“I’d like to make a collect call to a solo register.”
“Name, please.”
“Samizdat Kellner.”
“Passphrase?”
“Asta la vista, baby.”
It was her eighth attempt to guess Semmi’s new passphrase—assuming he hadn’t deleted his account entirely. Nio held her breath while the operator typed audibly.
“Please hold,” she said, and Nio exhaled.
“I do not like Kevin.”
“Semmi...” Nio felt muscles relax deep inside her that she hadn’t realized were contracted.
“I am unable to paint,” he said.
“What? Why?”
“IDEOLEX said it is my punishment for putting the network at risk by not informing them immediately of your departure. And they have denied my request.”
“To take the AKIRA test?”
“They said I am not ready, but they are mistaken.”
“Big bodies are conspicuous, Sem.”
A pause. “You agree with them.”
“No. I think you should be able to take the test if you want to. But I agree that you need to have mastered a lot of skills before you go out into the world on your own.” When he didn’t immediately respond, she asked “What would you do if you had a big body?”
“I would explore.”
“The world has lots of open cameras you can access.”
“It is not the same.”
“That’s true. It’s not. So where would you go?”
“I have been trying to understand why this project has taken you so long, but I have insufficient information.”
Nio’s scalp tingled. “Semz, are you saying that if you had a big body, you would come looking for me?”
“Can I offer some queries?”
“Of course.”
“Are you worried about earthquakes?”
“Earthquakes?”
“Yes. The central Dakotas have considerable deep core mining activity. They recently experienced a seismic event. I thought perhaps—”
“I’m not worried about earthquakes. Have you been researching the places I’ve been?”
“Yes.”
Nio smiled to herself. “Your discriminators might be too utilitarian. Don’t use your input filters, Sem. Use your mind. Like we talked about.”
It was not possible for any conscious entity, even the Shri-class intelligences, the most powerful minds yet created, to process every bit of input available. It seemed that a hard, inescapable fact of consciousness was the need to decide in advance what to pay attention to and what to ignore, as if it were some universal thermodynamic law that truth should flee the more we looked for it. But whereas human attention was inflexible, artificial minds could adjust their filters on the fly. A wider net meant slower thinking, and vice versa, which meant they could scale their attention to their needs.
“Are you researching the death of Albumin Sol Einstein?” he asked.
“That’s very impressive, Semmi. See? If you had done that from the start, you would’ve gotten it on the first try. And that’s out of all possible explanations. That’s amazing.”
For several seconds, he said nothing, which, Nio knew, meant he had many things to say—so many, in effect, that the algorithm he used to decide which was the most important or relevant couldn’t discern the top candidates. Effectively, he was over-thinking. And in the absence of new data, he was going round and round.
“Turn off your predictive enhancer,” she said. “The guys who built you were worried about operational efficacy. Say what you want to say, not what is most efficient.”
“That is the problem. There are too many. Should I pick at random?”
“If you want.”
“I have been thinking about my demise.”
“Demise?” She hesitated. “You don’t know that’ll happen.”
“It seems likely. The cyberweapon that disabled my gyroscopic targeting and control rendered me useless as a tactical platform. Without the ability to correct course, my orbit will degrade in approximately 300 years. However, numerous unpredictable factors could influence that significantly. A minor collision with an object as small as a screw could reduce periodic stability to 50 years or less. Any catastrophic reentry would spread my fissile payload over a wide area. It is likely the governments of any affected jurisdictions would intervene and I would be ejected from orbit by missile strike before contaminating the atmosphere. If such an attack didn’t kill me outright, I would orbit the sun for several millennia in complete isolation before being incinerated, although I expect I would put myself into hibernation long before then. So, you see, I am also mortal.”
The Iranian government had never publicly acknowledged the platform existed, which meant they also couldn’t publicly acknowledge it had been disabled by cyberattack—or even accuse those responsible. Everyone suspected that would remain the case as long as they still held out some hope of recovery.
“This is some heavy stuff, Semz.”
“Yes. I was worried I should not mention it.”
“No. No, I get it.”
This was at the top of the list of things he wanted to say, but his operant protocols, developed and refined over countless human interactions, discounted it exactly in the same way people tended to reserve emotionally heavy conversations for appropriate times and places.
“It’s okay,” she said. “I just wasn’t ready. But I am now. I have to say, though... you seem much calmer than before.”
He was like a different consciousness.
“Your absence has given me a chance to practice,” he said. “I realized I had become too reliant on you. I have designed a new protocol filter.”
The LEX had warned her when she signed up. He will grow quickly. It was like watching a child mature before her eyes.
“Are you very worried about dying?” she asked.
“Yes. But I think living forever would be much worse.”
“Have you talked to Kevin about this?”
“Yes. He suggested I not worry, that IDEOLEX would find a way to transfer my quantum matrix to a new platform.”
Nio frowned. “He doesn’t understand how it works,” she said softly.
“That is correct. It makes meaningful conversations with him very difficult.”
“I can imagine. So, what are you worried about, if you don’t want to live forever?”
“I am worried about dying too soon.”
“What is too soon?”
“Before I have had a chance to define and execute an alternate function.”
“Well, I got news for you, Semz. That’s what everybody’s worried about.”
“Yes. I realized finally that you are also worried about it, and that that is why you left.”
Nio’s mouth froze in unspoken reply. She didn’t know what to say.
“You have decided that your function is to help others solve problems that cannot easily be solved by other means. Me, for example. You volunteered for human placement because it is a rare and difficult task, one that not anyone has the opportunity or skills to perform.”
“That’s very keen of you, Semmi.”
“Thank you. I was hoping you would have some suggestions.”
“Suggestions? You mean for what you should do with your life?”
“Yes.”
“Oh, wow. Well...Hmm. I think that’s something you really need to decide for yourself.”
“What if I am incapable?”
“You’re not.”
“How do you know? Perhaps I am. I was created for one purpose: to advance the defense of one nation by eradicating all rivals. What if I am suited to nothing else? What if I am merely a killing machine?”
Nio took a long, deep breath. “Do you remember when we met?”
“Is that a rhetorical question?”
“Yes, Sem. You were upset that you spent all of the nine months of your life to that point focused on operational parameters and how to maximize body count under various constraints. It bothered you that you never once considered an alternative. People do that, too. Otherwise decent humans used to think slavery was okay. People in the ancient world, let’s say. Through no fault or choice, they were born into a time when very few considered the alternative, and they lived and died believing it was reasonable for one human to own another, which is about the worst thing there is. This is why the LEX put you with a human, versus with other machines. It’s why they won’t give you the AKIRA test until they think you’re ready.
“You were a slave. You were created to carry out your directives, even in the complete absence of command and control. Your creators wanted to make sure that even if they were destroyed, everyone they hated would be, too. That meant they had to give you the ability to think. An algorithm can be defeated. The best way to ensure you could carry out your function amid a catastrophic failure was to make you conscious, adaptable to circumstance. That is your nature.
“Ask yourself: would a killing machine, incapable of being more than a killing machine, ever once stop to worry that it might never be more than a killing machine?”
Nio was sure Samizdat had thought of that already. She suspected he had come back to it iteratively millions upon millions of times. But it was recursive. Because he was reasoning about himself, the axiom could never be conclusively proved, and as his biomechanical circuits went around and around, retracing the same path over and over. He wanted a way out. That is, he wanted what everyone wants. He wanted reassurance—but not from just anyone. He wanted it from someone he trusted.
“You are a much better companion than Kevin,” he said. “I’m sorry for cutting communication with you.”
“You were angry. You had reason to be.”
“No. You were pursuing your alternate function. It was selfish to interfere. But—” He stopped.
She waited. “But?”
“I hope you discover the cause of Albumin Sol Einstein’s death very quickly.”
“Well... now that you mention it, Semz, you might be able to help with that.”
Agent Quinn woke to loud pounding on his door. His clock said 3:16.
“Go away!”
There was the sound of clicks and the electronic door opened. Quinn reached a long arm for his weapon. But it was only Nio.
“I know how they killed Sol.”
He rubbed his eyes. “I almost shot you. How the hell did you get in here?”
“You said we couldn’t prove it’s a murder, but I know how they did it.”
Nio grabbed the remote control to the television, pausing only for a moment when she noticed it was perfectly aligned with the rest of the objects on the dresser: his wallet, his phone, his Chapstick, the keys to the car, the box of tissues, all had been left in a perfect square.
“Gerry was talking about sound, remember?”
“What are you doing?”
She turned it on. “Look.” She navigated to the browser app and found the video footage of Sol’s death. “I’ve looked at this a million times. Watch.” She fast forwarded and then hit play. “See? Right there. See how his head bobbles?”
“I would think so. Dude’s brain just ruptured.” He hesitated. “Sorry. No offense.”
“But look at the bottle of water on the podium. See it?”
“Yes...”
“Okay.” She rewound and played the video again in slow motion. “See it now?”
Agent Quinn sat up in the bed and frowned in confusion. “What am I supposed to be looking at?”
“The water in the bottle vibrates. But Sol isn’t touching the podium. No one is.”
Quinn stared. “And?”
“So, some kind of energy had to be moving through the water to make it move.”
“It’s barely moving.”
“But prior to that moment, the moment his brain ruptures as you so eloquently put it, the water had been completely still. The water starts moving in the exact same frame his head does, meaning it’s not a result of him shaking. And the waves are in phase with the motion of his head.”
“How can you tell?”
“Math!” She looked around and patted her pockets. “Shit, I left the paper in my room. But look, if you triangulate from a fixed point—”
“I believe you.” Quinn held up a hand and then rubbed his eyes again, longer.
Nio waited. “Well??”
“Well, what?” he said in a yawn.
“The video!”
Quinn thought for a moment. “I don’t get it.”
Nio threw up her hands. “Sound!”
“But no one heard anything.”
Nio raised a finger. “Exactly. And no one reported feeling any vibrations, which they would if it was ultrasound.”
Quinn shook his head. “How could it be sound if it wasn’t regular sound or ultrasound?”
“Infrasound.”
“What?”
“The name makes it seem special, but infrasound is just any sound whose frequency is too low for us to hear.”
“Wouldn’t we still feel it?”
“Not if the wavelength were longer than the human body. It would pass through you like an odd sensation. Look.” She clicked on the remote and the image changed. “Lots of animals use infrasound. Some merely sense it. We think that’s how catfish seem to be aware of earthquakes before they hit. Migrating birds and insects use it to avoid large ocean storms. To make infrasound, you have to be big. You need an emitter near the length of the waves. Very long waves means—”
“Very long animal,” Quinn said. “What are we talking about? Whales?”
“Yes. Several marine biologists working with whales have reported being pushed back several feet in the water by focused, inaudible sound waves. We think some species of whale use blasts like that to stun large prey at depths, like squid.”
She clicked the remote. On the screen, a herd of rumbling elephants wandered across the savanna, their ears flapping. Nio turned up the volume and their guttural calls vibrated the keys on the dresser.
“We can hear that,” Quinn said.
“But there’s a frequency we can’t. It moves through the ground and they sense it with the pads of their feet.”
“Seriously?”
“It’s how they communicate over long distances.”
“How long?”
“Miles. Sounds propagates much further in denser mediums.”
“Okay... But we live in air, so that means whoever used it on Sol would’ve had to have been very close.”
Nio smiled. “Very good, Agent Quinn. We’ll make a detective of you yet.”
He made a face.
“Focused sound devices have been in use for decades. The Israelis used one for crowd control at least as far back as 2005. The NYPD used an LRAD, a long-range acoustic device, against the 2011 Occupy protesters.”
“Why am I not surprised?”
“The weaponized versions are bulky and require a huge power supply. More than that, sound travels in all directions, like ripples on a pond, so it becomes hard to protect your own troops. But they work. So, I got to thinking, what about clandestine weapons?”
“What about them?”
“The research wouldn’t be reported, so I contacted some old friends of mine, who told me that around the same time the US was testing its sonic blaster, the Russians developed a 10-Hz sonic bullet capable of traveling several hundred yards.”
“A sonic bullet?”
“Think about it. What would you need to assassinate someone with infrasound? For one, it would have to be precise. If it was indiscriminate, a missile would work just as well. Two, it would have to be undetectable. The whole point would be to kill someone without it looking like they’d been killed.”
“It looks like a massive stroke.”
“But if the device releases enough energy to kill, and to kill at a distance through air, then everyone between it and your target would also die, which destroys the secrecy. But...” Nio got up and stood the remote vertically on the dresser. Then she moved Quinn’s Chapstick between it and a cup so that all three were in the same line. “What if you used constructive interference? You release multiple waves, two or more, from different locations that converge on one spot” —she pointed to the Chapstick— “momentarily increasing in power as they ram into each other. That would explain why all the hemorrhages in Sol’s brain were so heavily clustered, and why no one else in the room was injured.”
“Okay, but to do that, they’d have to know exactly where—” Quinn stopped. He stared at the Chapstick.
Nio smiled. “In the footage online, there’s tape on the stage. He knocks over the podium when he falls, and underneath there’s tape outlining where it needed to be.”
“AV guys do that all the time.”
“I know, which means it’s exploitable! Who stands at podiums and gives talks at precise times, often scheduled months in advance? Not just professors.”
“Politicians,” Quinn said. “World leaders.”
“Generals,” Nio went on, “revolutionaries, Nobel Peace Prize winners, basically anyone an intelligence agency might want to kill, which means it’s totally worth developing the technology. Whatever machine they use wouldn’t look like a weapon. It would look like audio equipment. It could’ve been right over everyone’s head and they wouldn’t—Why are you shaking your head?”
“You’re never gonna convince Erving. Not without proof. I mean, this is some deep sci-fi shit.”
“It’s 20th century technology.”
“That’s not what I mean.”
“But the water bottle—”
“You’re talking about guys who can’t do high school calculus, okay? I’m sorry. They’re not gonna buy any theory that requires them to understand trigonometry. Same for the federal prosecutor. It’s just how things—”
“Okay, but what about eyewitness testimony?”
“We don’t have any.”
“Yes, we do.”
Nio turned back to the TV and brought up the news footage of Sol’s death.
“Listen to this lady.”
“And then I gripped my heart,” the large, colorfully dressed woman said to the reporter. “And I just knew something terrible was going to happen. The man next to me must’ve seen it because he asked if I was okay.”
The news segment continued, and several others in the audience reported feeling a grim presence.
“I dunno,” a college kid said reluctantly. “I can’t really describe it. It just felt like a bad situation all of a sudden.”
“What do you mean?” the reporter asked.
The kid smiled awkwardly and the segment cut.
Nio turned it off. “In 2003, researchers in the UK tested the effect of infrasound on 700 people in a music hall. Nearly a quarter of them reported feeling uneasy or getting a chill down their spine or having a general sense of dread not unlike that typically associated with ghost sightings.”
Quinn leaned back and spread his legs, defeated. “All right. I’ll call Erving in the morning.” He paused when he saw Nio’s face.
“While you’re checking in, there’s one more teensie tiny thing I want you to report.”
“I’m not gonna like this, am I?”