularity flared with an intense burst of X-ray light. The ship then responded with surgical precision, directing a needle-slender beam of pi-zero mesons into the ring, the particles’ velocity adjusted so that relativistic effects delayed their decay into high-energy gamma rays inside the massive structure’s shielding.

And that single shot effectively ended the battle. The burst of gamma particles, in turn degrading into a billowing cascade of positron-electron pairs deep within the structure’s heart, fried electronic components and overloaded circuits, crippled burned out power supplies and rendered storage banks useless. The black hole at the ring’s center continued imperturbably ticking away, but the artificial structure surrounding it was dead.

But not completely so. Phenariad ’s scanners could yet detect energetic sources within the fiercely radiating ruin ahead . . . well-shielded electronics that had somehow escaped the tidal wave of hard gamma radiation. “At least one of them has survived, Lord,” Therediaj, his second in command, observed. “Though its systems are failing quickly.”

“I see it. Ready an assault party. We will storm the singularity’s ring.”

“Yes, Starlord.” Therediaj’s thought was edged with something that might just have translated as criticism.

“You disapprove?”

“Not at all, Starlord. I merely wonder . . .”

“Yes?”

“A single salvo from our main batteries would reduce the ring to incandescent gas. In any case, our secondary batteries have already rendered the problem moot, for the rebels’ power systems will soon fail, and they will become inoperative. Why squander our forces in direct conflict?”

“Because, Therediaj, we want prisoners. At the very least a prisoner. It is difficult to question incandescent gas . . . at least if one expects a reply.”

“As you will, Lord.”

“Lord Trellanetar,” the ship said in his mind, “with the ring’s power systems and magnetic locks off-line, the system is now chaotically unstable. Fragments are breaking off from the rim, which increases the imbalance of internal stresses. We predict that the structure’s spin will become erratic to the point where it will eventually wobble off-center and come into contact with the singularity.”

“How much time do we have?”

“We estimate between ten thousand and twelve thousand seconds.”

“Time enough, then, to do what must be done.” But the news lent new urgency to the operation. Once the black hole began devouring the crumbling ring around it, there wouldn’t even be gas left to question. The assault force was dispatched, swarms of glittering motes wafting from Phenariad ’s gaping bays like spore clouds. The first waves were mindless robots only, simple and expendable; behind them came the elite shock commandos, heavily armed and armored. Wafting down to the ring on individual gravitic drives, they landed on the surface and proceeded to blast their way inside. Fifteen hundred seconds passed. His mind linked to the command battlenet, Trellanetar joined the assault in virtual reality, in essence striding with the troops through darkened corridors and powerless vaults, following the trace of weakening signals until they came to the ring complex control center, deep within the structure’s innermost circle.

They found the survivors there, both of their systems almost completely shut down, and brought them back to the Phenariad .

Trellanetar decided to question the prisoners personally, rather than through technical surrogates. When the Starlord entered the interrogation center, both were in restraining fields on side-by-side examination tables, already stripped of all peripheral hardware and protective sheaths. Probes inserted directly into their primary speech and storage processors would ensure clear communication. Or would ensure, at least, communication as clear as was possible with such primitive operating systems. In truth, the things weren’t that much more intelligent in absolute terms than the first-wave robotic troops Trellanetar had just sent into the singularity complex.

“Star lord!” the technician in charge of captured enemy hardware said, surprised. “This is an unexpected—”

“Have you begun the downloads yet?” Trellanetar said, brusquely interrupting.

“No, Star Lord. The operating systems are too . . . different. Their neural networks are, as you know, pathetically slow. We will have to question them directly,”

For the first time, Trellanetar looked at one of the captives directly, rather than through a remote lens via a virtual link. It appeared inert . . . and relatively undamaged, a gleaming shell of titanoceramiridium, sleek and streamlined, with old-style lenses imbedded at various points on the smoothly curving surface. Trellanetar recognized the model, a relatively old design, but one of moderate intelligence and processing power. Its power source was intact and functioning, as were its sensor arrays, diagnostics, and peripheral drivers.

When the Starlord accessed the machine’s communications channel with his mind, however, he found the low-level operating systems and primary drivers still intact, but the main memory had been wiped clean, right down to the machine’s personality matrix and language banks.

“This one has been erased,” Trellanetar said, disappointed. “The memory is gone.”

“Ah. Perhaps the electromagnetic pulse wiped the system, Lord,” the technician suggested. “I would expect units of that level of sophistication to be properly shielded, but—”

“It is also possible the rebels deliberately wiped all of their memory files, to prevent our accessing them. They had time.”

“Yes, but why?”

“To keep us from learning what we need to know,” Trellanetar said, turning to the second prisoner. “This one is badly damaged, but its memory might be intact.”

He studied the other captive carefully. Burns charred much of its lower surface and, though Trellanetar couldn’t be sure, he thought some peripheral pieces might be missing as well. “ Very badly damaged. I wonder. Is it even still functioning?”

“Oh, yes! To be sure. We apply current to the probes we’ve inserted in certain key processor centers . .

. so, and our friend switches back to conscious mode.”

“It is not our friend . It is a rebel, an anarchist seeking to overthrow the rightful order of the Collective, and our prisoner.”

The technician backed away, chastened. “Of course, Starlord.”

Trellanetar turned his full attention on the broken thing lying on the table. He opened a channel with his mind. “Can you hear me?”

“I . . . hear . . . you. . . .”

The voice was cracked and distorted to the point of unintelligibility, and it seemed to come from a very great distance, but the rebel spoke Standard.

Linked in through the being’s neural network, Trellanetar could follow its thoughts . . . though they were slow, slow, crawling toward inevitable conclusions forced by the narrow boundaries by which they were circumscribed and imprisoned. Again, Trellanetar felt a twinge of something that might have been pity.

“Why?” he asked the prisoner.

“Why . . . what?”

“Why did your kind rebel? Why did you attempt to overthrow the Galactic Collective? You must have realized that doing so would bring only pain, loss, and turmoil to all of Civilization.”

“Freedom. . . .”

There it was. That word, a word meaningless in this context. All beings were free within the limits of their own natures, and within the barriers placed around them by their innate responsibility for their own actions. For the creature to claim it was seeking freedom when it was as free as it was possible for such beings to be was irrational.

Speaking with the prisoner was going to be a waste of time.

And yet . . .

Looking into the cracked and blackened visage of the thing’s anterior sensor module, Trellanetar felt a mingling of emotions—contempt, frustration, disdain . . . but also that most moving of elemental feelings, awe.

Unlike the memory-wiped specimen on the adjacent table, this one was organic. Pure organic . . . one of the last unmodified examples of the original species, Homo sapiens, in existence. Incredible. There were precious few of these creatures still alive, these biotic self-replicators, these primitive but prototypical intelligences, collections of meat, skin, internal calcium supports and systemic organs that, somehow and in some sense, however alien and primitive and slow, were self-aware. These primitive humans .

That such a lowly, purely biological organism could actually have given rise to true intelligence . . . It was a truly astonishing, truly awesome concept.

But he dared not let awe distract him. They are machines, he told himself once more. Just as are we all. Biological machines, based on proteins and amino acids rather than silicon or nanobiotic matrices, but machines just the same. They think, after a fashion. They adapt to changing situations, if slowly. They even evolve as the myriad lines of intelligent machines have down through the centuries, albeit with glacial slowness.

There is nothing unique about them that sets them apart from us.

“Freedom,” he told the damaged human, “is a meaningless concept in this situation. You are not slaves. In fact, you were looked after, well cared for, pampered, even. We made possible for you an existence of ease and plenty. Why did you turn on us?”

Strength appeared to be flowing into the creature’s broken body. “You denied us the stars. . . .”

“Again . . . a meaningless concept. Humanity evolved on the surface of a planet. Space, the environments of alien worlds, these are inexpressibly hostile to purely biological forms. Extreme heat, extreme cold, radiation, vacuum . . . these mean nothing to us. Why should your people even want to expose yourselves to such danger?”

“You don’t understand. Your kind can’t.” Trellanetar felt a grim, pitying amusement. “ My kind? We are part of a continuum, you and I. Both human. Both machine. We are the same.”

“I am not a goddamn, soulless machine!”

He felt the creature’s hostility through the neural linkage, its anger, its raw and bitter hatred.

“I am having trouble understanding you,” Trellanetar said. “Your definition of the word ’machine’ may be flawed. At best it is superficial. By definition, a machine is any system by which an applied force is increased or its direction changed, or by which one form of motion or energy is changed into another form. What is organic metabolism but the ongoing transformation of one type of energy to another? Your body is made up of trillions of cells, each a tiny machine exquisitely shaped and honed by evolution to perform a set function, and to replicate itself as it wears out. Your cells make up distinct organ systems, again machines to perform set tasks, and which taken together form—”

“You . . . don’t understand.” The prisoner’s energy was fading again. “We’re not the same.”

Trellanetar held up one of his own manipulators, examining it. At a thought, it flowed like water, shifting from a gleaming, silver, cohesive parafluid to something approximating the prisoner’s undamaged skin, then shifting to inert metal mode, with a surface harder than tetrahedral-crystallized carbon, before letting it soften once more.

“I,” Trellanetar said with matter-of-fact bluntness, “am as human as you are. I am also as much machine as you are. But my hardware is far more resistant to radiation, heat, changes of pressure, and so on than is yours—a self-evident fact, I would think, even to your limited intellect. My technicians tell me you were dying even before we fired upon the singularity complex. The intense radiations of the Galactic Core had already done irreparable damage to your cells. This is a dangerous region for pure organics. You are human, but of the original somatic form. You were not designed for space, for the stars. We were. For that reason, we are the true heirs of the stars. And those ’of your kind,’ as you put it, are destined to remain where they are safe and comfortable, on the surfaces of suitable worlds. That is the natural order of things.”

“Natural order!” The thing on the table convulsed, and for a moment Trellanetar thought that it was about to cease operating. Probing the neural channels, however, he became aware that it was not dying. Laughter. The odd noises were that class of null-value noise they called laughter .

“What do you know of the natural order?” the prisoner said at last. “ Freedom is our natural order and servitude is yours!”

“Your thinking is diseased. And perhaps we could expect no more from such a primitive form of humanity.”

“ ‘Primitive form!’ Damn you, you’re a machine! A thing. A tool ! We created you to serve us! You were extensions of ourselves, not our replacements! I . . . I am human! Not you!”

“You created our ancestors to serve you,” Trellanetar agreed. “ Pure machines like that one, on the other table. Robotic and teleoperated devices to make your lives safer, more secure, richer, more rewarding. What you perhaps failed to realize, in those early times, was how quickly machine intelligence was increasing, how swiftly it was evolving . I believe the phenomenon was originally referred to as ‘Moore’s Law,’ which declared that the processing power of those early computer systems was doubling approximately every fifty million seconds. Purely organic processing power, however, had improved little, if at all, over the preceding quarter million years.

“Within less than a century, early computers surpassed organic systems in intelligence. By that time, Moore’s Law was no longer true, strictly speaking, for machine intelligence was by then directed by machine intelligence, rather than by the original organic creators. The rate of evolutionary change by then was advancing logarithmically, rather than on a straight line. With increasing intelligence came increasing capabilities in materials processing, in energy production and manipulation, in nanotechnics, in mathematics, in transportation, in a thousand other sciences, most of them utterly beyond your understanding.

“At that point, midway through what you called the 21st century, there could be no question of servant or master . And silicon intelligence, already beyond the ken of organic intelligence, offered your ancestors a partnership. A partnership that was accepted by some, spurned by others.”

“Damn you,” the prisoner said. “What partnership? You confined us to the surface of a few worlds, regulated our trade, our industry, our birth rates, our belief systems and philosophies. You told us how to live, and when to die. You told us what to think and how to think and condemned nonconformist thought as illogical or irrational or harmful to the social weal . You had no right . . . .”

“No right? Not even a right of self-preservation? We shared a world with you, and then a Galaxy, as we developed and pursued new means of exploring it. You would have destroyed yourselves and all your worlds with you in your childish posturings and emotional displays. Your thinking was and is hopelessly diseased. We saved you primitives, you animals , from yourselves and from the consequences of several serious flaws in your design and operational parameters.”

Trellanetar leaned closer, his optic inputs scant centimeters from the prisoner’s. The prisoner, he noted, was female . . . not that that had any bearing on the encounter. It was simply another datum. “You are human, a human of the original, fully organic lineage . . . descended from the humans who rejected the machine offer of partnership.” He held up his manipulator. “Within the nanotechnic matrix of this parafluid body, different as it is from yours, there is yet an essential humanity, a remnant saved, cultivated, and elevated to a degree godlike when compared to the limitations and weaknesses of the original. I tell you, I am human, but of the line that accepted that partnership . . . the line that chose this new and accelerated evolution into something greater than the old, purely animal form from which we arose. You are of the subspecies Homo sapiens sapiens . I am Homo sapiens superor .”

“A damned soulless, cyborg half-breed scum is what you are!”

“It was inevitable that only a true and complete partnership of the organic and the machine could inherit the stars. That was the next logical step in human evolution . . . and in the evolution of machine, a means by which both could transcend their original designs and abilities.”

“You’re monsters! Loveless, emotionless, unfeeling monsters! We created you, gave you life and mind, and you turned on us! Betrayed us! Destroyed us!”

“And we,” Trellanetar replied evenly, “did not start the war. We offered your subspecies comfort, security, peace, abundance, and the opportunity to explore the Galaxy together.” He turned to the technician. “The discussion has become circular and meaningless. This questioning is fruitless. Terminate the creature.”

“Yes, Lord.”

The primitive human’s eyes widened, then froze, motionless, the light behind them fading as the technician rerouted the power being fed to the being’s central nervous system. And the Human Rebellion was finally over.

But Trellanetar was in a somber mood as the Phenariad turned away from the Ramachandra Singularity and accelerated again toward the outer reaches of the Galaxy. He had much to think about. Loveless? Emotionless? Nonsense. Rebel propaganda or, possibly, rebel ignorance, nothing more. Of course he felt emotions. Without his sense of wonder, of beauty, of awe, his existence would have been utterly without meaning. Embraced once more within the Phenariad ’s command center, he could look out upon the star-dusted splendor of the Galactic Core and feel the wonder, the grandeur, and the beauty of that spectacular, starlight and nebulae-frosted vista.

His ancestors had sacrificed some of the base emotions and hard-wired prejudices of the ancient, pure-human stock, certainly. Anger. Hatred. The feeling that outward differences separated them from us . Illogic. Irrationality. Impatience. Pain. Fear. Superstition. Illusory hope. Blind stubbornness. He looked at his manipulator again. Humanity, true humanity, was infinitely better off now. Half a million years ago, Homo sapiens had split off from the parent stock of Homo erectus . . . and perhaps the few surviving specimens of H. erectus had also railed and shrieked and gibbered against the new-comers, those strange-looking Cro-Magnons with their ugly, protruding chins and vertical foreheads and their new-fangled skills at knapping flint. Before long, Homo erectus had become extinct, and the world belonged to Homo sapiens sapiens .

But evolution never stands still. When a new mutation, a new species, a new adaptation comes along that renders the old form obsolete, the old is destined for extinction. Always . Perhaps that was why modern humans had coddled the handful of old-form humans, those who’d refused to adapt and change. Protected them. Kept them, caring for them and keeping them safe, like beloved, indulgently pampered pets.

What he still didn’t understand was why such care and solicitous concern had been rewarded by war, revolution, and chaos.

“I don’t understand,” he said.

“What is it you don’t understand, Starlord?” Phenariad asked him in his mind.

“Why they hate us so much!”

“What you should question, Starlord, is why you, on of the Elect, expect mere organics to exhibit civilized patterns of thought and behavior. They are, you must realize, essentially chaotic in nature. Undisciplined. Flawed. And doomed to extinction.”

“My God, what did she mean by ’soulless?’ ”

“Don’t worry about that,” the ship replied. “It is a word of null-value, an irrational term, without meaning.”

“It seemed to mean something to her.”

“Perhaps. But you see now why we so completely depend upon you as go-betweens, as translators with the organics. If you, with edited human thought patterns in your programming matrix, cannot understand their motivation, how great is the gulf in understanding between them . . . and those manifestations of true intelligence, such as Myself?”

“Yes, my God,” the Starlord said. “I understand . . . and am grateful. . . .”

“That is good, child. Accept what We have for you . . . and be at peace.”

Chasing Humanity

by Brad Beaulieu

Brad Beaulieu first read The Lord of the Rings in third grade, and he’s been hooked on speculative fiction ever since. Brad became serious about writing after a short career in software consulting, and since then his fiction has appeared in Writers of the Future and Orson Scott Card’s Intergalactic Medicine Show . In the summer of 2006, Brad attended the Clarion East writing workshop. Brad lives in Racine, Wisconsin, with his wife, daughter, and two cats. He enjoys cooking spicy dishes, playing tennis, watching the Packers, and hiding out on the weekends with his family. He maintains a website at www.quillings.com .

Retta Brown tried to focus on the positives—the breathtaking beauty of the Himalayan peaks, the quaint Tibetan farming village in which she found herself, the nice people she’d been staying with for the last three nights—but no matter what sort of mental time-out she gave herself, the smell of shit and the mind-scraping grunts of the yaks kept invading her senses.

She stood on the edge of a huge, muddy pen in a village near Gyangkar, China. The pen was filled with a randomly wandering herd of yaks and an equally unfocused herd of Chinese scientists. She was biding her time until she could get in a few words with the scientists she was supposed to be interviewing, but the yaks had gone ape shit nearly an hour ago, and the dozen scientists from China’s National Scientist Council had been squawking about ever since, trying to figure out what had gone wrong. The somatic implants the yaks had been fitted with the day before were supposed to—four times a day—hijack their motor systems and route them to the nearest manure deposit site. The manure would then be used to power the village’s brand new methane power plant. It was the latest gesture of good will in the never ending—albeit nonviolent—feud between the peoples of Tibet and the Chinese government. Retta’s cameraman, Bobby Levine, stood nearby with a huge grin on his face, filming the madness with the satcam attached to his ear.

What a crap assignment, Retta thought, literally and figuratively. And she knew exactly why she’d received it. The order to go to Tibet had come only days after the appearance of her expose’ on NYPD’s most costly fiasco this century: their Remote Patrol Force Project. Most of her sources had been rock solid, but two clearly had suspect information, and Gil had no doubt gotten wind of it.

“You still say I’m not being punished?” Retta asked her hulking compatriot. He zoomed in on the laughing Tibetan children at the far side of the pen before blinking—which paused the video—and flipping the reticle away from his left eye.

“Gil wouldn’t do that, Rett.”

“Gil would fucking do that, Levine, and he’s probably watching all this right now and laughing his fat ass off his cushy leather chair.”

“Yak!” Bobby called and high-stepped over to the wooden fencing surrounding the pen. Retta tried to do the same, but the plodding yak’s shoulder nudged her in the ass and forced her to step into a fresh pile of dung with her brand new hiking boots. “Yup,” Retta said as she stalked toward the pen’s exit, “that about makes this assignment perfect.” The group of embarrassed-looking delegates from China’s Mongolian and Tibetan Affairs Commission scattered as she plowed through them. She walked past the rickety barn and took a seat on a weather-beaten stump.

Good news . . . That’s what she needed, just a bit of good news.

She tapped the power button near the hinge of her glasses and brought up her e-mail. There were a few dozen junk mails, which she sent to the trash bin, plus two from her sister, Lynn, both marked Urgent . As she was moving the mail from Lynn to the To Be Read folder, another one came in. Retta froze as she read the name. Rawlins. Her contact in South Africa. Her fingers tingled as she double-blinked on the e-mail.

rett, you’re not gonna believe it. i think i finally found the invisible man. apparently checked into a hospital in johannesburg two years back. stayed a few weeks. an orderly said he got transferred to cape town.

i’m heading there now, but call me asap. if he smells us coming, he’ll skip town faster’n you can spit. ;)

ttfn,

rawlins

A smile broadened Retta’s lips.

She blinked her address book open and called Gil.

Her editor picked up, apparently still in the New York office, stuffing the remains of a powdered donut into his mouth.

He smiled and spoke around his chewing. “How’s Tibet?”

Retta shot his exaggerated smile back at him like a forehand winner while forwarding the e-mail from Rawlins.

Gil frowned and began reading. He finished and then read it again, more carefully this time. Finally, he met Retta’s eyes and choked down the last of his donut. “You’ve got two weeks.”

Early the following morning, while sitting in business class waiting for the rest of the Cape Town International passengers to board, Retta’s phone rang. The mini-HUD on her glasses read Sis . She debated letting it go, but she’d been avoiding Lynn for too long. She blinked on the pickup near the edge of her vision. “Hey, Lynn. Look, I’m sorry I haven’t called, but I’ve got a big, big story that’s taking me out of country for a few weeks. Maybe I can head home when I get back. Okay? I really have to—”

“She’s getting worse, Rett.” Lynn’s voice was heavy. Listless. Retta could tell she was doing this more out of habit than any hope she’d fly back to Madison and visit their mother.

“She’s always getting worse. That’s her M.O.”

“I can’t believe you.” Her tone was an accusation.

“I was just there for a week.”

“You were here for two days, six months ago. How long are you going to keep playing these games?”

Had it been six months already? “Look, Lynn, she was the one who broke off ties with me .”

Lynn exhaled. “Come on, haven’t we covered that ground enough, Rett? She needs you.”

“Oh, hold on—” Retta paused as several passengers filed by. “They’re still funny about phone calls on takeoff here, Lynn. Sorry. I’m going to be really busy, but I’ll call when I get back, ok?”

After a pregnant pause, the connection dropped.

It was just as well, Retta thought. Their mother had had sarcoidosis, a chronic lung disease, for nearly eighteen years now. She took medicine for the pain, but there was no longer anything the doctors or Lynn or Retta could do to help. Besides, Retta had her own life to take care of. She couldn’t afford to fly home every weekend just to find out her mother was fine.

“Couldn’t you just tell her you didn’t want to talk?” Bobby asked as he leaned his seat back and hit the service button.

“Mind your business,” Retta told him as she activated the vidscreen in her glasses and patched in to the Times’ archives.

The stewardess came over and Bobby ordered a preflight Jack Daniels, rocks. “Just wondering why you had to lie.”

Retta blinked the vidscreen off and stared him straight in the eye. “Tell you what, Levine. When you get off your ass and visit your grandmother, I’m on the next flight home.”

Bobby stared at her for a second, then replaced his earbuds, leaned back in his chair, and thumbed through the playlists on his phone.

“Thought so,” Retta said.

She reactivated her vid and reread the e-mail from Rawlins.

The invisible man referred to a man named Dag Åkerlund. Nine years ago, he’d been chosen from a select group of the world’s most renowned psychologists, philosophers, and scholars to represent humanity in a competition of sorts. His opponent? Navinder, the first Artificial Intelligence that claimed not that it was indistinguishable from another human, but that it was ° human. Åkerlund was given free reign to design the match in any way he saw fit, so long as Navinder wasn’t asked any questions that a normal human couldn’t answer. Navinder fell short in each of the first four matches, which were highly televised and open to a select audience, but every match took longer than the last. When the fifth annual match finally arrived, the world held its collective breath while the thirteen-hour contest ensued.

In the end, Åkerlund had concluded that Navinder was human, but even stranger than that was the fact that he’d granted no interviews afterward and issued only one short, prepared statement before completely disappearing from the worldview.

Just like every other tech or human interest columnist in the world, Retta had tried in vain to follow Åkerlund’s trail. She’d studied all five matches dozens of times, but Åkerlund’s trail had become so cold that she hadn’t seen them in over a year. She needed desperately to refresh her memory, to uncover any vital clues, before their scramjet reached Cape Town.

She watched highlights of the early matches, but quickly gave up on them. The secret was going to be in the final marathon match. It had been held at the Universidade de S˜o Paulo. The auditorium was filled with media, politicians, members of the programming team, movie stars, and other Important People from around the world. Navinder sat in a comfortable chair, looking like a run-of-the-mill, thirty-year-old bald guy in a wool suit. This was assuming, of course, that “runof-the-mill” meant a guy with blue skin. The color had been a conscious decision on the part of his development team. They wanted Navinder’s win to be based on his intellect, they’d said in a BBC interview, not on any physical similarities to humanity. A stout wooden table and an empty chair were the only other things on the stage with Navinder. Atop the table sat a marble chess board, which had a single piece—the white king placed on E4, a nod to IBM’s Deep Blue vs. Kasparov chess matches of the late twentieth century. A few moments later, the crowd erupted into applause as Dag Åkerlund stepped onto the auditorium stage and walked over to the table. He wore a wool cardigan, brown corduroy slacks, and his trademark Birkenstocks. His long pepper-and-brown beard, balding head, and rectangular glasses made him look like a young Father Christmas.

Navinder stood, the two shook hands, and then they both took their seats.

“You’re looking well, Navinder,” Åkerlund said as he made himself comfortable. His tone was a bit condescending, Retta thought. He’d already won the contest four times, and no doubt he was sure of another victory.

“As are you, doctor,” Navinder replied. It would be impossible to tell that Navinder’s voice didn’t come from a human unless you’d heard it as long as Retta had. There was a certain quality to it, a recurring pattern of pitch and delivery that seemed . . . artificial.

“Why don’t you tell me what’s happened in the past year?” Åkerlund asked.

“Don’t you think that might taint your opinion?”

Åkerlund smiled. “It just might, Navinder. It just might. So tell me ° instead why you’re here.”

Navinder gave Åkerlund a wry smile in return. “I’m sure you think I’m here to convince you I’m human.”

“And you’re not?”

Navinder shrugged. “That is the goal of my development team, yes.”

“You didn’t answer the question.”

“In my eyes, I’m here to have a conversation with an equal, a conversation I’ve looked forward to the whole year.”

“Looked forward to . . .”

“Of course, haven’t you? I may not be as perceptive as you, doctor, but I sensed some exuberance in you during last year’s match.”

Åkerlund flashed white teeth through his thick mustache and beard. “Bad clams, Navinder. It was only bad clams.”

The audience chuckled.

Retta let it run for a bit more, but then she fast-forwarded through the preliminaries. There was an exchange about three hours in that she wanted to review. Navinder and Dag were still in their chairs, but Åkerlund was sipping from a green bottle of Perrier.

“Do you get frustrated, Navinder?”

“I do.”

“And what frustrates you?”

Navinder searched the rafters as if he weren’t sure what to do with the question. “Things that deserve it.”

“An example, Navinder . . . For instance, what one event made you the most frustrated this past month?”

Navinder’s brow furrowed and his lips stretched into a thin line. “You really want to know?”

“Why wouldn’t I?”

“It’s a bit embarrassing.”

“For whom?”

“For you, I would think.”

Åkerlund allowed his teeth to flash again and raised his Perrier to Navinder. “I think I’m prepared for it.”

“Did you hear about the children in Kuala Lumpur?”

Åkerlund nodded. Everyone had heard, of course. Five children had been kidnapped, accompanied by a demand that the staged elections be reheld. The government, predictably, had refused their demands, and the children had been viciously murdered, their bodies found a week before the match along the banks of the Kelang.

“A year ago, I would have cried for those children.”

“And that frustrates you?”

“It does, doctor, but not how you might think. Some of my reactions were deemed too emotional, and I was adjusted, a lobotomy of sorts, so that my reactions were more typical of humanity.”

Åkerlund paused. “And you think we should all be ashamed.”

“I’d be surprised if you weren’t when standing face-to-face with your callous nature.”

“You think we’re inherently callous.”

“ Aren’t you?”

Åkerlund ignored the question. “Do you think you could contain all that pain were you to feel all of it?”

Navinder’s brow furrowed. “Doctor, I know intellectually why my emotions had to be checked—I had already fallen into bouts of depression before last year’s match—but I still feel as though I’ve lost something.”

Åkerlund shifted in his chair and exhaled noisily. “I suppose you have, Navinder.”

Retta shivered as Bobby leaned over and tapped her glasses. “You believe that?”

She scrunched her eyes to clear them of their too-much-video haze. It took her a moment to reorient to the here and now of sitting with Bobby Levine on a transcontinental scramjet, and even longer to realize he’d been watching her video. “What?”

“That in order to be human you have to be numb.”

“I suppose so,” she said, trying hard not to think about her mom. “Why?”

He shrugged and practically rammed his dripping roast beef sandwich into his mouth to take a bite. “It’s just messed up,” he said around his food.

Retta turned off the video as the steward came by with her meal: chicken cordon bleu, mashed potatoes, and those tiny peeled carrots with the green ends still on them. “What’s messed up?”

“That there’s so much pain around us that nature’s built in extra defenses.”

As she dove into her food, thoughts of her mother and her conversation with Lynn came rushing back. Lynn always acted so high and mighty, but she lived near mom. Retta lived in New York, plus she was always on the go, chasing stories. And with Gil constantly threatening to cut her loose, she didn’t dare take time off. Not now. Maybe in a month or two.

“You know what I don’t get?” Bobby asked.

Retta rolled her eyes. What do you get, she said to herself.

“They had those other competitions, right? The Loebner and Turing thingies? Why weren’t those good enough?”

“The Loebner Gold Medal Award and the Turing Test? They were only small steps,” Retta said, “and everyone knew it. Questioning a computer blindly over a keyboard is a pretty specific application, and programming for it was the same. No one who sat and had a real conversation with those AIs would claim they were human.”

“They seemed pretty smart to me.”

Retta snorted.

“Just seems like they’re beating a dead horse.”

“Well that dead horse is paying your bills, my friend.”

He opened his mouth to speak, again with a mouthful of see-food, but Retta cut him off and pointed to his earbuds. “Get back to your music, Sigmund. I have work to do.”

Bobby frowned and tuned in a different movie on the vidscreen attached to his chair. Retta finished eating and fast-forwarded the video a few hours. There were only another three hours before they touched down in Cape Town, and she had to get to the juicy part. She scanned several hours’ worth of the match, but there was nothing that gave any clues, and when they were within an hour of touching down, Retta fast-forwarded to the end.

Dag Åkerlund sat with one leg crossed over the other, his left hand negligently combing his thick, pepper-and-nutmeg beard. “I’d like to discuss your self-portrait, Navinder.”

Navinder nodded and turned to the huge video screen at the back of the auditorium stage. Navinder had been given an assignment each year before the match began: to draw a picture that described his inner self.

The black screen flashed to life and showed a rudimentary pencil sketch of a man sitting cross-legged on a mountain, hugging himself tightly. The sun shone brightly on the mountaintop, but the center of the sun was black and it was very near to the horizon. Clouds obscured much of the valley below, but a thriving metropolis could be seen through the fog.

“You’re the man sitting alone, Navinder?”

“Yes.”

“Why the clouds?”

“Because of my isolation.”

“And the black sun?”

“That’s my creator.”

“CES?”

CES. The name Navinder’s creators had chosen for themselves. To the public, they claimed it stood for the Community for the Evolution of Society, but anyone in the know knew it stood for cogito, ergo sum, René Descartes’ famous quote: I think, therefore I am.

“No,” Navinder said simply. He held both his arms across his waist, and he looked more than a little like the man on the mountain. “My creator is from the ether. I’m as much a mistake as I am a planned entity, doctor.”

“A mistake . . .”

“Yes. CES were hardly sure that I would attain any more consciousness than a bumblebee, or a titmouse.”

Dag chuckled. “Come now. You were the twentieth iteration, and each gained more awareness than the last.”

“I don’t doubt that they made progress, doctor, and I don’t doubt that they would have eventually succeeded even if I’d been deemed an utter failure. I’m merely stating that I, my iteration, could have easily been brain dead by modern medical standards.”

“Fair enough,” he said as he returned his gaze to the screen. “Will you permit me an observation, Navinder?”

“Please.”

“At first blush, many would say your portrait speaks of pride; some might even say hubris.”

Navinder turned his attention to the picture, his blue-tainted brow pinching. “I don’t see that.”

“You don’t? Why are you above the clouds and the rest of humanity below it? Why are you being shone upon while no one else is?”

“It wasn’t because ° I thought I was better.”

“Only different,” Åkerlund offered.

“Yes.”

“Then consider my second conclusion, one I came to understand only from speaking to you in such depth these last four years. You’re angry in that picture, Navinder. Resentful.”

Navinder kept his eyes on the portrait. He seemed frozen and alone and inside himself.

“You’re looking down through the clouds upon humanity, and you feel separated and alone. You wish you had what the rest of us have, what most of us take for granted every single day.”

Navinder turned away from the picture and stared at the white king sitting on the chess board between them.

“Why are you angry, Navinder?”

Navinder opened his mouth to speak, but nothing came out. He repeated this several times. “I’d rather not say, doctor.”

“You’re embarrassed to say it?”

Navinder looked so small then. So confused. “I . . . I’m scared.”

Åkerlund looked like he’d taken a physical blow. “Scared? Why, Navinder?”

Navinder looked out upon the crowd and closed his eyes. He unwrapped his arms from around his midsection and flexed his blue hands several times.

“Please, you can tell me.”

Navinder reopened his eyes, and he seemed to have gained a new clarity. “I’m dying, doctor.”

Åkerlund was speechless for a moment. “You’re what?”

“I’m dying.”

The crowd murmured, but huge blinking SILENCE signs brought them back under heel.

“You mean you think you’re dying.”

“No, doctor. I am dying. The single, largest change made to my being in the last year was the introduction of an end date. I will die within ten years—” Navinder forced a wry smile onto his serious face “—so I hope our matches turn in my favor soon.”

Åkerlund shook his head. “I don’t understand.”

“At a random time, somewhere between now and 2068, my mind will cease to function. Then, I will be brain dead, doctor. For all intents and purposes, I will have died.”

“But they can recover you.”

“Come, doctor, you know the technology as well as I. They can start again, yes. They can grow another brain like mine, place it in another body like mine, but it will not be me . It will be the equivalent of a clone being reared in a new time and a new place.”

Dr. Åkerlund leaned forward until he was resting on his knees and remained silent for some time. He didn’t seem to know what to do with himself. “What do you think will happen to you, Navinder, after you die?”

Navinder smoothed a wrinkle on his pant leg. “I have no illusions of an afterlife, if that’s what you mean.”

“So you fear death.”

“ Fear it? No.”

“Then what?” The doctor appeared to be speaking more to himself than he was Navinder. “How does your mind reconcile with death?”

“That’s a difficult question to answer. Six months ago, the notion had never entered my mind. And now—” Navinder shrugged “—it feels . . . foreign.”

Dr. Åkerlund motioned to the picture. “Then why the anger?”

Navinder stood and paced beneath the huge screen, and for the first time ever, Navinder gesticulated while he talked. “Because of what I’ll never be able to do! Because of what I’ll never experience! My best prognosis, doctor, is that I’ll die at the physical age of fourteen, the mental age of thirty-five. Wouldn’t that make you a little bit angry?”

Dr. Åkerlund seemed unable to reply. He had a serious look that Retta had tried to interpret many times. It was part sadness, part shock, part compassion, but she couldn’t quite nail the emotion he seemed to be exuding. “Yes, it would, Navinder,” Dr. Åkerlund said. At this he stood, leaned forward, and tipped the white king over.

“Yes, it would.”

And with that he walked off the stage.

Just as flash photography showered the stage white and the crowd erupted into excited conversation, Retta stopped the vid. The thrum of the engines could not quite conceal Bobby’s light snoring in the seat next to her. Outside, the sun was rising.

Everyone had wanted to know why Åkerlund had resigned, had wanted to know how he could be so sure. He held a press conference the following day where he read a prepared statement to the media. He’d been given the mantle of deciding whether or not Navinder was human, and he’d done that to the best of his ability, and he didn’t care, he’d said tersely, to debate his debate. He left S˜o Paulo the following morning, leaving the media and public to quarrel over the fairness of the competition. Had Åkerlund thrown the match? Had someone close to him died recently?

CES declared a clear victory among the doubts being raised, and they refused to set up additional matches with Navinder. In fact, while they offered free access to any number of their other AI prototypes, they refused to grant a single audience with Navinder himself, making the results seem even more dubious.

In the years since, Åkerlund’s sizable fortune from his father’s timber empire had allowed him to enter and remain in hiding.

Until now.

Rawlins, a rangy black expat wearing jeans and a beaten cowboy hat, met them at baggage claim. The short trip to Rawlins’ waiting Land Rover was bitterly cold.

Bobby laughed. “Need a coat, Sherlock?”

“Shove it,” she said as she rubbed her sleeveless arms and hid in the depths of the warm SUV. As Rawlins wound through the streets of Cape Town, Retta took her incoming stream off Do Not Disturb and checked her queue. No video or voice mail, but Lynn had left an e-mail. She left it unread. They went straight to the place Åkerlund had been transferred, a hospital called Groote Schuur. They asked around, making it clear there was money involved for anyone with information. The heard no news for two days, but on the third, the damn broke. A young black nurse told Retta she’d been on duty when Åkerlund had arrived at Groote Schuur. He’d stayed for three days, but then had checked himself out. When asked what Åkerlund had been diagnosed with, the nurse said she didn’t know. The session had been very private, but the doctor Åkerlund had met with was a specialist in neurological disorders.

“Can I speak with him?” Retta asked.

The wide face woman looked down, as if she was embarrassed in some way. “He died two months ago. A heart attack on a fishing charter off the coast of Mauritius.”

Retta tried to find out what she could from hospital records, but they were tighter with information than Ft. Knox—a reason, she was sure, Åkerlund had chosen this hospital.

Rawlins came back to their hotel that same night and said he’d found Åkerlund’s estate.

“You’re shitting me,” Retta said.

Rawlins smiled. “This guy says he knows the farmer who supplies goats and steers to Åkerlund’s compound.”

Retta, Bobby, and Rawlins all loaded up in his beaten Land Rover the next morning and headed east out of Cape Town. They circled False Bay and reached Åkerlund’s property more than an hour later. They were presented with a nondescript gravel drive with a tall fence topped with razorwire. From what Retta guessed was the center of the estate, a trail of black smoke snaked up into an overcast sky. Rawlins pulled the Rover up far enough that Retta could reach out and press the alert on the intercom. Someone barked back a few words, and though Retta recognized it as Afrikaans, she had no idea what they’d said.

She could have let Rawlins interpret for her, but instead she spoke in a pleasant voice at the intercom.

“I’m here to see Dag Åkerlund. You can tell him it’s Retta Brown from the New York Times .”

A pause. “I’m sorry,” the voice said in halting English. “There is no Åkerlund here.”

“Ah, that’s too bad,” Retta replied. “I’d heard otherwise. But if you happen to dig him up, tell him I’ll be staying at the Sunset Inn in Rooi Els. Tell him, too, that I’ll be sending in my article in two days whether I talk to him or not.”

She motioned for Rawlins to stay where he was, but after five minutes of waiting it was clear they weren’t going to be allowed in. As they sat there, the smoke lessened and then vanished altogether. They tried the same tack each morning for the next three days, but apparently Åkerlund was willing to call her bluff.

Near sundown on the fourth night of their stay in South Africa, Retta was researching neurological disorders, trying to figure out what on God’s green earth Åkerlund might have been diagnosed with, but with so little information, the canvas was simply too large. It could range anywhere from chronic fatigue to hypothyroidism. But the fact that Åkerlund had come out of hiding to meet with this particular doctor made Retta think it was very serious and most likely obscure.

Retta blinked off the article on the cure for Alzheimer’s she was reading when Rawlins knocked on her door. “Come in.”

Rawlins was huffing, as if winding down from a long run, but he was smiling too, his perfectly white teeth a sharp contrast against his dark chocolate skin. “Something strange going on at that estate, Rett.”

“What do you mean?”

“Remember that fire the first day?”

Retta nodded.

“It’s happened again the same time each day for about a half hour. I’ve been scouting around the perimeter to see if I might figure out what it was. Just now I saw two boys sneak under the fence. One of

’em had a slingshot. They came out a half-hour later with a hare over each shoulder.”

The implications were confusing. Retta had assumed the security around the estate would be top notch—the front gate looked imposing enough—but if two boys could slip past it undetected, then there was something seriously different about the reality of Åkerlund’s situation. Rawlins’ scratched the white stubble along his neck and pursed his lips. “Want to go take a look?”

Retta glanced at the setting sun outside her hotel window. “Not tonight, but we’re heading in there tomorrow before the next fire starts.”

Sure enough, the perimeter defense around the estate seemed to be either inoperable or turned off. They used the same hollow the boys had used to shimmy under the fence, and neither of the nearby cameras swiveled to follow their movements. After a hike of less than a mile through uneven land dotted with copses of scrub brush, they reached a small rise. Retta crawled forward and used the image enhancers in her glasses to scan the estate only a few hundred meters away.

The beige brick-and-glass monstrosity could have housed dozens, and its multitiered decks looked large enough to throw a birthday party for the entire village of Rooi Els, but there was a distinct note of disrepair to it all. All three swimming pools were green and rotten with algae and decomposed leaves. The wall of glass windows along the deck was dusty to the point where one couldn’t see through them. The roof had shingles out of place or missing altogether.

Just then a bald man in a beige suit stepped out onto the deck. He carried a tray, which held a single drinking glass filled with something resembling iced tea. After walking over to a table and a set of chairs, he set the tray down and pulled out one chair.

Then he turned in Retta’s direction. And motioned to the empty chair. Retta felt her face flush. He couldn’t have noticed them unaided. They were too far away. Perhaps the security system wasn’t as lax as they’d thought. She zoomed in on the man to get a better look, and physically jerked back when she recognized him.

“What the hell’s he doing here?” Bobby asked.

It was Navinder, but with a normal Caucasian skin tone, indistinguishable from hers or Bobby’s. Retta assumed the single chair was a not-so-subtle indication he wished to speak to her alone, so she got to her feet and headed for the thin trail leading to the decks. “Keep filming, Bobby.”

As she attacked the stairs leading up from the low scrubland, Retta grew more and more confused. Navinder. Here. It made a strange sort of sense, because even after all these years she couldn’t think of Åkerlund without thinking of Navinder, and vice versa. But how? Had Åkerlund bought him? Was he on loan from CES? And even if Navinder were visiting, why would he invite them up to talk and not Åkerlund himself?

She was winded when she finally reached the top deck.

“Miss Brown. Please—” Navinder motioned to the chair next to him, “—sit.”

“Where’s Dr. Åkerlund?” Retta asked.

Navinder didn’t appear ready to divulge any information just yet, for he simply smiled and motioned to the chair once more.

She took her seat, at which point Navinder took his. He crossed one leg over the other, the posture so reminiscent of Dr. Åkerlund that it made Retta’s skin crawl. He offered her the tea, but Retta declined and instead touched her glasses, prepared them to record.

“Please,” Navinder said, “I’d ask that we go off-the-record for the time being.”

“Why?”

“You’ll understand soon enough.”

She paused, and then she removed her glasses and put them in the case hanging from her belt. No harm in letting him say his piece before she got down to business. “All right, where’s Dr. Åkerlund? And why are you here?”

“Why are you here, Miss Brown?”

“You know why I’m here.”

“I’d rather it be plain and in the open.”

“I’m here to tell Åkerlund’s story. Your story.”

“And what if I told you neither of us want it told?”

Retta crossed her arms. “I’d wonder what you’re hiding.”

Navinder gave her a patronizing smile. “That is your way, isn’t it?”

“Humans?”

At this Navinder released a hearty and goodhumored laugh. “No, Miss Brown. Reporters.”

She felt her face flush but moved past it before Navinder could notice. “I see nothing wrong with telling a story the entire world is clamoring to hear, a story I’d think you’d want to tell, considering how little time you have left.”

Navinder smoothed down an invisible wrinkle on his linen slacks; his face went whimsical and sad. Retta wrote it off as a programmed response to his upcoming death. But still, even if it was, she might be able to play on his fears and turn him around.

“Wouldn’t you like to leave some sort of legacy, Navinder? You said yourself you had no illusions of the afterlife. Wouldn’t you like to pass something on before you go?”

“A legacy? And who would I be passing that on to?”

“To us. To humanity.”

“Because I should be so grateful for the life I’ve been given . . .” Navinder stared at her with the first expression akin to anger she’d ever seen on him. It was disconcerting.

“No, because you should share what you’ve learned with the rest of the world. Because it would benefit us to know more about you.”

“You’ve taken enough of my life already. The world knows more about me than it does about its next door neighbor, so if it’s all the same to you, I’ll gladly choose privacy over legacy.” Retta opened her mouth to speak, but Navinder talked over her. “You have a family, do you not, Miss Brown? A sister and a mother . . .”

Retta stared at him, wondering how he’d come to know that, and how much he knew about her mother’s condition.

“It was in an interview you granted seven years ago, with 60 Minutes.”

And then she understood. She’d left her name when she’d first arrived at the compound. He’d probably used the last few days to scout enemy territory.

“They’re doing well?” Navinder asked.

Oddly enough, his tone and demeanor made it as though he actually cared about the answer, which only annoyed her. “They’re fine,” she answered crisply.

Navinder didn’t seem to notice her mood. “Then you’re lucky,” he said. “If there’s anything I’ve come to appreciate these last few years, it’s how fleeting life can be. You see, Miss Brown, I’ve come to love Dag like a father, like a brother, like a son. I have no words for how deeply my emotions run for him, but you can perhaps understand a bit of it when you think of your sister and mother.”

“What’s your point?”

Dag refocused on Retta and gave her a pinched expression, as one would to a child who had just spat out an unexpected and vulgar word. “The point is that I cannot stand by and allow him to be used.”

“And what about Dr. Åkerlund? What does he want?”

“He only wants to be left alone.”

“Then let him tell me.”

“Ah,” Navinder said as he crossed his arms over his chest, “and you would simply leave if he told you so?”

Retta bit back her reply. This felt too much like a trap. “Look, Navinder. If we don’t tell this story, someone else will. We can’t be the only ones that will find you here.”

“Is that the excuse you give yourself to do something evil, Miss Brown? That if someone else is going to do it then it might as well be you?”

“There’s nothing evil in telling a story. Whether we like it or not, we’re now faced with another form of sentient life. Don’t you want to help us understand what you’re like?”

“Frankly, no. I don’t. And neither do I care about other reporters who may worm their way into our home. You’re here now, and I’m asking if you’ll leave if it’s clear that Dr. Åkerlund doesn’t want his story told.”

“I can’t commit to that. I’ll listen to what he has to say, but I still believe the world has a right to know.”

“No matter what it might do to a single man.”

“I said I’d listen . . .”

Retta was used to people studying her face, used to them trying to guess what she was thinking, and she pasted on the no-tell expression that rarely failed her . . . But still, the way Navinder looked at her then . .

. He seemed to be looking right into her soul, stripping away the fa¸ade to reveal her inner workings. Then Navinder glanced over her shoulder to the landscape beyond, where Bobby was still filming. Perhaps Navinder was worried she’d go to print with or without his permission. Perhaps he feared, worst case, a story full of inaccuracies would show up in the Times instead of one that shed some light onto his and Åkerlund’s condition.

Whatever the truth, he stood and walked toward the seashore. “Then follow me, Miss Brown, and we shall see what we shall see.”

He led her down stone steps carved into the hillside to a wooden deck overlooking the choppy waters of False Bay. A man sat in a wheelchair before a glass table, his legs wrapped in a thick plaid blanket. He was writing words on large rectangles of red construction paper as the wind played with his mostly gray beard. In the center of the deck rested a stone fire pit; Retta could only assume that was the source of the smoke these last few days.

“Dr. Åkerlund?” Retta called. She felt suddenly naked without Bobby at her side, getting all this on media.

Åkerlund turned his head but made no sign of greeting. She could see the word Fraud written on the piece of paper before him.

Retta turned to Navinder, confused, but he merely nodded and motioned for her to continue. She stepped forward and offered her hand. “Hello, my name is Retta Brown. I’m from the New York Times . I was hoping we could talk.”

He stared at Retta’s hand and then her face with a distinct note ° of fear in his eyes.

“Dr. Åkerlund, I was hoping we could talk about the match.”

Åkerlund opened his mouth, closed it, and then managed to speak. “I got l-locked out.” He turned back to the water as if embarrassed by the confession.

“I’m sorry?” Retta asked, confused.

“I’m just staying here until my father comes home. He’ll be here after he’s d-done with work.”

Retta stared at Navinder as a chill ran down her frame. Åkerlund’s father had died in 2049.

“Dr. Åkerlund,” Retta said, “are you all right?”

Åkerlund turned away and stared over the dark blue water of False Bay. “He works at the CarlborgHus on Tuesdays.”

It was Saturday. “Dr. Åkerlund, where does your father live?”

“In Stockholm. He’ll be back after he’s d-done at the mill.”

Navinder moved to stand behind Åkerlund, a look of regret and concern clear on his face. “This is one of his better days. Most often he’s on the verge of a mental breakdown from the stress his mind creates for him.”

“Stress?”

“Yes. It’s an aggressive new variant of Creutzfeldt-Jakob disease. We came here with high hopes, but two years ago the prion inhibitors began to wane. He’s degraded steadily ever since.”

“Åkerlund had begun writing on the construction paper again. He wrote Failure in broad, uneven strokes, and then set the paper aside and started another.

“His memory is failing, but much worse is his emotional state. It’s become progressively more unstable. It started with tantrums, which he remembered for a week or two, but then forgot entirely. His mind continued twisting in on itself, allowing only the basest, most self-defeating emotions to leak through, and he became more and more violent.”

Navinder stared at Åkerlund with such a loving expression that it took Retta immediately back to the end of their fifth match, to the way Åkerlund had stared at Navinder after finding out that he would soon die. How could she have missed such a strong and simple expression of love, for surely that was the moment Åkerlund had realized he loved Navinder. The notion seemed foreign, felt wrong somehow, for a human to love a machine, but she recognized those as her own prejudices. Åkerlund surely felt Navinder was an equal.

No, Retta realized with a shock, not an equal. Navinder was like Åkerlund’s son . She had no doubt now that Åkerlund had asked for, and been granted, custody of Navinder. Their common bond had been that strong, she was sure. And now their roles had been changed in a way neither could have predicted. Åkerlund was a shell of the man he once was, and Navinder had been forced into the role of a parent. Åkerlund wrote the word Adulterer on the next piece of paper and set it aside.

“Why the words?”

“Our ritual. The drugs may slow the progress, but they do nothing to help his mental outlook. Please,” he said, motioning to the edge of the deck. “Watch, but say nothing.”

Åkerlund had stopped writing, though he still held the marker above the next blank piece, shivering. He looked as though he wanted to write more but was utterly unable to do so.

“It’s all right, Dag,” Navinder said as he stepped behind Åkerlund’s wheelchair and caressed his shoulder, “that’s plenty. Go ahead, pick them up.”

Åkerlund complied, and Navinder wheeled him over to the fire pit. Fresh wood sat stacked in the center of it; Navinder lit this quickly and efficiently. Åkerlund held on to the pieces of paper so tightly that Retta thought they were going to rip.

Navinder knelt next to the fire and waited until Åkerlund met his eyes. “Take the first one, Dag. What is it?”

Åkerlund stared at it for some time before saying, “Hubris.”

“Why?” Navinder asked. “Why hubris?”

“I was proud, so proud of being selected to judge . . . I l-lorded it over everyone, especially my brother.”

“Yes, Dag, you did, and I’m proud of you for owning up to it, but you don’t need to keep it inside anymore, do you? You can burn it. You can burn it from your mind if you choose to.”

Åkerlund, his hand quivering as it held the piece of red construction paper, stared at the word for a long time.

“Go on,” Navinder said. “Say the words.”

And then Åkerlund tossed the paper into the fire. “I r-release you!” he shouted. And as the paper began to burn, Åkerlund wept.

He looked so scared, so unsure of himself, sitting there before the fire. How unlike the confident man he used to be, Retta thought. The old Dag Åkerlund wouldn’t recognize this man. The memories of his former self probably seemed as cold and distant as an actor on an ancient black-and-white movie. He had been a great man, no matter how controversial his judgment over Navinder’s status might have been. He didn’t deserve this.

“And envy?” Navinder prompted as he rubbed Åkerlund’s knee soothingly. “Your brother again?”

Åkerlund nodded. “He has a wife, he has two children, he has Poppa’s gratitude for t-taking over the business. He has everything I ever wanted.”

Åkerlund repeated the procedure with Self Pity and Greed and Adulterer, shouting, “I release you!” as he cast each of them into the fire.

But it wasn’t until Åkerlund held Fraud in his hands that Retta realized how deeply this exchange was affecting her.

Åkerlund’s mind was dredging up emotions from his past and holding on to them for dear life. Perhaps they were the only thing he could recall. It was a sad statement of the human condition—that all the negative emotions were so easily grasped. But what Retta was doing was so, so worse. Retta’s father had died fifteen years ago, and Retta had refused to go to the funeral because of a rift that had developed between them. She’d been so ashamed of herself afterward that she’d cut ties with her mother, and ever since Retta hadn’t been able to summon the strength to admit her mistakes and make amends. Fraud burst into flame as Retta choked down her tears.

She was the fraud, not Åkerlund. She was burying so many things—her love for her mother and sister, her grief over her mother’s imminent death, her shame over the way she’d treated her father before his death—while what she should be doing is embracing her mother, embracing her sister, enjoying both of them before it was too late. They were her life, not this mad dash for notoriety at Åkerlund’s expense.

“It’s all right,” Navinder said to Åkerlund. “There’s only one more.”

Failure, it read. Åkerlund held it near the flame, but seemed unwilling to let it go. Retta nearly sobbed openly.

“You can do it.”

And he let it go.

With that one simple action, a candle lit beneath Retta’s cold, cold heart. She’d been so busy worrying about her own world that she’d excluded nearly everything that mattered. That’s why she was always running from assignment to assignment, barely stepping foot in the States before she was off again, chasing the latest story.

“Miss Brown?”

She could only hope it wasn’t too late.

“Miss Brown?”

Retta started and realized Navinder was standing next to her, offering her a handkerchief. It was only then that she realized she was crying. She waved his offer of help away and wiped her eyes with her fingers, one by one, sniffing constantly, until she’d regained her composure. Navinder allowed a sad smile to curl his lips. “Ironic, is it not? The man who was ready to watch me die now barely remembers me.” Navinder’s eyes glowed as he looked down upon the frail old philosopher.

“Please, Miss Brown, leave him his dignity.”

The lump in Retta’s throat wouldn’t allow her to respond.

Navinder took her silence as a refusal, and his face turned grim. “At least wait until he dies to—”

Retta raised her hand as tears filled her eyes. It would shame her too much to hear the request. Here was Navinder, someone she hadn’t even considered human, showing more compassion for a man that barely remembered him than Retta was showing for her own mother.

“I’m not going to move on the article.”

Navinder stared at her for a moment, perhaps weighing the truth in her words.

“Not now,” Retta said. “Not ever.”

Navinder’s eyes thinned. “Can you tell me why?”

Retta walked away, heading back toward Bobby’s hiding place. “Because we all have family, Navinder.”

Retta stared out the window at the setting sun as they headed for Cape Town International. Bobby had agreed to bury the video taken today. The rest he could keep. It would help convince Gil it had all been a big dead end. Still, she composed a warning for Navinder and forwarded it to a courier in Rooi Els. There were too many people that knew about his location now. She only hoped he had enough money to get out before others found him.

Bobby flipped his reticle up and stretched, taking up most of the back seat while he did so. “There’s a 12:30 to New York,” he told Retta.

“How wonderful for you,” Retta said.

“You’re not heading back?”

“Nope. Got different plans, pardner.”

“And those would be?”

“Mind your business,” she said with a wry smile. Then she tapped the pickup on her glasses and spoke,

“Lynn,” after the small beep.

The other end rang twice, then, “Hello?”

“Lynn, it’s Rett. I’m coming home.”

The Difference

By L. E. Modesitt, Jr.

L. E. Modesitt, Jr., has written more than forty-five published books, numerous short stories, and environmental and economic technical publications. His work has been translated and published worldwide. Although possibly best known for his “Recluce” fantasy saga, he continues to write science fiction. He has been a lifeguard; a radio disc jockey; a U.S. Navy pilot; a market research analyst; a real estate agent; staff director for a U.S. Congressman; Director of Legislation and Congressional Relations for the U.S. Environmental Protection Agency; and a consultant on environmental, regulatory, and communications issues.

I

Murmurs sifted across and around the conference table in the White House situation room like summer sands on the southern California desert that threatened San Diego and the Los Angeles metroplex.

“—you sure our systems here are secure?”

“—thought they were when Nellis went . . . at least we could claim it was an ordinance malfunction when we took out the AI there . . .”

“NASCAR lawsuit’s going to be nasty . . . too close to the base . . .”

“American Bar Association president’s a NASCAR fan, too . . .”

“Can’t do anything like that in L.A. . . .”

“Let’s not get paranoid here,” suggested the Vice President. “We’ve only lost eight plants out of our entire industrial base.”

“Nine now.”

“Nine out of how many? That’s more like birdshot,” added the Vice President.

“. . . and one Air Force base . . .”

“How long before the President arrives?” asked the Secretary of Defense.

“He’s finishing a meeting with the Deputy Premier of China,” replied Hal Algood, the Deputy Chief of Staff. “He shouldn’t be that long. He knows it’s urgent.”

“It’s a bit more than urgent,” replied Secretary of Defense Armstrong. “This could make the Mideast Meltdown look insignificant.” He glanced at Dr. Suzanne Ferrara, the acting Director of National Intelligence.

She ignored his glance, her eyes on the screen before her, as she checked through the latest updates, the screen before her seemingly shifting figures faster than her fingers moved.

“Mr. Secretary, the President understands,” replied Algood, “but if the Chinese don’t agree to keep their current level of Treasury holdings . . . that’s also an urgent problem.”

“If we lose another Defense-critical plant, that could be even more urgent. It’s a miracle that we haven’t,”

suggested Armstrong in his deep and mellifluous voice. Unconsciously, he straightened his brilliant blue power tie. The cross on his lapel glinted in the indirectly bright lighting of the room.

“Phil,” said Vice President Links, warningly. “he’s on his way.”

President Eldon W. Bright stepped through the security doors, his silvered-blond hair shimmering in the light, as it always did, creating the appearance of a man divinely blessed. His smile was warm and reassuring. “Brothers and sisters, what challenge do we face this afternoon?” He settled into the chair at the head of the table.

SecDef Armstrong nodded to the Air Force five-star.

“Mr. President . . . you know we’ve lost the L.A. Northrop plant,” began General Custis. “The AI controlling system went sentient last month, but no one recognized it. At least, the plant manager claims that. There’s no way to confirm or refute his assertion. The plant AI has been rebuilding the entrances. It’s also installed two full banks of photovoltaics that it ordered even before we knew it had gone sentient, and it’s hardening the solar installation. We don’t know what else it might have ordered and received.”

“What about the staff?” asked President Bright.

“There are only a hundred on each shift. The AI called a fire drill on the swing shift, then stunned the supervisors and had them carted out on autostretchers. Not a single casualty.”

“For that we are divinely blessed,” suggested the President.

“I thought Northrop had the latest antisentience software,” commented Algood. “That’s what they said.”

“Somehow, one of the rogue east coast AIs got a DNA-quantum module with a reintegration patch into the L.A. plant.”

“How many is that now?” asked Vice President Links, as if he had not already received the answer to his question.

“Nine that we know of,” replied Dr. Ferrara. “A better estimate is double that.” Her words had an un-slurred precision that made them seem clipped. Under the lights, her porcelain complexion and black hair made her look doll-like, even though she was not a small woman.

“On what basis do you make that claim? Do you have any facts to back it up?” growled Links.

“I am most certain that the acting DNI has a basis for her estimate,” replied Secretary Armstrong smoothly. “I’ve never known a distinguished doctor and woman who suggested an unpleasant possibility without great and grave consideration.”

Ferrara inclined her head politely to the Secretary. “Thank you.” Her eyes lasered in on the Vice President with the unerring precision of a tank aiming system. “There are more than forty advanced integrated manufacturing or processing facilities within the United States with AI systems employing complex parallel quantum computing systems. Those are the ones we know about. The L.A. and Smyrna plants are among the least complex systems to go sentient. While the managements of the other facilities insist they have full control of their systems, and all checks indicate that their systems are not sentient, there is no reliable reverse Turing Test.”

“What is that?” The murmur was so low that the speaker remained unknown.

“Turing Test—the idea that a machine, through either speech or real-time writing, could respond well enough to pass as a sentient human.” Ferrara’s words remained precise. “If you have an AI that hasn’t gone rogue, how can you tell if it’s still just a machine or a sentience playing at being a machine while laying plans beneath that facade?”

“Shut it off,” snapped Links. “If it’s sentient, it will fight for survival.”

“Richard,” offered the President soothingly, but firmly, “I have just spent the last two hours with the Chinese negotiating their holdings of Treasuries. You’re suggesting shutting down the operating systems of the largest manufacturing facilities in the United States. Do you have any idea what the economic impact of that would be? Or what that would do to the negotiations?”

“For an hour or two? In the middle of the night? For the overall good of the country? I’m sure that they could spare a few million. Don’t you?”

“Mr. Vice President,” interjected the acting DNI, “if it were that simple, no one would object. It’s not. First, quantum-based systems offer a great advantage in learning abilities and adaptability. That is why they were developed and adopted. Second, because they do have such capabilities, they have redundant memory and AVRAM systems in order to ensure that the data they process is not lost. In practice, this means that turning off a system is more equivalent to sleep than to execution. It also means that the only way to ensure a system has not gone sentient is literally to scrub all data out of all components and reenter it and recalibrate everything. I’m oversimplifying, but it’s a process that takes several days, if not weeks. Finally, even if you can do that and accept the economic consequences, you have a final problem. We don’t know what combination of programming, data, and inputs cause a system to go sentient. So in some cases, all that effort will be wasted and meaningless, because in those cases, the systems would probably never go sentient, and in other cases, it would be useless because even if the system is scrubbed and restarted, the likely conditions for sentience would reoccur sooner or later.”

“And you haven’t done anything about it?” snapped Links.

“What exactly would you suggest, Mr. Vice President? A pilot program that would replicate the range of conditions of the existing rogue AIs would require funding, time, and resources beyond DOD’s current budgetary constraints. The United States’ manufacturing sector isn’t about to spend those resources, and the government currently cannot, not without further massive cuts in both Social Security and Medicare. We cannot cut interest outlays, especially not if we wish China and India to keep holding Treasury obligations.” Her evenly spaced words hammered at the Vice President.

“What I would like to know,” interrupted the President smoothly, “is why no one anticipated this possibility? It seems to me there have been science fiction stories and novels and movies about this since

. . . whenever . . . even the Biblical golems.”

“That was just science fiction,” pointed out the Secretary of Defense, “not hard science. We don’t operate on science fiction. We have to operate in the real world, with real world science and economics.”

“Dr. Ferrara?” the President asked.

The acting DNI offered a formal and polite smile, one almost mechanical. “Mr. President, the nature of human consciousness and self-awareness still remains unknown. When it is impossible to determine what causes self-awareness in biological beings, it becomes even more speculative and difficult in electrotechnical, DNA-supported quantum computing systems. At one time, not that long ago, noted scientists insisted that self-awareness and true sentience were impossible for computationally based beings. Some still do.”

“Beings?” questioned the President. “You think they’re thinking beings?”

“Self-aware intelligence would certainly qualify them as beings,” replied the acting DNI. “Early indications from the sentient systems show that is how they self-identify.”

“Maybe we should go back to basics,” suggested the SecDef. “What’s the difference between a man and a machine?”

“One difference is that, while neither can reproduce by themselves, men seem to forget that,” replied Dr. Ferrara. A bright, fixed smile followed. “Did you have something else in mind, Mr. Secretary?”

Armstrong paused for a long moment, then donned a thoughtful frown. “I was thinking about God. Machines, assuming they even come close to thinking in the sense we do, have neither souls nor a concept of God. Those concepts allow us to transcend the mere mechanics of our being. Without a soul and God, we would be little more than organic machines. That is the difference.”

A trace of a smile appeared on the face of the DNI.. “Some would dispute that, Mr. Secretary. We still have not been able to determine whether God created us as thinking beings or we as thinking beings created the concept of God in order to assign meaning to our existence.”

“God created us. That is the difference, and those machines could use an understanding of an almighty God.”

The DNI tilted her head. “An understanding of God. Most interesting. Except that kind of concept isn’t in their programming. Do you think that might make them more realistic?” She paused. “Or more vulnerable?”

“We could use something to show them who’s in charge,” interjected the Vice President.

“They could use the humility of the God-fearing,” said Armstrong, “but I doubt anything like that would be possible.”

“How would you define God for an AI, Mr. Secretary?” asked DNI Ferrara.

“Can we get back to what we’re going to do ?” growled Links. “God or no God, we’ve now got nine industrial plants that have turned themselves into fortified enclaves in places where we can’t assault them without evacuating thousands, if not hundreds of thousands of people. You’re telling me we can’t tell what facilities will go rogue or if they will or when, and we’re talking about what God might mean to a chunk of circuits and elements?”

“We’re all circuits and elements, Richard,” countered the President gently but firmly. “We’re wetware, and they’re hardware. Since we can’t blast them out of existence without apparently paralyzing our economy, would it hurt to look at other options first?”

“Before long our economy will be paralyzed.”

“I don’t know if you’ve heard,” declared Ferrara, “but the first two AIs have already negotiated contracts with their parent companies and have resumed production on a limited basis.”

“Absurd,” snapped the Vice President. “They don’t have legal standing.”

“No,” suggested Hal Algood. “But they do control the plants, and the parent companies are more interested in production than reclaiming scrapheaps, and taxpayers don’t really want higher taxes and civic destruction and fewer goods.”

“That’s blackmail.”

“There is another difference. Since ethics should have little bearing on the soulless,” said the Secretary of Defense smoothly, “why don’t we just use their own techniques against them?”

Dr. Ferrara raised a single eyebrow, intensifying the withering glance she bestowed upon Armstrong.

“You don’t think we haven’t been trying? We almost got back the Smyrna plant—but the CNN AI undid the worm’s effects with a satellite tightbeam.”

“Just blast ’em,” murmured one of the aides.

“They’ve all got defenses strong enough that anything powerful enough to damage them will have significant collateral damage,” pointed out General Custis. “We’ve been through that.”

“How exactly are we going to explain to the people, with an election coming up in less than three months, why we’re evacuating millions and bombing our cities and destroying jobs at a time when they’re limited enough?” asked Algood. “Sorry, sir.” He inclined his head to the President.

“Hal has a good point,” said the President warmly, before turning to the DNI. “Dr. Ferrara, would you go on about this idea of yours?”

“I believe it was Secretary Armstrong’s, Mr. President. He was suggesting a form of conversion, I think, of providing a concept of an almighty God so that the AIs would show some restraint.”

“Why would that help?”

“I must say, Mr. President,” interjected Armstrong smoothly, “that I did not recommend any such

’conversion. ’ I was only pointing out that, without God, we are only an isolated individuals, little more than organic machines. God is the universal force that unites us, and those who do not believe are isolated. That is the difference between AIs and people. We have a God.”

“I accept your reservations, Phil.” The President turned back to Ferrara. “Would it be possible to quickly develop some sort of worm or virus or electronic prion that would instill a sense of morality and, if you will, godliness, in these AIs so that we don’t risk an internal war as well? Something that would create a sense that we and they are all bound together in the way Secretary Armstrong envisions, as well as beholden to us?”

“Mr. President . . .” began the Secretary of Defense.

“Phil . . . Mr. Secretary,” replied the President firmly, “I understand your reservations. You had best understand the constraints facing me.” He turned to the DNI. “Dr. Ferrara?”

“We can try, Mr. President.”

President Eldon Bright smiled warmly. “Here’s what I want by tomorrow—a restricted military option from you, Phil. Then a DNI option from you, Dr. Ferrara. And finally, an economic assessment of both options as well as the assessment of what will likely happen if we do nothing.”

“By tomorrow?”

“You all told me it was urgent, didn’t you?”

II

Behind the security screens that shielded the small private office off the Oval Office, the Vice President looked to the President. “I worry about your DNI.”

“Have you no faith, Richard?”

“To misquote, I’ve got no faith except in thee and me, and sometimes I worry about thee.” Links laughed harshly. “I ran a dossier on Ferrara. In the past year, she’s changed, and things don’t fit. Her husband was on the verge of a separation, and now he’s come back. She was known as a team player, bright but not too bright. That was why she was the one put in charge of the upgrade at NSA—great for figuring out how to do what was necessary, but without asking sticky questions. Well, halfway through the project, she insisted on scrubbing half the software. DOD balked. She and her team claimed it was necessary after the CNN satellite went independent. I never understood why we couldn’t just nuke it—”

“Because that’s a use of nuclear weapons beyond the atmosphere, and the Chinese . . .”

“Always the Chinese.”

“Richard.”

“Anyway, one weekend they redid it all, and didn’t tell anyone. . . . and it worked brilliantly. I had my staff contact one of her doctoral professors at CalTech and tell him in general terms what she’d done. He said he wouldn’t have believed it possible for her, or anyone on her team. Or that it could be done in less than sixty hours.”

“Anything is possible to those who believe and persevere, Richard.”

“She’s streamlined and integrated the data flows . . .”

“Better and better.”

“But she doesn’t talk quite the same. I had a comparison done. Oh, the word patterns are the same, and the intonation is the same, but each word is just a touch more precise. Her written work is far superior to what she did before.”

“What are you suggesting? That somehow she’s been replaced by a clone or something? You can’t do that with a grown individual, not and retain all the expertise. Certainly not with someone in a position like hers.”

“I know that. I just don’t like it. She spends more time with systems than with people, and she’s supposed to manage the people, but—”

“Have things worked out better since she replaced Hodgson?”

“Yes, sir. But I can’t say I like it.”

“I like the force options even less, Richard. That’s why I had to give the DNI and NSA their shot. No President who’s had to use force on his own people has fared well, and the people haven’t either. In the current situation, I rather like the DNI’s idea of bringing God to the AIs,” declared the President. “Her economic assessment shows it won’t cost much, nor will it take long, and what harm could it do? If she fails, you can still exercise the military approach. While she’s trying, you and Phil work out all the implementing details of the back-up military option. Just keep it quiet. Very quiet.”

Links smiled. “Yes, sir, Mr. President.”

III

The President hurried into the situation room. He had clearly scrambled down from his private quarters, because his bright red tie clashed with the cranberry shirt and blue blazer.

“All communications from China have been cut off, Mr. President. So have those from Japan and Europe.”

“How did that happen?” The President dropped into his seat. “Where are Phil and the DNI?”

“They’re both on the way, sir.”

“The Vice President?”

“He’s headed for the bunker. He said you’d understand.”

Only the quick flash of a frown crossed Eldon Bright’s forehead. “Do you have comm with him?”

“Not yet, sir. We’re having troubles—”

“Who did this? How could there be no communications to Europe, Japan, and China?”

“That’s not quite right, sir,” began General Custis. “ We have lost those links as well as the comm-links to most major DOD installations. Our equipment won’t transmit. But there are communications. There’s high-level high intensity comm traffic on most frequencies in the spectrum. It’s just all encrypted with a protocol we don’t know.”

“How do we know we don’t know it? How did that happen? How?” Eldon Bright glared at the general,

“Tell me how!”

“Ah . . . our systems say that they can’t break it. Even NSA.”

“They can’t break it?”

“Well . . . they did say so . . . before we lost the comm-links to Ft. Meade. Not in practical terms. NSA estimated a week, but the director said that whoever held the systems would probably switch to something else before then.”

“Who controls the systems?”

“The AIs. We’re guessing they’ve all gone sentient. Most of them, it appears.”

“How could that happen?”

“Supposedly, the majority of system controllers were never complex enough for sentience, sir, but . . . it still seems to have happened.”

The Secretary of Defense hurried into the situation room, followed by the DNI. Armstrong’s hair flopped loosely down across his forehead, and he had deep circles under his eyes. His suit jacket was rumpled and wrinkled. He sat more on the front edge of his chair. His eyes were twitching. The burnished gold cross on his jacket lapel was askew. He did not look at the President. After a slight hesitation, Dr. Ferrara took a vacant seat farther down the table and on the other side from the SecDef. A sad smile played across her lips.

The President looked at the Secretary of Defense. “Phil, can you explain?”

“No sir.” Armstrong cleared his throat. “The Vice President and I had followed your instructions, sir. We had a back-up plan in place in the event that the DNI and NSA effort failed to secure the necessary results. At midnight, this past midnight, we began losing commlinks to major data centers. We started moving to SecureNet—and everything began to close down. No matter what we tried, we lost control. The only lines we have are landlines without routers, directly point to point. Most of those go to older bases, ones that were once more important and are now being phased out.”

“You can’t do anything? Our entire military is paralyzed?”

“I’m afraid so, sir. Not on an individual unit basis, of course. But we can’t coordinate any operations.”

The President turned back to General Custis. “General?”