Beautiful Intelligence (10 page)

Leonora asked, “Can this boat be tracked through the nexus?”

He swallowed the proffered ampoule. “Not now you smashed its brain. Best they can do is try follow us through land cams. But this is Malta, westside. Won’t be many. We got a chance yet.”

“Where did that panicman appear from?” she asked.

“Don’t know. Could’ve been sheer bad luck. Not enough info to speculate.”

“Are you badly hurt?”

The boat bounced through ocean waves.

“Just hurt,” he replied, trying to lie back.

~

It was thirty kilometres to the Gozo port of Mgarr; just under an hour transit duration. By the time they arrived Hound had bound his wounds – the bullet had passed through rib muscle tissue then out again – had time to collect his thoughts and deal with his headache, and decided what next to do.

He glanced upward. “Clouds thickening,” he said. “Lucky.”

“What now?” Leonora asked.

“We can’t arrive portside in this boat. The Maltese locals might have put out a search request. If they have, Aritomo will’ve spotted it through the nexus. So we’ll sneak up to a cove and wade in.” He glanced at Zeug. “Looks like you’ll get your first taste of water, man.”

“Mr Hound does not mean you will drink actual water,” Yuri told Zeug, “he means you must experience the sensation of water upon your skin – but you will not be harmed by wading through it, this I promise you.”

“I understand,” Zeug replied in a monotone.

Hound took them as close as he could to a rock-strewn cove, then they disembarked and waded thigh-deep to the shore. Zeug managed: Yuri held his hand. Ten minutes later they stood atop the cliffs. Using EarthMaps on Leonora’s standalone moby, Hound found a route from cliffs to port, which they followed. By the time they arrived portside it was noon. But still no sign of pursuit.

Leaving the others concealed in thorn bushes, Hound walked into Mgarr, bought food, fake tan, more sunglasses and more water, then scouted a likely tourist ferry from the list at the Ghajnsielem terminal. “A hundred and twenty five kilometres to Linosa,” he told himself, scanning the manifest, “then two hundred and twenty five to Hammamet. Do-able.”

He explained the next part of the escape plan when he returned.

“There’s a tourist ferry leaving in a coupla hours. To Linosa – tiny Italian island. Then on to Hammamet. We’ll meet Sandman there, then off into the desert.”

“West Libya?” Dirk asked.

Hound shook his head. “Algeria, man, Morocco. Once we’re safe we’ll make a new base. Could be a long time off yet.”

Leonora nodded, then turned to Zeug. “So, you next,” she murmured, taking the fake tan bottle and unscrewing the top.

“I shall do these tasks,” Yuri said, reaching out.

Hound pulled Leonora’s hand back. “We’ll all do them,” he said. “Yuri, you’re getting way too protective of Zeug. Understand? We’re the AIteam. Emphasis on
team.
This ain’t your creation, it’s ours.”

Leonora tried to laugh, then said, “That is taking it, oh, a little too...”

“I agree with Hound,” Dirk said. “Da man here think he own Zeug. But he don’t.”

Yuri glanced at them all, third eye closed, face impassive, a hint of tremor in his shoulders. “Very well,” he said, “I can see which way the wind is blowing, as you Westerners say, so I will have to agree with you, Leonora, and pull back just a little.”

Hound nodded. He saw the fault lines in the group.

Leonora said, “I used to use fake tan when I was a teen, so I shall do it.”

They disrobed Zeug and planned their task. The white bioplas was textured like neoprene, but they saw that accidental contact with ground, clothes and plants had dirtied Zeug’s integument. It would take a covering dye layer, then. Using a pair of knickers as an applicator cloth, Leonora covered Zeug with fake tan from head to foot, then, with only a little left in the bottle, added a second layer to his head, neck, hands and arms, and to his feet. The result was mediocre. Rather orange.

“He’ll look like a vain saddo,” Hound said.

“Dude, him bald one,” Dirk pointed out.

Hound shook his head. “Zeug wears a bandana and a hat above that at all times. Shades. Anyone got any jewellery? Make him look normal.”

“He will never look normal,” Yuri said, “except to the least discerning of eyes.”

Hound nodded. “Yeah. Typical tourists. Should work fine.”

Yuri shook his head.

Hound said, “If the worst comes to the worst we say he’s a test model Nippandroid. But it won’t. Man, we beat the panicman and we beat them copters. Now follow me to the ferry. Leonora, Yuri, you help Zeug. Speak for him at all times. Zeug, you keep quiet. Dirk – back of the party, okay?”

Dirk nodded and lit a cheroot.

The only stress point was the queue for the ferry. The weather, though cloudy, was warm, and at least a hundred tourists were taking the trip. Glancing over his shoulder Hound saw Zeug twisting his body from side to side like a kid wanting a pee. He held his nerve. Paid cash for a one-way ferry ride, stared out the suspicious clerk, then hustled them all aboard. No scares.

“Wish people used cash more,” he muttered. “Would help me a lot.”

“Coin will be dead by da end da century,” Dirk told him.

~

Leonora, Dirk and Hound sat in air conditioned luxury by a window on the lower deck of the ferry. Hound had told them not to risk the top deck. Zeug was locked in a cabin, Yuri asleep on a deckchair a few yards away, a half-eaten apple in one hand.

“Why are they called panicmen?” Leonora asked.

Hound said, “You ever been in a car accident?”

“Never.”

“In the old days,” Hound continued, “cars could go, what, eighty, one hundred kilometres per hour. There were thousands of accidents. Some people who survived, they describe a sensation. Like the accident happening in slo-mo.”

“Slo-mo?”

“Slow motion. Video term. Like a camera that takes two fifty frames per sec not twenty five. Also, some people in accidents say their vision go black and white. That’s the brain. Acting to reduce extraneous info. Working super fast. Panicman is like that. Man, he sees in black and white only. Models the real world at a far greater rate because of artificially induced panic.”

Dirk nodded. “Dat da truth.”

“I’m glad you asked,” Hound said, taking a sip of his lemon water. “Man, I saw Zeug stressed when I was under the Hebetisol. I think. His face cycling through emotional states.”

“Ah...” Dirk said. Hound glanced at him.

“What do you mean?” Leonora asked. “Zeug was scared?”

Hound shrugged. “Reckon Dirk might know.”

Dirk took a puff of his cheroot. “Not really dude,” he said. “But I think. We gotta be careful. You heard of da Seoul Illusion?”

Leonora nodded. “When you look at a lifelike Nippandroid and you think it must be human – when you can’t
help
thinking that.”

Dirk grinned. “It what we human do too well. Put ourself in other person’s place. Imagine dey human. Most time, dey are. But with a Nippandroid, easy to fool yourself – like da Korean guy said. Zeug... we gotta stop thinking he
human.
He computer. I worry ’bout him, what we building, ’cos if he got no emotion he got no self.”

Leonora nodded, but she looked unhappy. “I’ve heard this many times before,” she said, “not least from Manfred, who talked about it on a number of occasions. But for me, language is the key. We must give Zeug the best facility for language that we possibly can.”

Hound said, “He’s learned a lot already. And we’ve got standalones with massive English databases. With us here, now. He can learn from them.”

Dirk raised his cheroot and pointed it at Hound. “He could,” he said. “But I think you saw Zeug’s underlying lack of self. He not conscious yet. I worry. Are we building best computer in da world, or conscious artificial intelligence? Dere big difference between da two.”

Hound glanced away. “Could be. Out of my league, man. I just do security.”

Dirk smiled. “You do great. But, Leonora, think.” Dirk glanced at Yuri then whispered, “Yuri not da most emotional guy. He
bonding
with Zeug. You gotta wonder why. If you make a super computer on legs, dat not your goal, dat just a real good Seoul Illusion.”

“Are you having second thoughts about the AIteam?” Leonora responded.

“Nah, nah,” Dirk said, waving his cheroot about. “You joke? Dis da best job for an interface design guy. Real groundbreak stuff. I just saying... you gotta ask, what is conscious for Zeug? Is it exactly da same as us? Or is it different for artificial?”

Leonora sighed. “This is the nut that Manfred and I were trying to crack at Ichikawa labs.”

“Huh,” Hound grunted, “along with most of the rest of the world.”

Leonora threw a black glance at Hound then said, “At the moment I agree with Yuri, that it is a matter of computing power. The human brain has trillions of neuron connections, and his new quantum computer can mimic that.”

Dirk nodded. “Sure. Zeug’s brain. But where in
your
brain is consciousness?”

“We do not believe consciousness exists in a place,” Leonora said, adopting the tones of a schoolteacher pushed too far. “That was Descartes’ idea, and I do not believe for one moment Dirk that you are a dualist. Consciousness is distributed, an illusion perhaps, created by the mind to tell the story of a person, filling in the details to make a coherent whole. You have read Dennett, have you not?”

Dirk nodded. “’Course. And da others.” He raised his cheroot and held it between Leonora and Hound’s heads. “I think consciousness is
dere,
” he said. He sat back in his seat with a satisfied smirk.

Leonora frowned. “In mid air? This is ridiculous, Dirk.”

“No,” Hound said, “let him speak.”

Dirk shrugged. “Imagine a kid,” he said. “Born outa artificial womb. Grows up, but no other people in da world. Not one, see? But all its body needs – dey sorted. Food, water, warm, whatever. Does it become conscious?”

“Of course,” Leonora said.

Dirk shook his head. “I don’t think so. Dis my objection to da language only method. Da baby not become conscious because no social interaction. I think consciousness between people, not in a brain. It
between
us all, like water for fish. See?”

Leonora shook her head. “I think we shall have to agree to disagree.”

Dirk nodded. “I happy with dat.”

Leonora looked at Hound. “And what do you think?”

“I think I want pasta with tomato sauce. Italians sure know how to cook.”

~

At Linosa the ferry paused overnight. Hound fretted, unable to sleep, knowing that, from Aritomo’s point of view, this was a good attack point. He cut off his dreads, shaved his head and removed his beard, then found fly-shades and a big straw hat, keying a new fake ID to these features. The night stayed peaceful, warm, and at last he slept, and dreamed of horses.

The longer half of the voyage remained. Hound’s anxiety faded. The weather turned rainy, but in the evening the sun returned and they ate a pleasant meal in view of the sunset. Zeug remained in his cabin, learning English.

Hound flicked through a few channels on the all-receive, looking for local broadcasters. He was pleased to find none of the journos talking about the copters and the Skud-Fli, nobody mentioning stolen horses, nor the panicman or the boat. It seemed he had succeeded, had spirited them away from Malta against the odds.

He did not relax entirely. No man of his calibre could relax entirely.

“Of course,” he pointed out to Leonora, “Aritomo could learn a lot from the computers in the cave pods.”

“I auto-wiped most of it,” she replied gloomily, “five seconds after you said evacuate. He will find little enough, and nothing to tell him where I am going or what I am doing.”

“Too right,” Hound agreed. “But the Japs can do wonders with hard drives. Even these days, when nobody got a hard drive. Don’t imagine he’ll find nothing.”

She glanced at him. “You are becoming a pessimist.”

He smiled. “Always was. Optimists crash when they get bad luck. A pessimist never crashes.”

Next evening, in glorious red sunshine, the ferry docked at Hammamet harbour; they disembarked after Hound ran a security check and gave the all clear. They checked into a three bit hotel – skanky rooms, but invisible, and with enough privacy to keep them invisible. Hound bought spex and wristbands, new clothes, bullets. But his cash was running out and he dared not use any of the money in Leonora’s account. Or his own.

From a nexus caf he put a trans-ax call through to Sandman Entré.

“Sandman?”

“Mon ami! You call from Tunis? I see a red crescent on the menu.”

“Bit further south. Listen, man, I need a favour. Well, a deal. I got money.”

Sandman grinned. “Sure, sure. It is the plastique once again?”

“No. There’s five of us. We need to get invisible. In the desert. I was thinking Algeria.”

“Bon. We put our toes into the big sandy pataugeoire, ami. It is good.”

Hound nodded. “You arrange it. We’ll meet at the nu-desert fields. We’re fifty kilometres away. Reckon we can solbus that before noon tomorrow. Okay?”

“Merci!”

Hound cut the line. Sat and thought. Unaugmented, they were invisible to the nexus. No sign of trouble since the panicman. Not a twitch of his senses, not a hint of a stink in the air. Yep. His luck had held out.

They picked a ramshackle solbus driven by a bad tempered goon. Perfect disguise. The weather was sweaty hot and they drank a lot of water. As Tunis approached they ate watercress sandwiches, disembarking at the Majesté Désert stop, to the muttered oaths of the driver. The bus clattered off, leaving them alone on a sand-strewn road. Hound led them up plant-edged tracks to the plantation he owned.

Sandman Entré, as ever, wore white flannel trousers and an English jacket, a straw hat on his head. His ebony skin shone beneath a film of sweat.

“Welcome,” he said, bowing to them. “We head west, away from prying eyes. It is l’appel de la nature. This I can promise you all!”

Rosalind picked up Tsuneko in the cyclo-wing, but they decided to give London a miss as it was becoming dangerous. The cyclo-wing began to deteriorate as they approached Brighton so they landed on a beach, where they hugged, congratulating each other on completing an arduous journey across the Med and France. Rosalind was as slim, tall and athletic as Tsuneko and only a decade older, but she had gone prematurely grey. Tsuneko felt overjoyed to see her again. As the cyclo-wing disintegrated into a mess of plant based polymers and recycled plastic, its raison-d’être departed, the couple walked across the beach and climbed steps to the seafront, where they leaned on metal railings and gazed out to a sparkling sea.