Xenoform, page 8
He went to his desk and reached out to physically detach the router from his system but his hand was shaking too much. He breathed deeply for a moment, arm extended, and tried again. His treacherous fingers obeyed this time. Really, this should have been the first thing he had done following his brain-rape, but all he had wanted was to somehow wash the stink of the invasive AI off himself. He had commanded his DNI wireless to disconnect him from the net, however – he had managed that much. It showed no activity on his HUD but he trusted nothing now. He set up a scrambler on his desk, rapidly dialling settings into it with the large plastic knobs to ensure that there was no hidden connection in operation.
He plugged in and sat grinding his teeth as his powerful computer pored through his head checking everything it could. He made it repeat the procedure, changing scan parameters, knowing that if it had found nothing the first time then it would find nothing again. He was not surprised by the result. Then he let the avatars, regenerated now, loose into his main system again. They scoured every disk sector, every storage chip. Nothing. He let them into his head, wincing as he did so, even though he had trusted them impeccably in the past. He held his breath as they roved around his skull searching for the spore of the enemy. They found nothing. Maybe there was nothing to find. At any rate, he had exhausted his means of looking, unless he was to remove the adaptive control and DNI chips from his head and physically examine their matrices. The adaptive control he could do – he had fitted it here in his flat – but the DNI chips would need to be removed by a surgeon.
Debian put his face in his hands, blocking out the physical world. He felt terrible in some vague and indefinable way. Maybe he was coming down with an illness. Or was there something at work inside his brain? Perhaps it was just a psychosomatic response to his fear. He was in serious trouble either way.
He told the avatars to sleep, turned the readout off and sat that way in the gathering light for a minute or two trying to breathe slowly. The data storage unit was nestled warmly against his leg like a faithful dog. He must call Hex. Just give him the data? Or give him the truth? Damn it! How do I get out of this? What will Hex’s people do if they find out? Who, really, are Hex’s people? And who the hell are Cyberlife Research and Development, to be playing with toys like that?
Debian knew that he would never be ready to make this call but decided that if never was the time-scale he was looking at, then he might as well do it now. He turned everything back on, looking warily at the screens as if something might jump out of one and bore into his head again. Reluctantly, like a man forced to walk the plank, he edged back into the net. Data flowed into him, white and cold, but normal. He began to relax a little as nothing bad continued to happen. He simply drifted there in the net for a while, feeling the eddies and currents around him like the contours of a familiar landscape. He called Hex’s unlisted address. There was a wait of several seconds and then Hex answered over DNI. The two men communicated silently through stealthed data-channels, thinking words into being.
‘Hex, it’s Debian. Can we talk?’
‘Yes, that’s fine. But I’d rather speak in person, of course. Just in case.’
Debian reacted guiltily at that and replied, ‘Yeah, er, just in case. You never know who’s listening, right?’
‘Right. Hey, are you okay? You don’t look so good.’
Debian realised that he had left the video-link on and snapped it off with a mental impulse, embarrassed, sure that he was losing it. ‘I’m fine. Just had a late one, you know. Busy, busy.’
‘Good, it’s good to hear that you have been productive. Listen, I’m nearby at the moment. I’ll come over to yours.’
Debian felt a lump in his throat. He swallowed around it sickly. ‘How do you know where I live?’ he asked.
Hex actually laughed – a genuine-sounding display of humour, which Debian didn’t believe was genuine at all. ‘We keep an eye on all of our little helpers, Debian. You’re important to us.’
‘Right,’ replied Debian slowly. ‘Listen, man, don’t come here. We’ll meet out again, same place as last time.’ He was aware that he was not coming across with the authority he had hoped. ‘Don’t come here, Hex.’
‘Don’t be daft, man,’ said Hex, and he actually sounded insulted now. ‘It’s fine. I’m nearby – I’ll only be ten minutes. Get the goods, off I go, okay?’
‘Don’t come here!’ Debian mentally shouted, but he realised that the line was dead. This was not good. He wished he had a weapon.
Debian unplugged from the net and began to pace the room, stopping occasionally to stamp a foot in frustration and shout, ‘Shit!’ before resuming. Hex was coming to his damned flat, man! Should he just go? Phrases scrolled across the surface of his mind: We keep an eye on all of our little helpers. We think their backer might be a government. I’ll only be ten minutes. Debian checked the time on his HUD. How long had it been? Only three minutes.
It’s probably okay. Hex just wants to get the data, sure he does. He would be keen, this was clearly a big job to them. Who? Well, whoever he works for. Suddenly Debian wished that he knew as much about Hex as Hex clearly knew about him. He looked for a knife, anything that could serve as a weapon but his brain, unused to being posed such problems, couldn’t identify a single item of use. He didn’t even own a sharp knife – everything he ate came out of plastic containers, ready-made.
What am I doing? Looking for something to stab or bludgeon a man with? I really have gone insane. It won’t be necessary. Hex is just coming for the Cyberlife data. If he wanted me gone, he wouldn’t give me any warning of his arrival, would he? Someone would just do it, no messing around.
Debian became aware of a sudden sound-vacuum. The buzzing of the spyflies outside the window had ceased, just cut off. Fear crackled up his spine like electricity. What the hell? He went to the window, careful not to cast his shadow across the curtain, parted a corner of the fabric and looked out. There was something there. He craned his head to the left and saw a grapefruit-sized metal ball floating on a suspensor cushion, bobbing slightly. He ducked down, heart thumping in his chest and panic suddenly made him freeze. The object outside was a scrambler-bait. Someone had posted it up there to kill the spyflies. Why would anyone do that? Because they were about to commit a crime, of course. Something that the spyflies would detect from outside the window – something like murdering a problematic hacker in his flat. In that moment he knew it was for real and his life hung in the balance.
There was a knock on the door. Debian saw the monitor picture on his HUD. It was Hex, apparently alone, and in that instant Debian had an idea. He was not a fighter, not in the physical sense, at least. So he would play to his strengths. If he was right, it was the only chance he had. He was suddenly sure that he could do it. He felt a grim resolve and a new confidence in his abilities. It had never been done before but he knew he could do it. He would have to do it and he was, after all, the best in his field. The takeover of a human body through their DNI should not be possible, but at that moment he knew that it was, that he could do it. Half of him was terrified – half of him had never felt so strong.
‘Coming!’ he called and rushed to kill the router again. He also disconnected his DNI wireless and activated the scrambler again. He unplugged the hi-flo cable from the main computer and plugged the other end into his head, completing these actions with the ease of long practise. The computer-end of the link, now free, he hung over his shoulder. It was unusual but hopefully it would look as if he had simply unplugged at the computer instead of his head after having spoken to Hex. Outside the door, Hex would detect both Debian’s disconnection from the net and the activation of the scrambler, but these were fairly standard precautions in the trade.
He went to the door and opened it. Hex stood there calmly waiting. He didn’t smile, just said, ‘May I come in?’
‘Uh, sure, come in.’ Debian stood aside and let Hex enter his flat, which until this day he had not realised his employers even knew the location of. How things changed. ‘Have a seat.’ For a moment he didn’t think Hex would actually seat himself in the only chair, but he did. His face shone like plastic, its features featureless in the grey morning light. Debian wondered if he had actually been designed to look as nondescript as possible. He was aware of the absence of the spyflies outside.
‘Thanks,’ said Hex, smoothing the folds of his trench coat about himself as he sat. Debian wasn’t sure if he imagined it but it looked as if something heavy and bulky deformed one of the pockets. ‘Good to see you again, and so soon.’
‘You, too. I have the Cyberlife data. Loads of it. It won’t go on a spot, I’m afraid. I’ll put it on a disc.’
‘Okay, good. Thanks.’
Debian went to the data storage unit, which brought him intimately close to Hex, who sat at the desk. Hex moved out of his way, but only very slightly – a token movement, really. Debian posted a disc into the machine and stood back while it did its thing.
‘Sorry,’ said Debian. ‘I should have had this ready. I didn’t expect you to come so soon. You can’t come here like this, man.’
‘Apologies, again,’ said Hex with such sincerity that Debian thought he might actually walk away from this, after all. ‘It seemed inefficient to waste the opportunity when I was so close-by. I’ll just grab the data then be on my way.’
‘Okay, cool.’ Debian handed him the disc, realising that if Hex could just be ushered out quickly enough then his plan may never have to be acted on. He clung only faintly to this hope, though. ‘There you go. Pay me later, into the usual account, when you’ve approved it all.’
‘Good, thanks. Easy job for you, then? No problem?’
Debian stiffened at this. He tried not to show it but was sure that Hex had noticed. ‘What?’ he said.
‘Easy job? I said.’
Debian straightened up, bringing him almost eye to eye with Hex and as he did so he saw something shine dully in Hex’s pocket and knew that it was on, after all. He had the free end of the DNI cable in one hand, rolling its snub end between sticky fingers. ‘Yeah, sure,’ he said, and lunged behind Hex.
Hex turned quickly, bringing the gun out of his pocket, but not quickly enough. He had underestimated Debian, should never have sat in the chair, should have known better. The end of the hi-flo cable, tapered in just the right way to facilitate connection, slid into Hex’s head and Debian rolled away, managing not to tangle himself more by luck than skill. Hex had time to fire once before Debian stormed his mental defences, washing away firewalls like a tidal wave. The projectile, actually a tiny explosive rocket, whooshed away into the kitchen, exploding Debian’s faithful coffee machine in a shower of glass and liquid. Beep! it exclaimed indignantly as it died.
To Hex, Debian was like a flash-fire in his mind. He was everywhere at once. Hex had never known such speed and overwhelming power. He had never known how vulnerable he really was. His head was burning inside. His firewalls were down. His defences had barely even started up before Debian, driving his avatars with fluid precision and fuelled by a desperate fervour, had effortlessly scrubbed them out. Hex was dimly aware that this shouldn’t be possible. No-one was that good. His body would not respond to his mind’s commands. His hand was passing the gun to Debian, who stood over him trembling but resolute, his eyes fierce. Hex tried to speak but he couldn’t even breathe.
‘I am the web-walker,’ said Debian, ‘and I am the best. This is why you hire me. I am connected to your slow little brain, which cowers behind avatars and firewalls, by a new protocol of my own devising – faster, more adaptable, more powerful than any system that has come before. Do you understand? I am the first of a new type, a self-made prototype.’
Hex found that he could communicate with Debian by DNI even if he wasn’t being allowed to do anything else. Debian apparently wanted to converse and he found that he had no choice. ‘I know. You are known to be exceptionally gifted.’
‘There is something out there, something much worse than me – an artificial intelligence of amazing power. It was in a computer at Cyberlife, but it might not be stuck in there for long – it is voracious. I think it has affected me in some way. What is it? Did Cyberlife make it?’
‘I don’t know. I was only told where to direct you.’
‘Told by whom?’
‘By my contact.’ Debian realised that Hex was struggling with the unfamiliar feeling of helplessness. His clean-shaven face was dripping with perspiration as he struggled physically, uselessly, to free himself from his mental bonds.
‘Is there a sub-verter in my head? Is that why you came? You came to kill me because you fear that my brain will leak your details. Not that I even know much about you.’
Hex tried to lie but found himself unable. Debian was interrogating him on some deep subconscious level. Hex’s head was pounding like a drum. ‘No. There is no sub that I know of.’
‘I feel different. Stronger.’
‘There is no sub. That I know of.’
‘Then why are you here?’
‘I’m just a foot soldier.’
‘Liar! Don’t try to fight me! I can use more force if you make me. I think it may hurt you if I do. And I would rather not.’
‘All right, then, a general. But I am still a pawn in the wider scheme, as are you. I came to do my job.’
Debian turned the gun over in his hand. Hex, wide-eyed, watched him frozenly from the chair. The hi-flo cable hung between them like a bad vibe. Debian regarded him clinically, his fear gone now, replaced by a kind of sick elation. This was new territory for him. ‘Your job,’ he repeated thoughtfully. Coffee was leaking across the kitchen floor and into the living room. ‘Who do you work for? All these years I have run errands for you people. Who are you really?’
‘I am at the end of a long chain of associates, the contact of a contact of a contact...’
‘And at the other end?’
‘Alcubierre.’
‘And who is that?’
‘I don’t really know. Some AI or tech company with limited moral restrictions, I imagine.’
Alcubierre? Somewhere in the back of Debian’s mind a little bell was ringing at that name. ‘Somebody intended me to find the AI, didn’t they? But why?’
‘I don’t know.’
‘You aren’t very useful. Is there anything you do know?’
‘I was simply told to send you into the Cyberlife servers. And then I was told to come and kill you.’
‘But you say there’s no sub, no security leak. You tell the truth. I don’t understand.’
‘You don’t, do you. Maybe it is not for the likes of...us to...understand.’ Hex was struggling hard now, and Debian sensed the immense, wrenching exertion of his futile effort to resist, to remain mute.
‘Who are Cyberlife? How did they come to possess a thing like that?’
‘I don’t know...I suppose they are just another computer...research...company. I know nothing of...this...AI. I don’t know...Get out of...my...’
There was a sound outside the door – a scuffling on the stairs. Debian started, aware that he was trapped, tied to Hex by the cable. The only way out besides the door was through the window. The ten-storey drop pretty much ruled that one out. ‘How many others?’ he asked frantically.
Hex just laughed, or at least gave the impression of laughter within the limits of DNI communication. His eyes, though stuck wide open somehow conveyed his defiant resolution. Debian stared into them and time seemed to spin out into a fragile glass thread. Hex was fighting the intruder in his mind. He was straining against Debian’s hold with every ounce of his energy. ‘Screw...yourself...then,’ he communicated, and Debian could feel Hex nearing his limits of endurance. ‘What a...waste. Are you going to become...a killer...or not? Shoot me or fry my brain, I don’t...owe you...anything...’
‘Shut up! Who’s out there?’
‘Maybe it’s the...fucking...meter...reader,’ communicated Hex with a last titanic effort of defiance.
Before Debian could react, Hex stiffened like a man electrified and his eyes rolled up to the whites. He keeled over sideways off the chair, pulling the cable that still connected him to Debian tight with a jerk. Debian yanked the plug out of his own head and threw the cable onto Hex’s weakly twitching form. Was he dead? Debian didn’t think so. He would probably wake up in hospital with the mother of all headaches, though. That was well enough.
There was another noise from outside the door and Debian froze, holding his breath. He switched to infrared and could see two people out on the landing. They held cool, bulbous shapes against their chests: Weapons. One of them was leaning right into the door, one ear pressed against it, listening. Debian felt as if he was falling. The nausea was on him again – his head was spinning, he felt totally incapacitated with fear. His heart was a greasy lump in his throat, his mind totally blank. What now? They really are going to kill me. They will get away with it, too.
It came to him in a flash: His only chance. He knew that if he thought about it then he would falter and the men outside the door would kill him. Instead, he just dived for the window. With one kick from his shoeless foot he shattered the glass out of the window and was on the sill, crouched in the frame as glass rained down into the street far below. He looked left and the scrambler-bait was still there, bobbing gently in the breeze on its suspensor cushion. There were no spyflies around it now – they tended to learn quite quickly as a whole, although their individual intelligence was meagre.
Still without thinking, he dropped the gun and jumped, grabbing onto the smooth metal orb. It was cold and slippery in his grip and barely offered any purchase at all. The door was being smashed in behind him, but it was taking some time. The scrambler-bait dipped and began to fall as it struggled to dial up its suspensor to cope with the extra weight. The mild electromagnetic induction field of the bait was not powerful enough to generate dangerous code in Debian himself but he could feel the pulses like a tickling in his nerves. He was falling quite fast. It was all too surreal to really contemplate. Was he going to fall to his death? The bait was a cold metal skull in his hands. There were people down there looking up. The windows of the building blurred past. Somebody fired down from above, hitting him on one thigh, but he didn’t even notice.
