Mirage Page 11

A reader lay beside the lamp on the nightstand, a stack of book inserts with it. Ten pages into something light or dull and she would be asleep, she knew, but she was reluctant. For that matter she could ask Bogard to tranquilize her.

  The robot had inspected the entire apartment, much to Ariel’s dismay. It now stood near Mia’s door, on standby, satisfied for the time being that Mia was safe. And for the moment, Mia did feel safe. Her anxiety came from different concerns.

  She opened her datum and sorted through a few files. Here, laid up like this, there seemed little she could do. But she knew better than that; her limitations were illusory, borne of her own anxiety of being unable to move easily. She could do a lot just tracking things through datapools.

  For instance, she realized, staring at a list of names on the small screen, like sorting the possible sources for certain items-like the weapons. She read down the short column of names of illicit arms dealers. Most of them dealt primarily in the collector’s trade. A wealth of ancient weapons changed hands among certain rich clientele for private collections--illegal but hidden from sight, almost untraceable. Authorities knew who the collectors were, mostly, but not what they possessed. Where once some of these dealers would only have made money in selling in quantity, now they made good livings on the premiums received for one or two rare items a year.

  But a couple of them still trafficked in arms the old-fashioned way. For the most part, it was an offworld trade. Sales to Settler colonies, banned by treaty with Spacer worlds, flourished, and the government frankly looked the other way. Sentiment lay with the Settlers and if they argued that the weapons were needed for local fauna or law enforcement, that was reasonable, no? The problem was the sources for such weapons. Small factories and jobshops operated allover the globe, and a few on the moon, and there was one large facility on Mars. Any of them could turn out one or one thousand of almost any weapon.

  The guns used at Union Station were archaic but effective. Projectile weapons. Mia did not know the type, but judging from the wounds she had seen, a fairly large caliber. Even had the RI been functioning properly, energy damping fields would have had no effect on them.

  Of all the names on her screen, two dealers were the likeliest to provide such arms. One was rumored to own his own factories. It seemed logical to concentrate on that one, especially since time was short: Kynig Parapoyos.

  The problem with him was that his existence was more myth than reality. Was there an actual person named Kynig Parapoyos? There had been at one time, but from the talk Mia had heard at the academy and among the more seasoned agents, he had been around almost too long to be real anymore. So it was probable that Kynig Parapoyos was an organization rather than a specific individual. No matter. Parapoyos, whether one or a hundred, was a real entity that dealt in almost anything black market, and had made a fortune on the arms trade offworld.

  So: she needed to buy a weapon. That was the easiest way to contact an illicit arms dealer.

  Then, too, she did have real names to track, the names she had heard over the com Bogard had tapped at Union Station. Bok and Lemus. First names, certainly, and harder to hunt down, but better than nothing. The assault had gone down expertly. That narrowed the field marginally. They had moved like ex-military. She could start a search for matches with those parameters.

  She closed the datum for the night.

  “Bogard.”

  “Yes, Mia?” Its optical array glowed brighter at once.

  “I’d like to receive your report now.”

  The robot shifted from near the door to alongside her bed in the fluid motion that always awed and disturbed her.

  “Specify,” it said.

  “Relate events from entry to Union Station to present.” Bogard seemed to hesitate, then began speaking in a calm, evenly-modulated voice, starting with their arrival in Eliton’s limousine.

  Mia listened to the recitation, eyes closed, imagining the scene as Bogard related the detail at length. The crowds, the security, the shouted anti-Spacer and anti-robot slogans, the expanse of the station proper, the assembled dignitaries, the arrival of the Auroran legation

  “Stop.” She looked up at Bogard. “Go back. Repeat from phrase ‘several explosions occurred’ and continue.”

  “Several explosions occurred--do you require a specific number?”

  “No. Continue.”

  “--at which time my defense priority changed from potential to full prophylactic. A number of individuals emerged from the crowd surrounding the platform, armed with projectile weapons, and began firing upon the humans gathered on the platform. Several humans were injured. Agent Daventri asserted priority, ordered me to discontinue uplink with Resident Intelligence, and commanded that I render aid in tracking and capturing one or more of the assassins--”

  “Stop. Review. Why have you left out detail?”

  “Specify.”

  Mia pushed herself up straighter in bed. “You enshielded Senator Eliton. You left that out.”

  “I have no record of that action.”

  “You attempted to enshield Ambassador Humadros. You left that out.”

  “I have no record of that action.”

  Mia frowned. “Review elapsed time starting from the explosions to the point at which I requested your assistance.”

  “Forty-six seconds.”

  “What occurred during those forty-six seconds?”

  Bogard hesitated. Mia waited, breathing shallowly.

  “Humans were injured,” Bogard stated simply.

  “Detail.”

  “I--there is no detail. I have no record--“

  “Stop. Run diagnostic.”

  “Global?”

  “No, specifically on memory.”

  Bogard remained silent for a few seconds.

  “All memory systems complete and operational.”

  “You register no gaps?”

  “No.”

  Mia scowled, annoyed and a little frightened. “Bogard, there is a significant amount of detail you are not reporting. Review the time segment previously specified and analyze.”

  Silence. Then: “I show no discrepancy.”

  Mia started to tell Bogard, but its prior hesitation when confronted with only part of the information made her pause. She knew a little about what the roboticists called “positronic breakdown,” but not enough. She lacked the expertise to examine Bogard any further, but the gap in Bogard’s report disturbed her.

  Bogard did not remember Senator Eliton dying. Should she tell it? What would happen to it if she forced it to confront the deaths of two humans it had attempted to protect? She remembered its near collapse in the hospital and, earlier, its apparent relief at having her override its priorities in Union Station. She simply did not know enough.

  “Do you wish me to continue the report?” Bogard asked.

  Mia started. “Oh. No, Bogard. That’s enough tonight. I need sleep.”

  “I will be here.”

  “One more thing, Bogard. Can you identify the type of projectile weapons used?”

  “Not at present. I have a reliable image and can do a database search and match.”

  “Good. Initiate search. Thank you.”

  “You are welcome.”

  She stared at Bogard until she could no longer stay awake. There were already too many questions to puzzle through and, she imagined, too little time. To have Bogard become one of those questions... too much, too soon.

  Sleep was welcome.

  initiate internal diagnostic relevant to Interrogatory command, specify corrupted sequencing, analyze potential Third Law violation, buffer nodes P-Seven and P-Eight protect encrypted, access blocked, potential First and Second Law violation consequent upon internal override, external buffer protocol indicated, primary command protocol overriding necessity to access, recommend isolation of subject buffer nodes coded to command protocols for external release, data protected, data isolated, data held awaiting command protocol for download, request negated by Daventri Mia,
delay consistent with self-preservation protocols and consistent with First and Second Law protocols, analysis of relevant systems complete, performance potential optimal

  end report

  _

  TEN

  Derec found Rana asleep on the cot in the cafeteria, one arm draped over her eyes, the other hanging to the floor. He did not know how long ago she had given herself up to sleep, so he left her alone. He poured himself a coffee and returned to the main lab.

  Details. He scrolled through the reports filed sometime in the early morning hours by his field techs.

  Twenty-six of Union Station’s robots had gone into complete positronic collapse--all those that had been present in the gallery when the shooting began. The rest seemed relatively unaffected, although complete diagnostics could not be finished due to the team’s ejection from the site by Special Service.

  A request for a tech to help an Acrisian with a domestic problem. One of her servors had evidently been given a conflicting command and sent it into a dilemma loop. She suspected one of the workers from D. C. urban maintenance had done it, though she could not prove it. She wanted her robot fixed and evidence to take to the local police when she filed a complaint.

  Derec sighed. Robotic affidavits were not allowed in Terran courts; the police would, at best, take her report and then do nothing with it, humoring the Spacer. At worst, the robot would be confiscated as contraband. Positronic robots were allowed only in embassy areas and one or two other specially designated Spacer zones. How these people got humaniform positronic robots past customs baffled Derec. Nevertheless, he entered authorization to send a field tech to her residence, which was just outside the embassy district, on the coast. Acrisia’s oceans nearly dwarfed Earth’s, so it made sense to him that Acrisians would try to be near something homelike, but he still wished the Spacers would stick to their enclaves if they insisted on keeping robots.

  He found a thank-you on his com from Agent Sathen for his help at the hospital, Sathen’s personal com code appended. Derec filed that.

  He was tempted to call more people in government to try to get past the Special Service restrictions, but the only one who might help would be Eliton’s vice-senator--now Senator--Jonis Taprin, and Derec doubted he would be available yet, what with all the details Eliton’s death must have dropped on him. Perhaps later, though he doubted it would do much good. Derec shuddered at the idea of untrained people teasing through the tatters of a positronic brain. He called his lawyer again, but the man was still in Chicago Sector.

  He went to Rana’s console and sat down.

  Her screens displayed the bizarre patterns she had shown him the night before. He sat down and leaned on the console, tracing the mazelike coils. They still seemed familiar, though he could not identify them or recall the context. Rana was right --they ought to have had solid endpoints, clear resolutions, but they simply faded out like the paths of excited quarks on a particle analysis chart. The equivalent in human brains would be the degenerative pattern of a memory disorder or cognitive disfunction...

  Derec sat up stiffly. No, there was a closer resemblance. He stared at the patterns now, almost unwilling to admit what he saw. He moved to another screen and accessed the specifications on Bogard. After sifting through a number of levels, he found what he wanted.

  “Damn,” he hissed.

  ” ‘Morning,” Rana said, stumbling into the room. She carried a cup of coffee.

  “Take a look at this,” Derec said, scooting back from the console to give her room.

  Rana leaned toward the screen with Bogard’s specs. She frowned. “What--?”

  “Those are the pathway tracks for the temporal buffers we built into Bogard.”

  Rana looked back at the RI display on her own screens, then again at these patterns. “Damn.”

  “I thought those trails looked familiar,” Derec said enthusiastically. He stood and clapped his hands. “I was exhausted last night--that’s why I couldn’t see it.”

  “They aren’t identical.”

  Derec looked at the Bogard screen. The pathways that showed the track of positronic activity from one part of Bogard’s system into another did not coil so tightly nor fade out in quite the same way. Instead, the loops and tangles doubled back on themselves a couple of times, then traced direct paths out of the main positronic matrix, through a clear demarcation point, ending sharply with the exit of the track.

  “No,” Derec conceded, “but the similarities are too great to deny.”

  Rana sat down. “But Bogard’s a prototype. None of these specs are in any other database than our own.”

  Derec rose from his seat and shrugged. “Parallel research?”

  “On whose part? The Union Station RI is a standard positronic brain, installed by the good people of the Calvin Institute. Part of the agreement for it was that it would be a conservative, basic model. And even if they knew about our upgrades, they’d think it was heresy and would have nothing to do with it.” Rana glanced at her screen. “Besides, they aren’t identical. Bogard’s pathways don’t just fade like this, they end. They have a destination and a gateway to it.”

  “Because they feed into a symbiotic system riding alongside the main one. There’s only one place for the trace to go. There’s access back and forth across the boundary, sure, but the way the trace is generated--”

  “--is pretty much the same. Which means that--what? Three Law violations in a standard positronic brain are being shunted--where? Outside the system?”

  Derec paced briefly. “Possibly, but I doubt it. If that were the case, then the RI shouldn’t have collapsed. My guess is this is a sensory diversion.”

  “Sensory...”

  “The RI was playing a game.”

  “Which implies a malfunction,” Rana said.

  “Yes, but where? What if it thought the game was real?”

  “How? That would mean that its entire sensory net”

  “Was subverted. Its ability to perceive reality had been altered, so that something else became the operative reality. When it came back online it must have realized what had happened.”

  “But not while it was playing the game?”

  Derec shrugged. “Evidently not.”

  Rana frowned. “Look, we built Bogard to shunt memory like this. The only way for a standard positronic brain to exhibit this is for an external system to be grafted onto it. That would show up as interference in major operational areas.”

  “That should be easy enough to find,” Derec said.

  “But I haven’t found any.”

  “Did you look?”

  Rana paused. “No, not specifically. But it would be obvious, even as badly jumbled as this is.”

  “Maybe. Maybe only if we look at it the right way. You’ve been trying to figure out what’s been happening to the RI brain given the assumption that it’s an unmodified unit and therefore self-contained. Not to mention something this radical--I mean, think about it. At a crucial moment, the entire RI absented itself from what was happening in the terminal to playa game. That much of a modification--that much interference--it would have to be enormous and it would have to be something...”

  “What?”

  “It would have to be something laid in over time, otherwise it would trigger alarms, cause shutdowns. Minor crises would be the rule...”

  “So it might not be so obvious.”

  “No, but it would still be big just to get around the normal self-correcting routines,” Derec explained. “Did we get its operational records for the past--oh, how long has it been online? A year?”

  “Almost two. We did, but I’m not inclined to trust them.”

  “Why not?”

  Rana gestured at the screen. “Nothing we’ve seen here is as it should be.”

  “Good point. But that’s only if you rely on the RI’s own report.”

  “I don’t think I’d trust a report made by Terrans.”

  “You’re Terran,” Derec pointed out.
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br />   “An accident of birth.” Rana waved a hand dismissively. “I claim special circumstances.”

  Derec laughed. “Bring it up anyway,” he said.

  He went to the com and tapped in the code for Union Station. After going through a short maze of addresses, he finally connected with Tathis Kedder.

  “Mr. Avery,” Kedder said, bemused. “I didn’t expect to hear from you again after--well, after.”

  “I take a personal pride in my work,” Derec said.” Just because I’m told it’s no longer my business, that doesn’t mean I stop worrying about it.”

  Kedder smiled, nodding. “I know what you mean. How can I help you?”

  “Just your recollections. Do you remember any instances of inexplicable interruptions in service from the RI? Or periods when it seemed sluggish or... uncooperative?”

  Kedder shook his head. “Never uncooperative. Apologetic a couple of times.”

  “Apologetic?”

  “Yes, it glitched --the one I remember best was a luggage mix-up--and it apologized profusely, as if the world might end.” Kedder paused. “Let me think... one other time the whole kitchen component seized up. That lasted about ten minutes, then seemed to correct itself.”

  “And the RI apologized again?” Derec asked.

  “Most sincerely.”

  “And you didn’t report it?”

  Kedder frowned. “Of course we did. To the shift supervisor, who took it to the Calvin Institute.”

  “The Calvin Institute. Why not here?”

  Kedder shrugged. “I don’t know. I thought we were supposed to go through you, but the supervisor said no.”

  “And what did the Calvin Institute say?”

  “Adjustment errors. Nothing important enough to bring you in.”

  “I see. Did the Calvin Institute give that recommendation?”

  “That was my understanding.”

  “Which supervisor was this? I’d like to talk to him.”

  Kedder shook his head. “He’s gone, oh, about ten months ago.”

  “Where, if I may ask?”

  “New job. He went to work for... let me think... oh, yes, Imbitek.”

  “Do you remember his name?”