Killswitch, page 2
The hole had been made by my floor buffer. One of the thick steel handles was embedded in the shattered glass. I saw that the buffer was still running. The buffing wheel whirled, and the machine moved back and forth, straining to spin free but held by the handle like an animal with its leg in a trap. It grated where the chassis banged against the vault.
Through the smeared glass of the capsule, I glimpsed a face, slack and pale.
It was Haakon Pallburg. I was staring at the lifeless face of the most beloved man in the world.
I was still standing there, mute and gaping with shock, when I was hit by something heavy and slammed to the slimy floor.
“You son of a bitch!” someone shouted.
THE MEMORY ENDED ABRUPTLY. It was replaced by red lettering: PROSECUTION OBJECTION. Almost simultaneously a green label flashed: DEFENSE OBJECTION.
“Well,” the judge said from the bench. “That’s a first. Prosecution?”
The prosecution cone turned ceremoniously towards the bench.
“The People question the veracity of the emotional overlay of this memory. We believe the defendant has altered his perception of these events and obscured the reality with a manufactured, sympathetic perception.”
“What evidence do you have?” the judge asked.
“Your honor, we seek evidence. The People request an enhanced forensic interrogation with a deep-psych probe.”
I gasped. The judge frowned. “You’re asking for a military-grade scan of a defendant?”
“We are, your Honor.”
“So are we, your Honor,” the defense counsel chimed in.
“Sidebar,” the judge said tersely.
The helmet went dark. I was left strapped to the chair, blind and beginning to be terrified. There were nightmare stories of what happened to people who underwent a milscan, historical dramas about war-crime trials or world-threatening terrorist threats. Wasn’t it illegal for civilian trials?
My face was suddenly wet. I didn’t know whether it was connective gel running from underneath the helmet or I was sweating. Maybe it was tears.
A minute later, the helmet’s virtual space returned.
The judge looked at me.
“Back on the record,” she said, and I felt the presence of the absorbers again. I knew it was impossible but I swore I could feel their excitement. This was high drama. It felt like I was in an arena and somebody had just released the lions. At that moment, I hated humanity.
My defense counsel chimed in privately.
“Mister Mavo, the judge has decided to grant permission for the scan should you accede. I am in concurrence with the prosecution because the probability of your acquittal has diminished to fractional proportions. I wish to argue that your emotional responses are legitimate. That will provide the possibility of having you declared unfit by reason of insanity.”
“I’m not crazy. I’m innocent. I was set up!”
“Do you wish to see the metrics on that scenario being (a) factually accurate and (b) being believed?” It was impossible but I thought the machine sounded skeptical.
I thought about it. I was accused of killing the greatest man in history, the savior of billions. I was John Wilkes Booth. No, I was Pontius Pilate. I didn’t need numbers to tell me that it would take a miracle for people to believe I was a victim, not a murderer.
The Court might find me innocent, but it couldn’t exonerate me in the court of public opinion. And the system was perceptive enough to know that mattered.
“Then why does the prosecution want to scan me?” I asked.
“The People argue that you altered your actual memories via means unknown but not technically impossible,” the calm, impartial voice said. “The People do not believe that you slept and saw nothing, nor that you were genuinely disturbed by the killing. To be colloquial, the People believe that you are covering your tracks. Further, they argue that you are likely involved in a wider conspiracy that may pose a global Unitywide threat.”
“You mean the Realists?” I said in disbelief. “That’s crazy. I never met one in my life. I never even talked to one.”
“Immersion records indicate that for three days prior to the crime, you spent virtually the entirety of your Immersion time on FreeJack threads.”
“I’ve never been on FreeJack!” I blurted. “Why would I spend my precious Immersion time on a bunch of freaks and weirdos?”
“Nevertheless, as a matter of course, I polled the Immersion AIs and their attendant Authenticators. There is no evidence of any system degradation or intrusion. Do you wish to argue for deliberate corruption? I doubt the judge will authorize an examination of that caliber. The Supreme Court would have to approve it, and the resources used will mean depriving a small but substantial number of citizens of resources in the meantime. This will harm your own defense if the probe comes back negative, as seems likely.”
“So,” I replied bitterly. “To be colloquial, I am screwed!”
“Well, it may be an uphill battle,” my defense-bot said calmly. “Do you wish to accede to the scan?”
I really was sweating now. This was the kind of thing my mother had warned me about when I talked about leaving the Outside and joining the Immersed world. I’d never regretted leaving the dingy black hole of rebel technophobes but I was beginning to see her point.
“What does it involve?” I asked.
The cone bobbed up and down conversationally.
“You will be taken to a facility with the capacity to perform the procedure,” it said. “There, you will be injected with tailored nanothreads targeted to specific areas of your brain. These will be able to determine on a cellular level whether there has been any tampering or rewiring.”
“Worms,” I said, my mouth suddenly dry. “They’re going to wrap my brain in worms!”
“The nanothreads are not alive,” the defense cone admonished. “They do emulate certain swarming behaviors but they have a remarkable level of precision.”
“So they burrow into my brain and scan me,” I said. “That doesn’t sound dangerous at all. And what about my condition? Has anybody done one of these on someone like me?”
The cone dipped down, as if lowering its head in embarrassment.
“No,” it said.
I had a knot of cells in my brain, connected by blood vessels but otherwise something of a black box. I was born with it. Doctors had examined it and determined it had a different DNA from mine. They suggested it was the remnants of an unborn twin that had been encapsulated as I was developing. They ruled it benign and decided it would be safer just to leave it. But it made my brain different from anyone else’s.
“So,” I said, clenching my fists to keep my hands from trembling. “You’re recommending that I have a risky procedure that’s only used on supervillains, and has never been used on a neuroatypical?”
“If there are complications,” the cone replied, “The system will provide for your maintenance.”
“You mean if I become a vegetable,” I said.
“In the unlikely event that you are rendered severely or permanently dysfunctional, the system will provide for you. In the event you become deceased, compensation both practical and reputational will be provided to your designated relatives or approved charities.”
“Nice to know,” I said. “So you want me to OK this?”
“Probabilistically, it is the best defense move.”
“I need time to think about this,” I said.
“I will ask the judge for a postponement. You will be stored until the hearing resumes.”
“Wait, wait,” I said. If they stashed me in the prison equivalent of a vault, it would just be putting off the inevitable. The whole world was ready to hate me and if they wanted my blood, a week or a month would make no difference. It would just make them hungrier. I could imagine what the trolls would be posting while I was in no position to defend myself. I pictured myself being released, walking out the court door, and being grabbed by crazies and hanged from a lamppost like a piñata. AIs would immediately note the event and rush help to cut me down. But I could imagine having my life threatened every single day after that. It made me wish for the peaceful joys of the floor buffer and my anonymity. That seemed like years ago.
“All right,” I said. “I give permission to get milscanned. When do we go?”
“Immediately,” the defense cone said. “I have notified the judge and the Court has made the arrangements in conjunction with regional, state, federal, hemispheric and global military, medical, psychological and ethics Expert AIs. Human approval has, of course, been obtained.”
“Great,” I said. “Machines and my fellow humans want to cut open my brain.”
“There is no physical—” the defense cone began.
“Figure of speech,” I said.
“Noted,” the cone said simply.
The judge cut in. “This is all highly unusual but it seems appropriate in such an unusual case.” She rapped the gavel. “This court hereby releases defendant Mavo to custody of Court Transport Services. Mister Mavo, good luck.” She rapped her gavel again. “Court dismissed.”
CHAPTER THREE
The first thing they did was replace my teeth.
“Haven’t seen these for a while,” a technician said as she clamped my mouth. She had dark eyebrows and minty breath. “Three metal amalgam fillings. That’s ancient.”
“I lived on the Outside,” I mumbled. “We didn’t have the most modern dental stuff.”
“And you probably had a terrible diet,” she sympathized. “Sugary snacks and radioactive vegetables.” It wasn’t the first time I’d heard that particular slur. While it was hard to grow things out in the desolate area, the Unity made regular food drops, although mostly of cheap staples such as vat boloney and nutrient cakes. If I had eaten my share of sugar, it’s because the drop-offs always seemed to contain some snack food, probably because sugar was a cheap and easy form of calories. Also, sugar cane seemed to be the one thing that grew in abundance where we lived.
Unfortunately, metal fillings would interfere with the results of the scan. So they were quickly and efficiently replaced with vat-grown teeth. My gums were a little sore but the whole process was less painful than when I’d gotten the originals.
Then they took me to a small, spherical room, a blown-bubble prefab like the one I’d briefly inhabited on the Outside. It was cheap, uniform government housing. Like medical rooms the world over, it was pale blue and smelled of ozone and disinfectant. I was clamped on a table under a large inverted funnel. Two technicians put a lightweight mesh mask over my face and head.
“That’s to target the nano injection sites,” the tech said. “You have an anomaly and we need to pinpoint and avoid it.” She patted my shoulder. “No big deal.”
“I understand,” I said.
“Ready to go?”
I took a deep breath. “Yes.”
The techs moved back out of my line of sight. The lights dimmed, there was a whisper of machinery and the funnel descended until I was looking up into its dark interior. In the center, something slick and faintly blue flicked out, like a lizard’s tongue, swept across my face and retracted. There was a hiss, and two thick, flexible cables like veins descended from the ceiling on either side of me. A moment later, I felt two small spots of cold on the top of my skull. I felt a slight pressure, a moment of dizziness, and then they retracted with a sucking sound. The funnel hovered an instant longer, then it too retracted. The lights slowly brightened.
The techs, who had gone somewhere, glided back into the room. They unclamped me and helped me to sit up.
“How was that?” one asked.
“Not bad,” I admitted. “What’s next?”
For answer, they took my arms and led me to an adjoining room. This one smelled like a waiting room, slightly stuffy and full of aging plastic. There was a comfortable-looking chair, a table, a carafe of water and a glass, and nothing else.
“The nanos are distributing themselves,” a tech explained. “You just need to sit here and relax for about a half-hour until they’re done.” I pictured legions of worms swarming over my brain and burrowing into the folds. It made my scalp crawl.
“All right,” I said.
“Unfortunately, you won’t be able to Immerse during the process,” she said. “No loud sounds, no video or high-key visuals or moving text. I’m afraid all we have for entertainment is this.” She held out a hand with an apologetic smile. “It’s a book.”
“I know,” I said.
“Oh,” she said. “Most people don’t. They’re a form of pre-Collapse data storage, you know. Anyway, you scan it by turning the pages.” She demonstrated.
“I know,” I said. “I’ve read before.” She frowned as if I’d said something puzzling or maybe slightly off-color.
“Right,” she said. “All right, then. You relax. I’ll be back.” She left.
I looked at the book. It was a faded, dog-eared hardback. The title was “Treasure Island.”
I was engrossed in the book when she returned. For some reason, I felt slightly guilty handing it back, as if by enjoying something so privately, I’d violated a minor taboo.
She quirked her lips.
“You looked interested,” she said.
“Well, it’s a good book,” I said. “A lot of adventure.”
“Huh,” she said. “Is there an Immersion version?”
I flushed.
“I don’t know,” I said.
The next stop was a larger round room. This one was full of people and equipment. Some wore tech smocks, some were Authenticators, who were seated in their own chairs. There were three Authenticators, I noticed; a large contingent. They wore the traditional vulture-wing tattoos symbolizing fearless pursuit of truth. I guessed they were there so that when rumors about the procedure inevitably erupted on the Immersion, they could bear witness to what really occurred, although only after the details were declared public. I doubted there were any absorbers, since this was a high-security location. But I noticed a cone hovering unobtrusively, probably recording the entire scene. Everybody gave me short, polite glances before returning to their tasks.
The techs sat me down in a sort of padded dentist’s chair. Someone who appeared to be a doctor, judging by the smock, approached. The doctor was a Third. I had met only a few before. Thirds had extra neurological inputs. They were generally non-gender or asexual. Even more than most people, Thirds were tied to the Immersion. They engaged with couples, got their experiences and also contributed to them. They functioned as intermediaries, facilitators, translators and amplifiers of their partners’ emotions. One Third had told me it was like being a supercharger on a race car, although I didn’t know what that meant. Thirds were still relatively rare; not many people were able to spend time and resources for the bioengineering.
“I’m Dr. Lind. Just relax,” the doctor said. “We’re going to activate the nano system now; let them talk to us. We’ll need to make sure they’re all positioned correctly and are collaborating and communicating. You may have a few, let’s say, odd moments but it’s all normal and harmless, I assure you. If at any time you’re uncomfortable, we’ll know right away and dial things down. Okay?”
“Okay,” I said, although I could have done without the mention of discomfort. It made me uncomfortable. With pursed lips, Lind looked down at a screen, then looked up. “You seem a little bit anxious. Relax. And don’t flicker.”
“Don’t what?” I said, but the doctor had turned away.
I leaned back and tried to relax. For the next few moments, medics and techs conferred and chatted, murmuring questions and answers and pointing at things. They talked in techno, throwing out references to field strengths, sigma points, branching hypothalamic something-or-others.
At last, they seemed to reach some sort of consensus. They all fell silent and there was a sort of unspoken feeling of coordination.
I can’t say that somebody pushed a button and my brain changed. But somebody pushed a button for sure, because suddenly the room crackled with static electricity. Some strong field had been activated. I felt the hair on my arms lift. As the techs fiddled with equipment around the walls, their hair would shoot out to form a crown or nimbus around their heads. I was in a field of human dandelions.
And then the “odd moments” the doctor had warned me about began. First, I saw a brilliant spark of light. It faded. A microsecond later, I thought I heard a musical tone but it was gone before I could be sure. Almost simultaneously, I smelled burnt rubber and tasted almonds. I grimaced but they were gone. Then my throat constricted. I started to choke but that ended. In the next few seconds I must have gone through hundreds of sensations. I heard shrieks, saw darkness, smelled old dusty books, lost my toes, tasted tin. I was scared, happy, confused, bemused, ecstatic, all in the time it took to blink. Most sensations moved so quickly that I couldn’t actually say I felt them; it was more like remembering them, or feeling the ghostly shape of where they once had been.
I heard a gong chime and realized it was the doctor’s voice.
“Mavo, you’re flickering. Please concentrate. I want you to think of strawberries.”
“I’ve never had a strawberry,” I mumbled. But then my mouth was suddenly full of an overpowering sweetness. My hands were cupped and holding some sort of delicious-smelling red fruit with golden seeds. They were chilled and glistening with droplets of water.
“Um,” I said. My mouth watered. “Um. Ummy. Yummy!” I raised my hands to my lips. My tongue darted out—
