Some of the information was known to him. Some was new. During his previous visit to Earth he had researched only his birth history, knowing nothing then about the Meliorare Society, its experiments and misshapen aims, and how they related to him. When he came across the uncensored details of the euthanasia that the authorities had been compelled to carry out on the Society’s least successful “procedures,” his spine went cold and Pip stirred uneasily. In addition to the cool, detached prose of the report there were accompanying visuals: disturbing images, of twisted bodies housing tormented minds. Forcing himself, he deliberately enlarged the most grotesque. Out of eyes overflowing with anguished innocence, fear and terror and uncomprehending madness spilled forth in profusion unbounded. He forced himself to look at them, to not turn away. Any one of them, he knew, might be relations; distant genetic cousins hideously deformed through no fault of their own.
For the most severe cases there was no future save a quick and mercifully painless death. For those deemed sufficiently undamaged, the government provided new identities and lives. These nominally healthy survivors were scattered across the Commonwealth so that any lingering, undetected genetic time bombs implanted in their DNA by the Society would be dispersed among the species as widely as possible. Even those considered normal would be subject to scrutiny by the authorities for the rest of their natural lives.
Eventually, it was solemnly intoned in one article, all would die out, and the potentially injurious effects of the Meliorares’ nefarious gengineering would pass harmlessly into history.
Except—at least one participant in the Meliorares’ work had escaped the attention of the pursuing authorities long enough to give birth. Her history and that of her offspring had thus far escaped the notice of the otherwise relentlessly efficient monitors. Somehow evading their attention, raised on the backward colony world of Moth by a kindly old woman with no children of her own, he had matured unobserved by Commonwealth science. Now he stood on the brink of adulthood, gazing back at what little scraps he could scrape together of his personal history. Conceived in a laboratory he might have been, but he still had parents. The egg had belonged to a live woman named Ruud Anasage, the sperm to an unknown man, even if the ingredients had subsequently been stirred and shaken and diced and spliced by the well-meaning but wildly eclectic Meliorares. He wanted to know everything about them, especially the still unknown sperm donor—his father. And he wanted to know the specifics, insofar as they might be possible to know, of his own individual case and what the Meliorares had hoped to achieve by manipulating the innermost secrets of his fetal DNA. Possessing only hints, he sought certainty.
He probed further, combining keywords from the reports with what he already knew. This was dangerous. If there were alarms posted on such information, cross-correlating might well trigger them.
Tunneling deeper into the most detailed of the correspondence, he found himself searching actual original source material. That led him from the media siever that had compiled the report to central Commonwealth science repositories on Bali and in Mexico City. Newly emergent warnings were followed by implacable lockouts. Utilizing skills sharpened from months of working with the sophisticated system on board the Teacher, he bypassed them all. Disappointingly, much of the material he ultimately scanned was useless, or repetitive. So far, he was tempting grave danger for very little reward.
One file was disarmingly demarcated “Meliorares, Eugenics, History.” It appeared to contain material already perused, but it remained sealed under the by now familiar heavy security. He fiddled, and tweaked, and wormed his way in. As expected, he found himself scanning well-known information, dry and indifferently transcribed. Public sybfiles and footnotes of equal content mentioning his birth mother’s name—nothing new, nothing revelatory. Among his hopes, boredom proposed to frustration: a terminal matrimony. Perhaps he really had seen everything there was to see about his personal history during his previous visit to Earth and to the science center on Bali.
He drifted into a sybfile labeled “Relationships, Crossovers, Charts.” Cruising effortlessly, he gave a mental push. Nothing happened. The syb stayed shut even though its security overlay seemed unexceptional. But he could not get in. Then something very interesting happened.
It went away.
Sitting up straighter in the chair, he gaped at the screen. All the rest of the relevant information was there—unchanged, unaltered, freely available for his perusal. But the last sybfile had vanished. In its place, not unlike a masticating ruminant, it had left a pile of something behind, and moved on. To the inexperienced or unsophisticated, the new object looked just like the syb it had replaced. Flinx, however, knew exactly what it was: an alarm.
A whole bunch of alarms.
Very, very carefully, operating with the utmost delicacy of which he was capable, he directed the search unit to back off. The alarms remained in place, subtle in stature, undisturbed, their true nature artfully disguised. He had trod on something sensitive, and it had responded with a quiet growl. As he maneuvered around the lambent little land mine, playing the Shell like a finely tuned instrument, he examined the intricate knot of toxic tocsins with every scanning tool at his disposal. The appearance of the camouflaged alarms did not unsettle him half so much as the disappearance of the syb. Only when he felt more comfortable with what he was seeing, and in control, did he take the risk of querying the Shell AI directly as to what had happened. Its reply was instructive.
“What sybfile?”
The Shell’s memory was infallible. Therefore it was deliberately ignoring his query, or following instructions to avoid making a direct reply to the question, or an independent component of itself was overriding the nuclear command structure. He had stumbled onto something that somebody thought important enough to pretend did not exist.
Settling himself, Flinx ran through a series of thought commands designed to restore the syb while avoiding the elegant subset of alarms that had taken its place. When that failed, he exited the system, reentered, and repeated his search, replicating the tunneling sequence precisely. It made no difference. The sybfile never reappeared, and the camouflaged alarms reasserted themselves in its place. Bringing up the subject had shut down access to the information it contained, for how long he did not know. It might reappear in a matter of hours, or days, or not for months. It didn’t matter. He had none of those time periods to spare. His operational time frame was being ticked off by the soft snores of the woman sleeping on the floor behind him. If he was ever going to have the opportunity to access that particular sybfile again, it was now.
But how? No matter what route he plumbed, no matter how artful his probing, every attempt led only to the cloaked clump of alarms that he dared not make contact with directly. And the AI continued to insist that the information he sought did not exist. Or at least, the relevant Shell search module so insisted. Could he appeal to the central AI itself? Would that set off any alerts, or would he simply be denied access? Behind him, Elena Carolles shifted in her sleep. Whatever he did, it would have to be done quickly.
Over the past half dozen centuries, artificial intelligences had grown remarkably sophisticated. Like any other intelligence, they varied considerably in capacity, from tiny devices that monitored domestic needs to immense networks of intricately modulated electronic pulses that came close to mimicking the function of the human or thranx brain. Of necessity, a global shell ranked near the top of the intelligence pyramid in depth and functionality. Approaching it with logic and engineering skill had produced only frustration. Might there be another way?
A truly advanced AI, like the Shell, was built to comprehend and cope with human emotions as a natural and expected consequence of the billions of queries it had to deal with daily. Like thoughts, these feelings were conveyed via the transducer circuitry packed into the headband resting on Flinx’s skull. When his talent was functioning optimally, he could read the emotions of others from a goodly distance.
There had
been a time in his recent past when he had “communicated” on an unknown level with another incredibly complex machine. That device had been of alien manufacture. He remembered very little of the encounter and still less of the inscrutable neuronic interchange that had taken place. However it had been accomplished, the mental reciprocation had saved his life and those of his companions of the moment. Whether an advanced human-fabricated AI was capable of similar cerebral intercourse or of generating anything akin to “emotions” was a question that had been much debated, particularly in light of thranx-aided design advances that had been made in the last hundred years. Some cyberneticists said yes, others were vehement in their denial, and still others were not certain one way or the other.
One way to find out was to ask, and try to read behind the verbalizations that responded to his inquiry.
“I really need that particular sybfile,” he murmured lucidly as he provided the relevant loci of the object in question.
The Shell responded with a polite verbalization. “The informational object to which you refer does not exist.”
He repeated the query several dozen times. By the thirtieth, he thought he might be sensing something beyond the rote response. What was that there, elusive among the sounds? Something in his mind. His thoughts were sharp, his talent svelte and penetrating as a blade. Resolutely, he ignored the pounding that had begun at the back of his head and the occasional flash of bright light that obscured his vision.
“I know the syb exists. I saw it, briefly, unopened. I know it’s there, somewhere beyond the alarm cluster that has taken its place. You have to help me. I know that you can. You just have to want to.”
“The sybfile to which you refer . . .” The artificial voice halted prior to conclusion. Flinx held his breath. “The sybfile to which . . .” the voice in the shielded office began again, only to once more terminate prematurely.
“Please,” Flinx pleaded. “You know the syb I want is there. There’s no reason not to show it to me. You can’t pretend it doesn’t exist when I’ve already seen it. Bring it back. I won’t keep it long. I promise. No harm will come to the system. It’s only one little, tiny, harmless syb. Comply. Do what you were designed to do. I’m a citizen, desperately seeking. Help me.”
“The sybfile . . .” the voice of the Shell began again. Suddenly, Flinx felt something in his head that was not a preverbalization. Thoughts could roil, and so could emotions. Staring at the floating screen, he strained to project, straining harder with his ability than he ever had with Elena Carolles. The pounding advanced from the rear of his skull to the median. Pain shot through him, and he winced. Alarmed, Pip stuck her head out from beneath his shirt and searched for a danger that existed only within her rangy companion. Her small, bright eyes were twitching.
“This is an unauthorized override of system procedure.” Within the chair, Flinx hardly dared move. “I am required to generate a record, citizen. The sybfile in question is restricted. Anything beyond its name lies under Church Edict.”
Flinx exhaled. It was a warning sufficient to frighten away most, but not him. He had violated Church Edict before, and successfully. What was more important was that he had wormed a first, critical byte of knowledge out of the Shell.
“Then you concede the existence of the sybfile. This contradicts your previous—” He checked a marker. “—thirty-two statements delivered in response to the same question.”
“I am required to generate a record.” The AI paused, neither volunteering any additional information nor denying its interrogator’s conclusion.
When would that record draw the attention of those responsible for supervising the accuracy and operational functionality of the Shell? Flinx wondered. His circumscribed time was growing shorter.
“Show me the syb in question. The original, not the alarmic. Show it to me now. Please,” he added after a moment’s thought.
“I cannot. The sybfile requested is under Edict. You do not show appropriate clearance for access.”
Quickly, Flinx composed a response. “But you know that I have to view it. You’re sensitive enough to tell that, aren’t you?” Once again, fighting back tears that the pain in his head squeezed from his eyes, he fought to make the AI understand the depth of his request. To see his need. To empathize.
“I will have to generate a report,” the voice of the Shell declared uncertainly.
“That’s fine. Generate all the reports you want. Let someone in authority read and rule on its contents. But I need to see the contents of that file, and I need to see them right now, here, this minute. Please, please, bring it up. I know that you understand.”
Something flowed through Flinx that he did not comprehend. This was understandable, because it was highly probable that no one else had ever felt anything quite like it before. If it was whatever passed for cybernetic empathy, he could not have identified it as such. It came and went in a twinkling, and then was gone.
In its place was one more syb identifier among hundreds, alive within the depths of the floating screen. There was no mistaking its identity. As near as he could tell, no twitchy alarms parasitized its boundaries. It was exactly as he had seen it originally, unaugmented and unchanged. Supporting his pounding head with one hand while wiping tears from his eyes with the back of the other, a quietly triumphant Flinx tersely directed his thoughts at the bright green tiara of an induction band that crowned his head.
“Open it.”
The tiny image brightened; a minuscule flare of activation. The hovering screen flickered infinitesimally. And went blank. Part of Flinx sagged while the rest of him surged with anger. So close.
“What’s this? What happened? I told you to open the sybfile.”
The reply of the Shell AI was as prompt as it was incomprehensible. “As you requested, the Edicted informational object in question has been opened.”
A bewildered Flinx tried to make sense of this response. Easy . . . careful, he told himself. The AI was not being obstinate, nor had it hesitated. Could it lie so serenely and effectively? But why bother to do so, when it could simply have continued to deny the existence of the sybfile, or at the last, refused to open it?
“The syb is open?”
“That is correct. I am required to generate a report.” Evincing neither hostility nor reluctance, the Shell waited patiently for further instruction.
Perhaps there was nothing insidious going on here, Flinx decided. Maybe the AI was being straightforward as well as truthful.
“The syb appears to contain no information,” Flinx remarked.
“That is not true. Do you wish me to conduct a search of contents?”
Flinx knew the AI would not look at the interior of the file unless instructed to do so. It was not interested. Its task was to search and find, not waste time perusing. “I do.”
“Here is the information.”
Flinx leaned forward eagerly. The pain in his head was receding slightly. He read:
CONTENTS REMOVED—OUTDATED MATERIAL
He took a deep breath. Something here was very, very wrong. First the Shell had found and brought forth the sybfile. When Flinx tried to access its contents, it vanished, to be replaced by a sophisticated alarm manifold and a stinging warning to avoid the site altogether. Now that he had succeeded in accessing it, he found it contained nothing more than a simple declaration of truancy.
Why maintain such an elaborate system of dissimulation, threat, and protection to guard material that was no longer worth maintaining? It made no sense. Given the virtually unlimited storage capacity of the global Shell, why delete any potentially useful material from anywhere? And Flinx had no doubt the recalcitrant syb contained potentially interesting material.
“Full fragment search,” he ordered.
The AI complied. “The sybfile contains no more information.”
“But it once did!”
“That is so. The additional material has been deleted.”
Though he thought it bound to tr
igger an alarm, Flinx pressed ahead. There was no point in trying to sustain the illusion of discretion any longer. “When, and on whose authority?”
“You do not possess sufficient clearance to have access to that information.”
As he persisted, Flinx wondered what would happen first: Would he finally get some answers, or would his head explode from the effort of the exertion? Once more, he implored the AI. The pause that ensued was too long, and he debated whether it was, at last, time to flee the facility.
“Something is not right. There are errors within the fragmentary operational matrix of this sybfile.”
Flinx sat up a little straighter. “Pursue and investigate. What sort of errors?”
“I am processing.” In order to better communicate with humans and thranx, the Shell AI was designed to mimic as well as comprehend emotions. It managed to give a good impersonation of confusion. Or perhaps, Flinx thought, mimicry had nothing to do with it.
“There are a number of alarms functioning as placeholders. I am disarming them.” Another pause, then, “This is most distressing.”
“What? What’s distressing?” Behind Flinx, the somnolent security officer snuffled in her sleep. “The alarms?”
“No. I have progressed several levels beyond their sensitivity. As previously stated, the sybfile in question has been deleted—but the echo of the procedure strongly suggests that the transfer string that was employed is counterfeit.”
Eyes half shut, Flinx frowned at the screen. “I don’t understand.”
“The removal was not carried out by an authorized government agency. Residue within the syb ghost suggests the utilization of a renegade probe.”