Authors: Charles Stross
Rule 34 (43 page)
A new voice, gravelly, with a faint American accent: “Good afternoon. Am I speaking to Mr. Anwar Hussein?” You half recognize it, but you can’t quite place where you’ve heard him before.
“Yes,” you say cautiously.
“Excellent. Please accept my apologies for intruding on you—I understand, I’m told, you have recently had a death in your family?”
“Yes.” You bite your lower lip, then glance around. Just in case somebody’s watching you.
“I’m very sorry about that.” A momentary pause. “I gather that when you called Felix Datka half an hour ago, we had a slight misunderstanding.”
“I resigned,” you say icily, tightening the shreds of your dignity around you.
“Yes, he told me that. Mr. Hussein—Anwar—I want to explain to you: Matters are not so simple that you can just resign.”
You’d tell him to fuck right off except he rang through to your phone while it was in flight mode, and that’s supposed to be impossible, isn’t it?
Or isn’t there a backdoor for the emergency services?
You vaguely remember hearing something about that, something about external emergency reactivation—“I’m quitting,” you repeat, less firmly. “Who are you, anyway?”
Or isn’t there a backdoor for the emergency services?
You vaguely remember hearing something about that, something about external emergency reactivation—“I’m quitting,” you repeat, less firmly. “Who are you, anyway?”
“I’m Colonel Felix Datka’s boss,” says the man on the phone. “You can call me Bhaskar. Or Professor Tanayev. I am, very indirectly, your employer. Or ex-employer, if you insist on resigning.”
The tram bells far below might as well be fire alarms, telling you to get out
now
. “Professor Tanayev. You’re the colonel’s boss? How exactly does that work?”
now
. “Professor Tanayev. You’re the colonel’s boss? How exactly does that work?”
He chuckles. “They can kick me out of the presidential palace, but they can’t strip me of tenure.”
Silence. You realize you’re clutching the phone like it’s turned into a gold brick between your fingers. “President of
Issyk-Kulistan
?”
Issyk-Kulistan
?”
“No; President of Kyrgyzstan. Issyk-Kulistan is a wholly-owned subsidiary operated by a shell company, if you prefer a business metaphor. Felix’s job is to keep IRIK running for as long as we need it.”
Now
you cringe and start looking round. But not for snoopers; you’re more worried about assassination drones cruising overhead, looking for a lock on your skull. “Why are you interested in
me
?”
you cringe and start looking round. But not for snoopers; you’re more worried about assassination drones cruising overhead, looking for a lock on your skull. “Why are you interested in
me
?”
“Because you’ve been approached by a highly questionable business man working for a foreign private-equity organization. They’re not angel investors so much as fallen angels—please stop looking around like that, you will only attract unwanted attention—and it is important to us that this business man should not be frightened away or prematurely introduced to the police—
yes
, I said
prematurely
. Mr. Hussein, are you paying attention? Hello?”
yes
, I said
prematurely
. Mr. Hussein, are you paying attention? Hello?”
There’s a stream of traffic flowing along Bank Street, and you’ll only get yourself run over if you try and dash across it. The crawling sensation in the small of your back won’t go away, but the fire in your lungs is growing, so you stop, bent over, wheezing (
so
out of shape! Bibi will scold you!), and hold the phone to your ear again.
so
out of shape! Bibi will scold you!), and hold the phone to your ear again.
“Hello? Hello?”
May you come to the attention of important people:
Supposedly it’s an ancient Chinese curse, but the modern Kyrgyz version has got you bang to rights. “I’m here.”
Supposedly it’s an ancient Chinese curse, but the modern Kyrgyz version has got you bang to rights. “I’m here.”
“Excellent. Listen, Mr. Hussein, Anwar—may I call you Anwar? This is only for the next day or so. You have heard of, ah, sting operations? A sting is in progress, and your consular post is part of the bait. We would like you to continue with the job and comply with any of John Christie’s requests—if they remain reasonable, of course—while we gather evidence against his associates. For whose arrest there will be a generous reward, incidentally. Colonel Datka assures me that this fellow is the key to a major international criminal investigation, and he will see to it that Europol treat you as a material witness when—”
“What about the bread mix?” you burst out.
“The
what
?”
what
?”
You have never heard a president sound confused before. (Not that you’ve ever knowingly
spoken
to a president before—it’s not like they’re on Facebook, sending friend requests—but it’s not what you expect from seeing them on the political blogs.)
spoken
to a president before—it’s not like they’re on Facebook, sending friend requests—but it’s not what you expect from seeing them on the political blogs.)
“The bread mix,” you repeat. “INSECT-FREE FAIR TRADE ORGANIC BREAD MIX BARLEY-RYE, Produce of People’s Number Four Grain Products Factory of Issyk-Kulistan. That I’m supposed to give samples of to visitors, and never put in a bucket and ferment with a special extra ingredient.”
There’s noise on the line, as the president speaks away from his headset, his tone rising imperiously: “Felix, what’s this I hear about our consulate receiving
bread mix
?” There is a delay. “Oh, I see. Mr. Hussein, you are not to worry about the bread mix. Apparently the—criminals—we have been investigating have parasites. They’ve been using your consulate for drop-shipping contraband, but you should not worry about this. It is minor, and if you play your part for just a little while longer, we will arrest them all. Including this Christie person. I will ensure that you are well looked after, you have my word on the matter. If you’ll excuse me, I must go now. Just remember: Play for time. Good-bye for now!”
bread mix
?” There is a delay. “Oh, I see. Mr. Hussein, you are not to worry about the bread mix. Apparently the—criminals—we have been investigating have parasites. They’ve been using your consulate for drop-shipping contraband, but you should not worry about this. It is minor, and if you play your part for just a little while longer, we will arrest them all. Including this Christie person. I will ensure that you are well looked after, you have my word on the matter. If you’ll excuse me, I must go now. Just remember: Play for time. Good-bye for now!”
Your phone goes dead, and you blink at the screen. It is, indeed, in flight mode. Then you look up. High above the roof-tops, twenty or fifty metres up, the grey discus of a surveillance drone ghosts past the elaborate columns and stone railings and domes of the former bank headquarters.
Blink and it’s gone: But the sensation that you are being watched remains.
DOROTHY: Rewind
Flashback:
The door opens. You take a step forward into Liz’s open arms, and her friendly face and welcoming hug is just too much. You tear up as you slump chin first onto her shoulder. She tenses up for a moment, then relaxes. “Oh hell. Let’s get you inside.” Two steps forward, the door closes, and you find a futon behind you. You crumple slowly backwards on it.
Gentle words: Liz fusses around, offering tissues, tea, and sympathy. But, inevitably, the question you’ve been dreading arrives: “What happened?”
You open your mouth and find the words have gone missing.
I don’t know.
I don’t know.
Liz squats in front of you. Takes your right hand in her own, strokes the back of your wrist. She looks—intent. Focussed. You try to speak again, but end up shaking your head.
“Is it the stalker?” she asks.
“I—” You’re appalled at your inarticulacy. “I don’t know. Didn’t think so. Not sure now. I’ve been so stupid.”
Sniff.
Is this self-pity or anger, filling the spring of tears? Which is it? “I, uh, I wasn’t telling the truth the other night. When I said Julian was in Moscow.”
Sniff.
Is this self-pity or anger, filling the spring of tears? Which is it? “I, uh, I wasn’t telling the truth the other night. When I said Julian was in Moscow.”
“No?” She’s waiting, hopeful and loyal and . . . just being there. You don’t deserve this.
“He dumped me a couple of months ago,” you mutter, not meeting her eyes. “I’m not myself right now.”
“What happened?” she asks, gently stroking your wrist and watching you with inquisitor’s eyes, not accusing, mildly curious.
You tell her. Then, when she doesn’t explode in a fiery octopus of molten blame, you tell her some more. Being conflicted. Wanting a casual pick-up. Dinner with Christie, and dessert, and, and.
She listens quietly until you get to the way he chucked you out, and what you thought, the safeword. “Did he rape you?” she asks, gently enough. But you can feel the tension in her fingertips, rubbing.
“No. Yes. Maybe: I’m not sure.” You take a deep, ragged breath. “I . . . it was regrettable sex. I shouldn’t have done it and felt really bad afterwards, kind of sick . . . I think he
might
have raped me, if I’d wanted to stop short. But we didn’t go there. Not at that time.”
might
have raped me, if I’d wanted to stop short. But we didn’t go there. Not at that time.”
“At. That time.” Her finger motion stops, leaving your wrist limp and open to the air. She’s pulled completely away, withdrawn without your noticing. “What happened then?”
You take a deep breath. “That’s when it got weird. I went back to my room, wedged the door. Then there was a work email.”
“Work.” You’ve been avoiding eye contact up to now, afraid of seeing what your confession is doing to her. But you force yourself to look up. To your surprise, she looks thoughtful. There’s no contempt or anger or hatred; she looks almost . . .
business-like
? “What kind of work?”
business-like
? “What kind of work?”
“Head office wanted a special type of assessment performing, a sociopathic disorder assessment on a named executive. It was him. Liz, I should have seen it coming before—I mean, I was just
stupid
. John Christie is a narcissistic psychopath—”
stupid
. John Christie is a narcissistic psychopath—”
“
Who
did you say?”
Who
did you say?”
You flinch. “John, uh, Christie? He said he got picked on at school for it, sharing a name with a murderer—”
“No, wait. Stop right there.” Liz is looking at you with a very odd expression on her face. “Would you mind describing him? I mean, how tall is he? How old? How much does he weigh—”
Now
you’re on the receiving end of an inquisition—but it’s not at all what you expected. Part-way through, Liz reaches for a pair of specs and switches them on. She seems to be looking something up. Then she takes them off again, holding them carefully, as if afraid they might explode in her hands.
you’re on the receiving end of an inquisition—but it’s not at all what you expected. Part-way through, Liz reaches for a pair of specs and switches them on. She seems to be looking something up. Then she takes them off again, holding them carefully, as if afraid they might explode in her hands.
She stares at her specs. “Jesus, Dorothy.”
“I’m—” You lick your lips. “You don’t hate me?”
Her gaze flickers across you, sweeping you from top to toes. She looks profoundly disturbed: stunned, even. “Jesus, Dorothy, you’re lucky to be
alive
.”
alive
.”
“But he—” You do a double-take. “Is he a murderer?”
She won’t meet your eyes. “I don’t know. Hopefully not; but he’s certainly a psycho, and what happened to you—are you sure it wasn’t rape?”
Your mind goes blank. You try to think back to what you were thinking in the run-up to dinner, in the lift up to his room . . . skulking away with your tail between your legs. Showering to forget his touch. (Why didn’t you use the safeword—were you afraid he wouldn’t stop? Were you enjoying it? It’s so confusing.) “If it’s rape, there’s a script to follow, isn’t there?”
“Yes, but you don’t have to worry about that.”
“The hell I don’t.” Your throat’s raw. “There were no witnesses. Okay, so suppose I say ‘yes’ and you take me round to the station where a trained counsellor talks me through giving a report and taking”—you swallow—“samples. And let’s suppose you, uh, your people go and arrest him. At that point it’s his word against mine, and you know what his advocate will make of my background? Polyamory still doesn’t get equal rights, never mind civil partnerships . . . I just get dragged through the mud, and to what end?”
“But you’ve got—” Liz jolts to a stop, like a Doberman at the end of a choke chain. She’s staring at you. “Oh,” she says softly.
“Oh, indeed.” You reach out your hand towards her. “You don’t want this, Liz. You don’t know what you’re opening yourself up for.”
After a moment, she takes your hand.
“It wasn’t rape,” you say, trying to keep any trace of doubt out of your voice for her sake. “But I’m really worried about the, the other thing.”
“Yes, I’d say you should be.” Liz is silent for a few seconds. “I’d like to take a statement, though. All the same.”
“What? But I told you, it wasn’t non-consensual—”
“Not about the sex: about the appraisal.”
You shiver. “I’d rather not. If you don’t mind.”
She sits down beside you on the futon. “It’s, it’s about Christie. He’s, uh, a person of interest in another investigation. We want to question him in relation to a violent crime. I can’t tell you about it right now, but what you’d told me—it’s
really
important. My colleagues—they need to know about this. Do you mind if I file at least a contact report?”
really
important. My colleagues—they need to know about this. Do you mind if I file at least a contact report?”
You sniff, then rub a hand across your eyes. There’s no mascara or eye-liner, luckily: You stripped before you showered. “You’re going to insist, aren’t you?”
She manages a weak smile. “You said it: I didn’t.”
“Oh hell.” You struggle to sit up. “Just . . . do you mind if I stay overnight? I can’t face that room . . .”
“You can stay,” she says neutrally. “I’ll take the futon.” She pulls her police specs on again, then pauses, one finger hovering over the power button. “I still love you, you know. I just wish things weren’t so messy.”
Then she pushes the button.
LIZ: Project ATHENA
“People laugh when they hear the phrase ‘artificial intelligence’ these days.” MacDonald is on a roll. “But it’s not funny; we’ve come a long way since the 1950s. There’s a joke in the field: If we know how to do it, it’s not intelligence. Playing checkers, or chess, or solving mathematical theorems. Image recognition, speech recognition, handwriting recognition. Diagnosing an illness, driving a car through traffic, operating an organic-chemistry lab to synthesize new compounds. These were all thought to be aspects of intelligence, back in the day, but now they’re things you can buy through an app store or on lease-purchase from Toyota.
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