Social Faith Page 3

  The short edge of the desk houses a piece of tech that looks vaguely military, an oblong box of white plastic with rounded edges, about the size of a large toaster, fed on one side from a belt of silver-tipped, clear plastic cylinders that run up from a large case on the floor, with the empty ribbon emerging again to coil in a loose roll below. On the other side is an opening that looks big enough to spit out the sealed five by five by five blocks of shyfts that are stacked neatly next to it and on the shelf underneath. Their display skins are still radiating a simple green glow. There’s no mark on the cap.

  Amit had set up a small-scale shyft reproduction centre in his room before he disappeared.

  Mr. Johari is standing behind me, watching me search the room. He must have no idea what this stuff is for. If he knew it was illegal, there’s no way he’d have shown it to me. I ask him if he’d like to record that message for his son so I can take it with me and he nods and then leaves me by myself.

  I take out my tab and wave it around, capturing details of the room for later. There’s a few scattered caps lying amongst the hardware on the long desk and I scoop them up, transfer them to my pocket along with one of the redundant storage drives. Maybe they’ll be able to tell me something about Amit Johari, help me find him.

  It’s a long shot but I’ve been riding long shots for so long now, I’ve maxed out my frequent flyer eMiles.

  I poke through the closet, find precisely organized rows of similar-looking clothing: a bunch of short-sleeved button-ups in different colours; a drawer of identical white briefs, folded in half and then half again; another drawer of eleven pairs of carefully balled-up socks, in rows of four-by-three with one pair missing from the front left; four pairs of the same shoes lined on the floor, black sneakers with white laces, next to a large box of top-of-the line FeelE gear that Amit wouldn’t have needed after his restoration, when he could plug his head directly into the link.

  I take one last look and shut the door behind me, meet Mr. Johari on his way up the stairs. He holds up a folded piece of paper with Amit's name written in neat block letters and I take it from him, put it in my pocket.

  He shows me to the door and thanks me for coming, for my help. I tell him I’ll be in touch, should I find something.

  He nods and watches me walk back to the Rohk, waves once from his door as I pull away.

  I wonder what they’d think if I had told them the truth about who their son is. That he’s murderer. That he plowed through the lives of seven people, smeared them across the pavement.

  Would they still be anxious for him to return home, embrace him just the same? Or would it be one more thing they blamed themselves for?

  It doesn’t matter. They’ll never find out. After I find Amit—

  What then?

  What am I going to do when I find him?

  Confront him? Tell him how he ruined my life and force him to apologise? To turn himself in?

  Arrest him? Drag him in front of the courts? Build a case against him with no evidence except the inadmissible image I pulled from my head?

  Toss him to the feeds? His rithm normalization was a firestorm of controversy. Revealing that tampering with his rithm had turned him in to a sociopath would reignite the whole thing, blow back and engulf the Joharis. Probably make more people hate and fear Reszos even more than they already do.

  There’s no good answer. Every step I take toward him puts him further out of the reach of justice, and drags me along with him.

  That’s another grievance I can add to the list, another reason to hate him. Everything I’ve done to find him has forced me further and further away from the person I was. Made me more like him.

  Obsessed with answers. Mucking about with my rithm. Blasting through anyone or anything in my path.

  Lying to grieving parents.

  I don’t like what I’m becoming, but I don’t have any other choice.

  It’s one more thing he’ll have to answer for.

  When I find him.

  StatUS-ID

  [fdaa:9afe:17e6:a2ef::Gage/-//GIBSON]

  SysDate

  [06:23:17. Sunday, January 19, 2059]

  I take my time getting into the elevator and Brewer helps me along with a shove. The two agents enter first, take up position in the back corners. I follow. Then Wiser and Brewer.

  Dora’s in my apartment now. Waiting there like I told her to. Trusting me.

  They’ll find her.

  They’ll scan her.

  Then they’ll drag her off to standards and turn her mind back to a save point six months ago.

  The terrified Doralai Wii in my apartment right now will die. And I can’t stop it.

  Fifteen seconds later, the elevator doors open on my floor.

  Wiser and Brewer exit and an agent nudges me forward with a closed fist to my shoulder.

  Twenty foot-dragging seconds later we’re at my apartment door.

  I have to reason with Wiser, make him understand. I’ll tell him about Ankur, about the fragment hunting us. Dora’s been running for her life. That’ll have to count towards extenuating circumstances.

  I need to tell him. Now before he finds Dora inside.

  “Special Agent—” I say but he holds up a finger, doesn’t look at me.

  “You had your chance to talk,” Wiser says. “Whatever happens next is on you.”

  He gives a nod to the agents, overrides the lock and the door slides open.

  I’m sorry, Dora.

  The agents move in first, weapons raised in close-combat postures, eyes lined down their holographic sights, ThreatSafe off.

  Wiser keeps his eyes on me the whole time, a satisfied smile on his face, waiting for me to crack, anticipating the evidence that’ll catch me in a lie. Then by having to re-sync Dora, he’ll prove I am exactly who he thinks I am. All he can see right now is his anger at me, not the woman he’s about to kill.

  The apartment isn’t big. It doesn’t take the agents long to search the bathroom and closet.

  “All clear,” one of the agents calls from inside.

  It takes a second to hit me. Dora isn’t there.

  She must have slipped down the stairs. Or up. Either way she’s not here.

  Thank Christ.

  I sag a breath hard enough Wiser snaps his head at me, disbelief in his eyes.

  His grin falters. “Check again,” he snaps.

  “It’s clear, sir,” the other agent seconds.

  “Watch him,” Wiser says to Brewer and bolts in like a sprinter off the blocks.

  There’s a flurry of slamming doors and a crash as the bed is slammed down. It had been down when I left. Dora must have replaced it.

  “Bring him,” Wiser yells.

  Brewer shoves me inside. The closet doors are open, my laundry scattered around, the mattress flipped off the bed. A single plate of congealed eggs and cold cup of coffee sits on the kitchen counter.

  Good thing she didn’t listen to me.

  Wiser storms up to me, stops with his nose jutted up at my chin, chest rising and falling like he just ran up four flights of stairs. “Where is she?”

  “Like I said, I haven’t seen her in three days.”

  “Then why does your bed smell like flowers?”

  “Helps me sleep.” He grinds his teeth. “You’re lying to me. Still. Lying.”

  I shrug through the trembling nervous relief, but can’t help but let a smirk creep across my face. “What was that you said about filing a grievance with a Citizen Tribunal for illegally searching my apartment?”

  He turns away, looks at Brewer. “Get him to the cruiser.”

  Brewer latches on to my triceps and as he bulldozes me into the hallway I call back to Wiser, “Hey, what about my jacket?”

  I don’t get an answer.

  StatUS-ID

  [a646:d17e:8670:511f::Finsbury/D//GAGE]

  SysDate

  [11:22:28. Sunday, April 28, 2058]

  In the hopper on the way home, I tell my IMP to examine t
he drive I lifted from Amit’s bedroom. The command has barely finished echoing in the small cabin before it comes back with regrets—Amit has the drive locked tight

  Even if it could get past the security—both location secure and bio/kin protected—I imagine there wouldn’t be much on it I’d understand anyway. It’ll likely contain the source code behind the shyfts he was working on. What do I know about rithm code?

  The individual shyfts are the same story. I can’t imagine they’d be of much help, but I can’t take the chance that one of them might contain something that can lead me to him, however remote a chance that’s likely to be. I’m going to need someone to pry them open and see what’s inside, and xY’s retainer ran out yesterday. If he won’t help, I’m going to have to find someone to crack the drive, and that’ll take some doing.

  I need him.

  Shit. More haggling.

  I have the IMP call xYvYx, and he makes me wait, but when he answers I get his voice. “If you think you’re getting a refund, you’re fucked.”

  “I don’t want a refund,” I say, keeping my voice light. “But I do have something else I need you to do.”

  “Your money ran out and I haven’t heard shit from you since. Why should I deal another second with you?”

  “Because I’m close,” I say, masking my nerves with a hushed voice. “And I’ll pay.”

  “What’d you find, big boy?”

  “A drive.”

  “What’s on it?” he asks, exasperated.

  “That’s what I want you to tell me.”

  “Plug it in and find out for yourself. I’m not your fucking IT support.”

  “It’s locked down.”

  “And you expect me to crack it?”

  “You said you were the best.”

  “I’m not a fucking cryptographer.”

  “Fine,” I say, and put a kink in the panic I’m feeling. “I’ll find someone else.”

  How am I going to find someone else?

  “Just fucking hold on,” he blurts. “I didn’t say I can’t do it. Back up for just a second. Where did you get this drive from? You used the ReCog and it lead you somewhere, didn’t it?”

  “It did.”

  “Where?”

  “I’m not ready to share that yet—”

  “Listen fucko, part of the deal was you sharing what you found with me. What did you scrape out of your head? Was it a place? A person?”

  Elder told me not to trust xYvYx, that he was only out for himself, but even if he hadn’t it would be obvious enough. xYvYx will screw me over the second he thinks he’ll come out ahead. But I need him invested. I have to give him something.

  “A person.”

  “Who?”

  “I’ll tell you what, you crack this drive you can tell me.”

  He’s going to say ‘yes,’ but that’s the problem. I’m giving him everything here. If he decides to keep the drive to himself I’m fucked for finding Amit.

  That can’t happen. I’ll need some insurance.

  I hear him breathing as he pretends to agonise over it. “I’ll send a drone,” he finally says.

  “I’ve got caps for you to analyze too.”

  He sighs. “Anything else? Math homework?”

  “That’ll do. For now. But give me an hour or so on the drone.”

  “Shit, Gibson. This better be good.”

  “How long do you think it will take to get back to me?”

  “As long as it takes,” he says, and disengages without saying goodbye.

  I stare out the window for the rest of the ride home, the drive on my lap, thinking about Amit, his transition from golden boy coder to mass murderer.

  What happened to him? How could he have ended up falling so far from where he started?

  I’ll have to ask him when I find him.

  After I land, I swing by the station and grab a dose of trace dust, open the drive’s housing and sprinkle it inside.

  In case I ever need to track it down again.

  StatUS-ID

  [fdaa:9afe:17e6:a2ef::Gage/-//GIBSON]

  SysDate

  [07:13:18. Sunday, January 19, 2059]

  Special Agent Wiser drives us the short distance from the apartment to Standards without a word. I can hear his teeth grinding from the backseat.

  The cruiser stops in front of Standards HQ—a long brick building with curved front windows and a reinforced entrance—and we exit onto the sidewalk. The car swings itself back into the rear parking lot as Brewer shoves me toward the doors.

  Wiser and Brewer guide me in, past the desk officer I recognize as Herb Montgomery. He gives us an inquisitive look as we pass through the security ward and into the cavernous office beyond. Wiser’s moving slowly, like he’s making a show of it. The agents and officers inside all stop and watch my perp-walk through the station. I don’t recognize any of them but I bet they all know who I am.

  The former cop gone bad.

  The reason Standards is in charge now.

  Wiser marches me past a bank of recharging lawbots and down the aisle between two rows of desks to one of four interview rooms along the back wall.

  He shuts me inside and leaves me to stew. The room is small, smaller than a holding cell. Two chairs facing each other with a narrow table in between and barely enough space to walk around them.

  I know the drill.

  I sit and wait.

  When Wiser returns, he smells like government soap and has changed out of his suit into a skin-tight black long-sleeve shirt with quarter zip done all the way up to the neck and black ACUs tucked into slate-grey combat boots.

  The hardass returns.

  He drags out his chair and sits across from me, lays his black hands on the table between us.

  “I’ve been waiting for this,” he says.

  “Are you charging me with something?”

  “I have seventy-two hours to decide.”

  “Seventy now. I’ve been in here a while.”

  His lips curl in a smile that says he has all the power. “I’ve had a busy morning.”

  “You do smell better. Must have taken the rest of that time to hose Brewer down. He was getting ripe.”

  The smile slides from his face. “You sure are glib for someone sitting on the wrong side of this table.”

  “Why shouldn’t I be? I haven’t done anything wrong.”

  “So you keep saying.”

  “Why am I here?”

  “I have questions.”

  “Then ask.”

  “For starters, what do you have going with Fate?”

  “Fate?” I say, confused. I don’t know where he’s going with this. What does Fate have to do with anything? “You mean the Ancestors?”

  “Fate opened an office here a few months ago. Their private security have been striding around the city in stopsuits like they expect a war to break out at any second, and as far as we can tell they’re just as interested in finding Xiao as we are. Maybe more.”

  “And you’re just letting them?”

  “They haven’t broken any laws. Fate Agents may not have any standing to investigate, but they have political cover.”

  “What’s that have to do with me?” I ask, still not following.

  He leans in. “Who had you restored, Finsbury?”

  “I don’t know,” I tell him. “I’ve been trying to find out.”

  She shuffles his chair closer. “So have I. It was handled completely anonymously. The only connection I could find was that lawyer of yours, and he was no help at all. I honestly expected you’d have reintegrated by now and made a run for it. I know you’re up to something, Finsbury. Tell me what it is.”

  This is getting us nowhere.

  I take a peek over the wall of attitude I put up when Special Agent Wiser and I first met and try to look at him with fresh eyes. Some cops hide behind bravado. They’re good at taking orders and handing out beatings and not much else. The way he came on that first time, then this morning, I thought maybe h
e was one of those. Like Brewer. But I don’t think he is.

  I get a sense he’s one of the good ones. Angry as fuck, but solid. He’s trying to do his job, but letting his pain guide him.

  I exhale and it comes out a sigh. I’m tired. Emotionally. Spiritually. Tired of fighting. Tired of not knowing what’s going on around me. I feel like I’ve lived a hundred years in this body.

  I can’t keep going like this. No way I can fight a superintelligence alone, even a fragment of one. It’s going to keep coming and coming, and it doesn’t care who gets in the way.

  I need help.

  “What was I like,” I ask, “when we were partners?”

  He blinks once, purses his lips. After a moment, he says, “You were fine, at first. Distracted, but fine. Good even. We got along. Then you started shyfting, and I pretended I didn’t notice. I was green and scared and I let it slide, and before I could say something, it was too late. I was like this.” He drums his fingers on the table and leaves eight circular impressions in the metal.

  “How did I die?” I ask him.

  His brown eyes tighten. “In an explosion at a privately-owned apartment block.”

  “Under what circumstances?”

  “Officially?” He glares at me. “We don’t know.”

  “But you do know what they found at the scene. You were probably there yourself. AMP-level optical processors. Skyns with non-standard Cortexes. You must have a theory.”

  His eyes snap to the side, like he’s listening to something only he can hear. Probably the Service AMP offering advice. He shakes his head and looks back at me.

  “That’s classified information. Where’d you get it?”

  “Tell me what you think happened,” I say, “and I’ll tell you if you’re right.”

  Wiser’s head jerks to the side again but this time he doesn’t listen, sits forward in his chair and begins to speak. “You were shyfting, you hadn’t synced once, and you knew time was running out. You were scared and everyone could see it. When you finally had the chance to apprehend Xiao, you didn’t. You let him go. You’d been on his tail for weeks, breaking every rule to get him, and instead you let him go and walked away from the Service. I can only assume he made you a better offer. One that would keep your life intact, if not your mind.”