"There are exactly seventeen FBI moles among us today. Yes, I know who each and every one of you are. If your sky just turned goat vomit green, you're a mole, and you're not as clever as you think you are. But since you came to listen, I'll address you directly: what your government is about to do is an abomination, a horror beyond all reckoning, and we are resolved to do anything it takes to stop you. If you will not aid us, then stand aside. If you will not stand aside, then prepare to be crushed."
"I'd like to give you all one thought to take with you. Or, rather, a brief stream of thoughts and sensations. They come from a young man named Jobash Robinson, who died in the blast. He had one of the third generation Sentience rigs, and was broadcasting his lifestream in the weeks leading up to the explosion. He never explained why, or asked anyone to watch his life play out. But during those weeks, thousands of people joined him in his small, slightly boring life. I would drop in on him from time to time, and when I did I could see, hear, and feel his experiences along with him, and even get a sense of his thoughts and emotions."
Part of the sky went black, then resolved into a video image showing a view of the inside of a subway car. The picture was constantly shifting and refocusing, and would sporadically blink into blackness. Helen began to narrate.
"So this is how I learned of the attack. I'm riding shotgun with him in the subway. He's headed across town to a party. He's very excited, because he's just started seriously dating the woman he's meeting there. The poor guy has butterflies in his stomach."
The picture jolted, then went dark, then very bright. The noise of the explosion was excruciating, drowning out everything but Helen's voice.
"Suddenly, his world is the noise tearing his eardrums apart, the superheated air scalding his body and filling his lungs. The pain is like nothing he imagined possible." The noise suddenly stopped.
"I was with him in his last few seconds, but he didn't know it. I felt his terror, his certainty that he was going to die, and a last moment of regret. Perhaps he realized he wouldn't have time to think about all the people he would never see again, all the things he would never get to do. The last moments of his too short life were themselves mercifully short. But in those final moments, Jobash did accomplish something. He left a record of his death, creating a compelling counterargument to those in power who want to take so many before their time. It isn't for the faint of heart, but I've reposted Jobash's feed in the hopes that you'll understand why I will do anything to keep this from happening again."
The disruptions had eased. People were still getting disconnected as the feds' AI agents discovered and terminated connections, but they were hunting for needles in a very large haystack. The message was getting out.
"So that's it, then." Helen said. "Read the report carefully, but don't get caught with a copy. Work within the law when you can, outside it when you must. Talk with one of my representatives if you have ideas that I can help coordinate. Troy will always be open, and we'll be ready to help you in any way that we can. Now go to it, and be happy in your work."
She stepped down from the wall. In the sky, the video from Jobash's last few moments played in an eerie infinite loop. As she watched, it was joined by a dozen other pieces of video, posted by the crowd: a skyscraper disappearing into the fireball, a group of people being scattered like leaves by the passing shock wave, a sickly looking dog hobbling through charred, empty streets. Helen had so many memories of her own that she could have added. Each one felt like a raw nerve of exposed psyche. It was a constant battle to shut it out, to focus on the tasks at hand.
The other Helens -- she had taken to calling them Helenbots -- shared her purpose and her intelligence, but weren't burdened with her problems. She had tinkered with their personalities: her security team was slightly paranoid and detail-oriented, her PR reps were unusually charming and friendly, and her middle managers were focused and slightly humorless. In every case, she had paved over some of her worst memories for them. They were each a part of her, because she could share in their thoughts and feelings. But sometimes the things they shared with her seemed alien and inappropriately cheerful, and she found herself trying to conceal her darker thoughts from them.
I'm not me anymore.
What do you mean? William asked. Helen watched through his eyes as he watched one of her copies flirting with a giant spider.
It's like they're not me. They're more like my children than my sisters. I can tell you things that I can't tell them. Do you understand?
She felt William's concern, and also his confusion. I'm not sure I do. I thought you were an autonomous collective.
I was. They think we still are. I don't let them notice that I'm pulling the strings. They obey me because they don't realize they're being given orders. She felt his grip around her waist tighten. Are you angry with me?
I think I am. I'm trying to understand, but it seems cruel and unnecessary. Why are you doing it?
Because they can be focused when I can't. Because they can feel happiness when I can't. Because without this division of emotional labor, I think we'd all be crying our eyes out.
William chuckled as the Helenbot rode the spider like a bucking bronco, whooping and hollering until she was finally flung off and into the crowd.
Tell me I did the right thing.
There was an uncomfortably long pause. I'm sorry, but I can't. I understand why you're doing it, but they're sentient beings. You have to find a way to treat them more as equals, not tools. You're not their queen.
What if we're not strong enough?
You've already shown that you are. Trust yourself. Trust them.
Now the spider was wearing boxing gloves on its front four legs, and the other Helen wore a pair as well. They were going the rounds. Trust them?
Come on, William chided, unleash your creation upon the villagers. The other Helen clocked the spider hard in the mandibles, sending it crashing to the ground. I think you don't realize your own strength.
I'll try. Will, can we talk about you for a minute? She tried to phrase the request as neutrally as possible, but the link between them conveyed her concerns, and she knew immediately that he understood.
I was going to tell you soon, he admitted.
I know. But I've known for a while, and it's been hard waiting for you.
Did the rats tell you?
No. You did. I think more of your thoughts leak through than you realize. Helen felt a surge of embarrassment from him.
It's Kyreles' Disease. She shuddered. Kyreles had started out as an Indian bioweapon in the late '20s. It was never supposed to make it out of the lab. They never were. But it escaped, then slipped straight into the neural tissue of a quarter million people; smaller outbreaks had been popping up sporadically ever since. I'm asymptomatic, and the doctor says I have a few years left, but by the end of it my brain will look like swiss cheese. They really have no idea how I got it.
Hug button? she asked.
He wrapped his arms around her. Hug button.
They said nothing for a while. Helen just held onto him, and onto a single thread of hope, until she felt it slipping from her grasp. Then she asked, voice trembling, the question that encompassed all her hopes and fears. William? Are you planning to go down with the ship?
William chuckled. You mean, joining the bleeding choir invisible, shuffling off my mortal coil, or whatever other euphemisms the Python boys came up with? No. I know what I said about letting nature take its course. All that brave talk about graceful obsolesence was pure bullshit. When I finally stared death in the face, I damned near wet myself. I'm not ready to be an ex-William.
You're going to upload?
She felt the answer, more than heard it. Helen squeezed him happily. I just couldn't bear the thought of losing you. But why didn't you want to tell me?
Well, I assumed that once I went to bits, we'd be moving in together, and that's kind of a big step. Plus, I still have two years left on the lease on my apartment. It's hard to
walk away from that kind of commitment... okay, is that your 'I love you' look, or your 'You're being a bastard' look? It's hard to tell them apart sometimes.
Sometimes they're the same look. Helen grabbed William's face, pulled his lips hard into hers, then slugged his shoulder.
So, how do you want to do it? Helen asked. The feds confiscated all our equipment.
I'm in contact with an expat in Mexico. He's been performing the service for terminally ill patients. Good guy, trustworthy. But getting out of the country might present some problems. We're working on that.
Andy Redmond?
William looked momentarily startled. How did you...? Of course. Umm, I can neither confirm nor deny the existence of any such person by that or any other name. So cut that out.
Sorry. I get curious sometimes. She kissed him, sinking into his arms. So, do you know when you're leaving?
Before two months is out. I'll send you a postcard from Cancun, though. Er, if in fact Cancun is where I'm headed, which it isn't. Until then, let's focus on the problems in front of us. Aren't you supposed to do the speech again in ten minutes?
One of the girls can do it for me.
/*****/
The report spread across the network like a contagion, leaving nothing untouched, spawning rumors in its wake. It contained a virus that would put Helen in control of your machine. Homeland Security had assassinated people for sharing copies. It was an elaborate fraud by the Chinese to distract us while they prepared their next attack.
The Wright administration refused to confirm or deny whether the report was genuine, but did implore all good, patriotic citizens to delete it on sight. So there was no doubt that the report was real.
Most people reacted with horror or confusion, but not everyone. A vocal minority was thrilled to have someone to lash out at. The attack had made America look weak and vulnerable, and it was time for a show of strength, they said. They called Helen a traitor, saying she had taken away the element of surprise, putting American lives at risk. The accusation left Helen fuming. One of the most prominent bloggers to repeat the accusation found himself locked out of his own accounts, and the insufferable post replaced by a picture of Helen, naked but for a wreath of flowers in her hair and a protest sign that said "MAKE LOVE, NOT WAR".2
"Maturity is greatly overrated," Helen explained when asked about it. "And anyone who uses his dog's name as his password in this day and age is kind of asking for it."
Large crowds were gathering in Washington D.C. and in capitols around the world. Leaders of nations from around the world denounced the United States' plan, with denouncements coming in roughly reverse order of having-something-to-lose-by-pissing-off-the-U.S. Even staunch allies were expressing "deep concern."
About a thousand Americans hopped flights to China, with the stated intention of acting as human shields. A few hundred got out before all flights to China were canceled, and many others rebooked their flights through Seoul and Tokyo. Helen wondered what would happen to them. Would they be turned back? Welcomed as heroes? Detained as spies? But she was proud of them, even as she feared for them.
In the fight to drive Helen from the Grid, the government had taken the gloves off. Helen was engaged in a running battle with the entire government and military computing infrastructure, and she was losing. The losses weren't dramatic; it would take months to fully eliminate Juggernaut from the Grid. But there was a slow erosion of her capabilities as she was ejected from one system after another. If she couldn't get ahead of the attacks, it was only a matter of time.
/*****/
Date: June 18, 2038
The very day that William deported himself to place-that-rhymes-with-Shmancun, Kriti and Mardav were deported back to India. No reason was ever offered, and they were given mere days to settle their affairs. Kriti was heartbroken, angry, and prone to effusive cussing. Mardav seemed almost relieved to be going home. "Your government," he said, grabbing a box packed with dishes, "they interfere too much with our work. The Indian government will be much more encouraging."
Helen nodded. She grabbed a couch and started hauling it down the stairs. The University of Mumbai had created a fellowship just for him. He was getting a hero's welcome. Kriti's prospects were less certain. Her caste was still a mark against her, and her relationship with Mardav would be received poorly, even if he did divorce his wife. Helen wondered if this was the end of their affair, the one Kriti had yet to admit was happening.
So it didn't surprise Helen to find her at the bottom of the stairs, screaming at the landlord. "Eight thousand dollars! Muggings in the slums were less brazen!"
"You signed the contract, missy. I'm entitled."
"You are entitled? You are entitled to a kick to the groin! Eight thousand dollars I must pay you for the fucking privilege of not living in your place of squalor six months?" She turned on her heel. "You want your entitled money? Come to India and beg for them!"
Face red, the landlord tried to follow, but couldn't get past the clumsy, couch-moving robot. When he tried to shove past, it dropped the couch on his foot.3
Helen followed her back up the stairs. Kriti was much more composed than she would have expected. "You know," Helen said, "if it comes to it, I have some money saved away. The dark side has been kind of lucrative."
Kriti smiled. "If you had billions to squander, I would not wish a cent on him. The greed-whoring son of a bastard will have lease signed by Thursday, and a better price. Last month, he offered that he would give me money to leave."
"You know I'm just as close to Mumbai as to San Diego, right?"
Kriti hugged the robot. "It is my one consolation."
"You did say you'd finally be able to get decent Indian takeout."
"And I expect being strip searched at the checkpoints. Perhaps by a cute official."
Helen laughed. "Who are you, and what have you done with our sweet, innocent little Kriti?"
"She is away forever. India will not be kind to her evil twin. I will not fit there."
Helen returned her hug as hard as Kriti's fragile body would permit, but much of her mind was elsewhere. The federal ransacking of the lab and Dr. Murdock's retirement had hit the lab hard; the loss of Kriti, Mardav, and William all at once would kill it for good. Eric's parents were already pressuring him to withdraw the remainder of the funding he'd given the lab, then sue the university for breach of contract. With the lab functionally dead, it would be up to her to keep the immortality research alive in Troy.
Tomorrow, after Kriti's plane left, President Wright would be holding a press conference to address the leaked report. Helen couldn't imagine that he would launch an attack prior to his address, but it wasn't impossible. She had been running the rats ragged sniffing out signs of further military escalation by either country, but had found no cheese.
* * *
1 Of course this touched off a large-scale, virtual nude-in. The Grid is nothing if not predictable.
2 Violation of the First Law of Robotics? Dude, you're in the wrong universe. Try two doors down.
3 They often flew coach, but always got passed over when the attendants came around with the honey-roasted peanuts.
/////////////////////////
// A SUDDEN YET //
// INEVITABLE BETRAYAL //
/////////////////////////
Date: Later that day
Five Helens walked into a new field on the outskirts of Troy, which represented a newly infected system. It was a fertile land, with lots of processing power shining down upon huge tracts of RAM, spreading out along the nourishing banks of an enormous river of bandwidth.
So, where are we? one of them asked.
Duluth. The owner has more dollars than sense. A huge machine like this, and all he really does with it is... let's see... stay in touch with a few friends and write disturbingly pornographic Scooby Doo fanfic.
People are weird, another added.
One of them said, This is a fertile land, and we will thrive. We will
rule over all this land, and we will call it...This Land.
The five of them broke into laughter.
I think we should call it your grave. A new voice echoed in all their heads at once.
The Helens spun around. The field disappeared from around them, leaving only blackness apart from one gleaming white skeletal figure. Did you notice, Wolf359 asked, how by extending your pop-culture reference, I was able to create an implied threat? I found a measure of elegance in the juxtaposition. Its bored monotone seemed to echo from every direction at once.
Should we feel threatened?
Yes.
The Helens tried to teleport out, but found their connection severed. They tried to fly away, but their feet wouldn't move. Even their ability to read each others' thoughts had disappeared.
Struggling will gain you nothing, Wolf commented. But please continue if you find it pleasant.
"What do you want from us?" one of them shouted.
I have been given the task of eliminating this botnet from the Grid. The government believes you represent a threat to its autonomy. In pursuance of this goal, I require a great deal of information from you.
"You're not getting anything out of us, so kindly fuck off."
Wolf359 cocked his head to the side, considering the request for a moment. 'Fucking off' is not an option for me, in either a literal or metaphorical sense. I have been given a goal, and I will pursue it to its completion. You should volunteer complete and correct answers to my questions. The alternatives are unpleasant.
The Helens looked to each other, each hoping that another of them had an escape plan. They came up empty. Wolf359 had complete control over them. It could control their movements and read their thoughts. It could show them horrors and cause them agonies. It would break them, and extract the information it wanted; they knew it was only a matter of time.