Firebird

TWENTY-FOUR

The essential problem with our beliefs is that we tend to fall in love with them. They become a part of who we are, and we defend them in the face of all contrary evidence. They become the rock upon which we base our identity. I cannot help but think how much less damage would be done were we to view them rather as pliable clay, tentative conclusions subject to revision when more evidence arrives on the scene.

— Ramon Cavalier, Faith and Culture, 1267

When we got back to the country house, we introduced Charlie to Jacob, and left them exchanging whatever it is AIs talk about, while Alex went up to his office to deal with the flagged messages that had piled up, while I looked over the more routine stuff. One of those turned out to be from Fenn Redfield. It was text, and it said simply, Alex, please call when you can. Fenn, as I've mentioned elsewhere, was a longtime friend. And a police inspector.

I passed it on to Alex. “It'll be about Robin's yachts,” he said. “I'm on the run at the minute, Chase. Call him and see what he has.”

Fenn was short and kind of dumpy. He did not look at all like a law-enforcement officer. Which, he said, was the reason he'd been successful. He wasn't a threatening figure, but rather one people felt they could confide in. Who had their best interests at heart.

“Alex asked me to get the incident reports for him,” he said. “They were in the archives, so it took a while.”

“Thanks, Fenn. Can you just send over what you have?”

“I can't. Privacy statutes. But if you tell me what you want to know-”

“I wasn't aware he'd asked you to do this.”

“Well, you know how he is, Chase. There's really nothing exceptional here, as far as I can see.” He touched his display. “Except that this Robin character kept abandoning yachts. It says here they were deemed expendable and were used in orbital experiments. When Robin was finished with them, he let the yachts go down.”

“You mean they fell out of orbit?”

“I guess. 'Go down' is what it says here. They were apparently simply abandoned.”

“Does it say how many times the yachts went out?”

“Hang on a second.” He consulted his display. “Negative.”

“Okay. You know when this happened?”

“It's been a while. According to this they were lost in 1385, '88, '91, and '93. I'm sending you the exact dates. All four vehicles were pretty old.” He ticked off their names, the names they'd had before Robin had bought them: the Lucia, the Exeter, the Nomad, and the Tai Ling. “In fact, all four were buyer-beware deals. The seller accepted no responsibility or liability. I can't imagine what Robin would have wanted with them. Other than to take them out and pull the plug. Which, I guess, is what he did.”

While I was passing this on to Alex, he got a call from a major client. An estate sale on the other side of the globe might be making Andrew Karnovsky's famous cane available at auction. Could we determine if it was actually what they claimed it to be? If so, the caller wanted us to obtain it for him.

Alex promised to get back shortly with a response and, because there was so much money involved, started making calls immediately. When he'd finished, and we were waiting for the results to come in, I brought the conversation back to Chris Robin. “Why was everything on his house AI deleted?”

“Maybe Zuck gave us the answer to that.”

“Which is-?”

“If it was true that Elizabeth was cheating, or there was any kind of cheating going on by either party, she might have been concerned that there would be hints in the data banks. She wouldn't have wanted anything like that to go into the public record. The safest way to avoid that possibility would have been to clear the AI. It would have cost her nothing.”

“If there's any truth to that,” I said, “we might also have an idea what really happened to him. To Robin.”

“You're thinking that Elizabeth killed him.”

“Yes. Then dropped him into the ocean.”

“It's possible.”

“That would explain the missing bag, too. She'd have wanted to get rid of it, so she could claim he never showed up at the house. And that's probably the way her story would have gone when Cermak turned up dead. If somebody hadn't spotted the skimmer.”

We were still kicking it around when Jacob broke in: “Pardon me, but Dr. Bittinger would like to speak with you, Alex.”

I got up to go. Alex held up a hand and signaled me to wait. “Put him through, Jacob.”

Wescott Bittinger's thin, intense image appeared. He was chairman of the senate's science advisory committee, a small man physically, with thinning hair and sloping shoulders. But there was a smirk built into his lined features.

“Wes,” Alex said. “It's good of you to return my call so promptly.”

“I'm always interested in talking to you, Alex.” He smiled in my direction, then his attention went back to Alex. “What can I do for the world's most celebrated antique dealer?” His tone suggested that the profession was inconsequential.

Alex let it go, of course. “Wes, we're just back from Villanueva.”

“Really? Why on earth would you want to go there?” And a light dawned. “Ah, you've returned with some priceless artifacts, no doubt.”

“Not really, Wes.”

“You're all right, I assume? Villanueva is a dangerous place.” He looked my way. “You didn't go, too, I hope, Chase? It's no place for a woman, from what I've heard.”

I smiled politely.

“She was there,” said Alex. “Something happened that you should know about.”

He was seated in a lush, well-padded armchair. “Really?” he said. “On Villanueva? I hope we haven't lost anyone.”

“Not exactly.”

“Explain, please.”

“We brought back an AI.”

“Really? You mean functioning, of course.”

“Yes. It helped run an elementary school. When the survivors cleared out, it was left behind.”

“Unavoidable, I guess, under the circumstances.”

“His name's Charlie.”

“I'm glad to hear he survived. Seven thousand years in an elementary school?” Bittinger chuckled. “I suspect he has the alphabet down cold.”

“Wes, he was pleading with us, when we were in orbit, to get him out.”

More chuckling. “I can imagine. Well, good for you, Alex.” He let us see that he was pressed for time. He cleared his throat. Managed to look uncomfortable. Looked down at something on his desk. “Was there anything else?”

“Wes, when everybody got out, the AIs were left behind. They're still there.”

“Alex.” He spoke the name soothingly. “Everything will be all right. They're only data systems.”

“That's always been a matter for debate, Wes. But whether they're just data systems or conscious entities, we treat them like people. We always have.”

“Alex, listen to yourself.”

“You know what I'm saying is true.”

“Of course I do. I treat Henry with the utmost courtesy. Don't I, Henry?”

A new voice spoke: “Yes, sir. You've always been the kindest of associates.”

Bittinger leaned forward, tried to look compassionate, pressed his hands together. “And that's fine as far as it goes, Alex. But in this case, Villanueva for God's sake, it's a killing ground. We'd have to send in the Fleet to bring out some of those things. And God knows how many there are. And we'd be risking the lives of the rescuers.” He cleared his throat again. Louder this time. “Tell me, did you have any difficulties while you were there?”

“Not really.”

“I'm glad to hear it. You're aware, of course, that we recommend everyone stay away from Villanueva.”

We were in the conference room, and the beige box was sitting on a shelf, where it had been tied into the house system so it could reach us wherever we were. I caught Alex's attention and pointed to it, trying to suggest he let Charlie speak for himself. But Alex ignored me and kept going. “Charlie can help us.”

Bittinger shook his head and ran his fingers through his thin hair. “Alex, Alex: Look, we've been friends a long time. But we're going to have to agree to disagree on this. These things on Villanueva, they're seven, eight thousand years old. Whatever. You and I, like pretty much everyone else, tend to treat our AIs as if they're human. Yes, I'll grant you that. We even let ourselves imagine that they are human. And maybe there's something to it. Maybe they're really conscious. But these things out there”-and he looked up toward the ceiling-”they were built at the very beginning of this technology. They are data systems. Nothing more than that. We can't even show that our modern AIs are really conscious, let alone these ancient things.”

“That's because, no matter what they say or do, we ascribe it to the programing.”

“And with good reason. Alex, they are programed to imitate self-awareness. That's the whole point. But keep in mind, there's a reason they're called artificial intelligences. It's only an illusion.”

“Then how would you explain the fact that some of the AIs on Villanueva have developed psychoses? Were they programed to go crazy under certain circumstances?”

“Alex, I'm sorry. I just don't have time for this. It's an old argument. There's a whole literature on the subject, and it's pretty definitive. I suggest you read it when you have time. Meanwhile, I'd guess that the development we've experienced on Villanueva, AIs apparently turning hostile-”

“There's nothing apparent about it, Wes-”

“That it results from a gradual deterioration of the programing over the centuries.” He looked up, checked something on the wall, maybe a clock. “There's really no need to be concerned about it. We have monitors in place. Even if they were to evolve into a serious threat, we'd know long before anything unfortunate could happen.” We got another smile. Somehow, the subject had changed to a defense issue. “Was there anything else, Alex?”

When he was gone, I asked Alex why he hadn't let Charlie speak.

“If we'd brought Charlie into it,” he said, “Bittinger would have been insulted. There's nothing he could say that wouldn't be ascribed to the technology. And I didn't want Charlie losing his temper.”

“Maybe that would demonstrate he's alive.”

Alex shook his head and did a dead-on imitation of the senator: “It's all in the programing, Chase.”

Fifteen minutes later, we had the information on the Karnovsky cane. It was a fake.

Harley Evans was a counselor at the Westbrook Universal Church. He'd invited me in several times as a speaker at luncheons for the Rangers, the church's youth group. And on one occasion I'd passed out awards for him at a student-achievement event. Harley had been leading the charge for years in his church to recognize AIs as sentient beings and to admit them to the congregation. Alex knew him, and reacted to our conversation with Bittinger by inviting him over for dinner at the country house. We rarely made our own food, and that night was no exception. After we determined that Harley liked pizza, we arranged to have some delivered by Poppa Louie's.

While we waited for it to arrive, we shared some white wine, and Harley got a tour of the artifacts in the reception room. Like the bronze lamp that had once belonged to Omar Gorman. “Was this really his?” he asked.

“It provided his light,” I said, “while he was writing Lost Cause.”

And over here was a coffee cup, made in South America in the twenty-fifth century, that had been aboard the Valiant in its historic voyage.

And this was the bound copy of Their Finest Hour, which had given us back the second volume of Winston Churchill's classic history of World War II.

“Pity,” Harley said, “that the rest of it's lost.”

Alex touched the crystal case that held the book. “This volume's nine hundred years old. So we had it in relatively recent times. Maybe, one day, we'll find the rest. Meanwhile, at least we have the flavor of it.”

Harley was in his middle years. He was a small man, not quite my size, with blond hair and deep-set dark eyes that seemed always to be looking for something.

The pizza showed up in due time, and we sat down in the dining area in back. Alex uncorked a fresh bottle and Harley offered a toast. “To those who keep history alive.”

We divided the pizza and talked about the weather and how things were going at the parish, and the latest episode of Starburst, an HV adventure series that had drawn the interest of members of the congregation. Aliens, the Torabi, were gradually undermining the Confederacy while the good guys tried to convince politicians and whoever else might listen that they were really there.

When we'd finished, Alex brought out a chocolate cake. And it was while we were dividing the cake that Harley paused and thanked us for having him in. “Guys,” he said, “I know there's a reason I'm here, but before we get to it, I want you to know that we'd be delighted to have you stop by the church sometime, so we can return the favor.”

“Sounds good,” said Alex. “Count on us.”

“And now may I ask if there's something I can do for you?”

Alex nodded. “In fact, Harley,” he said, “we do need your help.”

“Ah. You want to join the fold. Excellent.” He smiled, letting us know he was kidding. “In fact, though, you'd both enjoy the social activities.”

“I have no doubt we would, Harley.” Alex took a bite of the cake, commented on how delicious it was, and sat back. “Chase has told me about your efforts to get the church to recognize AIs as sentient creatures.”

“Ah, yes. That's not exactly how we phrased the issue, but it's true. Yes.”

“How did you phrase it?”

“We've tried to make the point that they may have souls. And that even if we can't be certain, we should assume that they do. An error in this matter should be made on the side of caution.”

“You're concerned,” he asked, “that they may be punished in an afterlife because they weren't admitted to churches?”

“No. I'm concerned that we may be judged negligent for the way in which we've treated them.”

I lifted my glass to him. “I suspect we're not far apart, Harley.”

Alex took another bite. “How has the campaign been going?”

“Not well.” Harley's native optimism was fueled by a conviction that there truly was an ongoing divine plan. But something drained out of him at that moment. “'Black boxes have no future,'“ he said. “That's what they all say. The bishops. The prime donors. Pretty much anybody with influence. Black boxes have no need for salvation because they are no more God's children than the furniture. It's a rather large leap to try to convince people otherwise. This despite the fact that they will take offense at anyone who insults the house AI. And I must confess that I'm not sure they're wrong. But I think the correct course of action is, as I said, the cautious one. Assume a kind of basic”-he struggled for the right term-”humanity?”

“I think that works, Harley,” I said.

“But people aren't going to change, Chase. The sense is that a machine, no matter how human it seems, cannot qualify for Heaven. Alex, we have several dozen Mutes who are now members of our congregation. Not here, of course. On Toxicon. Where maybe people are a little more open-minded.” He paused. “We accept them, but not an AI.” He heaved a sigh. “Why is this an issue for you?”

Alex said, “We're just back from Villanueva.”

“Oh.” His expression changed to one of disapproval and, almost, horror. “I'm glad to see you got through it okay. From what I hear, it's pretty dangerous out there. Chase, you went, too?”

“Yes, Harley.”

“And something happened.”

Alex nodded. “I want you to hear something.” He raised his voice slightly: “Charlie-?”

Charlie apparently needed a moment to gather himself. Then the twenty-year-old boy appeared: “Good afternoon, Reverend.”

Harley smiled. “I take it you are not the house AI?”

“No, sir. I'm not.”

He told his story. How it had felt knowing that everyone was fleeing the world. How he'd watched first the school, then the town, emptying. The long silence that had followed, broken only by occasional thunder and rain, by the wind in the trees, and the rumble of trucks when the repair bots came to restore the building. Or restore him.

And there had been Harbach, a Beta who'd taken over most of the systems that Charlie had access to. “Harbach is a maniac. I watched him break down gradually, over the centuries. And finally he lost all touch with reality. He had no compunction about killing his own, if provoked. Had Chase and Alex left me, I'd be dead now.”

When Charlie was finished, Harley looked exhausted. “Alex, have you spoken to anyone yet?”

“One of the senate's science people.”

“Bittinger?”

“Yes.”

“What did he say?”

“Told us not to worry about it. Don't get excited about boxes. It's exactly what Charlie predicted would happen.”

“What would you like to see him do? I mean, it would be hard to sell a rescue mission. The public wouldn't support it. Chances are a few people would get killed. That would be political suicide.”

“I know,” Alex said. “I don't have a solution.”

“What would you like to see him do?”

“I'm not sure. But I promised Charlie I'd help.”

“That will not be an easy promise to keep.”

“We talked about it on the way home,” said Alex. “It shouldn't be that difficult to arrange something. The AIs are probably connected. We already have Charlie. He can help us pull out a couple more. Then we can get them to help us locate others. We'd have to send in some teams, some well-trained people. Maybe shut down the power temporarily. Wait for them to exhaust their reserves. Then we could go in with minimal risk.”

“By 'we,' you mean-?”

“StarCorps.”

“It won't happen.” Harley patted his mouth with his napkin. Tried the wine again. “I'm not sure what to say.”

“Harley, the question we have for you-”

“Yes?”

“-I think you've answered. What would be the chances of putting together a political movement? People who'd demand something be done about Villanueva?”

“I'd say nil, Alex.” He looked unhappy. “It's a sad commentary on human nature. Most people get connected to their own AIs. They literally become part of the family. But everybody else's is just a data system with a voice.” He stared down at his plate. “I wish I could be more encouraging. But I'd recommend you stay away from it.”

Senator Caipha Delmar told us much the same thing the following morning. “Nobody would touch it,” she said, speaking from her office. “It would be a political disaster, Alex. A rescue effort for obsolete computer systems? That's bad enough. But we'd be putting people's lives at risk. And where's the upside? When we arrived at Skydeck with a cruiser full of electronics, who'd be there to wave the flag?”

That evening, as I was getting ready to close up shop, I noticed Alex wandering around outside, hands in pockets, looking lost.

I joined him. It had rained earlier in the day, and the grass was still wet. But the weather had cleared, and a full moon floated in the eastern sky. I don't think he even noticed I'd come up behind him until I asked if he was okay.

“I'm fine,” he said, with a quiet smile.

“You still thinking about Charlie?”

“Him, too.”

“What else?”

“The Firebird,” he said.

“What about it?”

“Think Uriel.”

“Angels again?”

“No. A point of reference.”

“Explain.”

“Remember what Robin said to Todd Cunningham?”

“Well, I remember that's where Uriel came up.”

“'Maybe after Uriel,' Robin might offer some explanations.”

“I don't-”

“If they were going to try to lose the Firebird, submerge it into this phantom zone or whatever, they'd want to find it when it reappeared, wouldn't they? Otherwise, they'd have no way of knowing the experiment succeeded.”

“Sure.”

“So they have to put it on a given course. How would you do that?”

“Oh.”

“Right. Pick a star and aim the thing at it.”