Xenoform (11 page)

‘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.

Debian hit the road like a rag doll, not in free-fall but moving fast enough to knock the wind from him. He went to his hands and knees hard, releasing the bait which shot back up to its assigned position like a rocket. A silver gravpod with shaded windows was racing up the road towards him. Stunned, hurt and prone on all fours, something reacted in Debian’s mind even as his body screamed in pain. He was inside the control console of the silver pod, riding the wireless like a surfer. The pod reversed at top speed back up the road, scattering rubbernecking pedestrians as it mounted the pavement.

Debian was on his feet, squealing in terror and desperately trying just to move, just to run. His legs gave out and he was down again. Someone was firing into the street from one of the buildings – probably from Debian’s flat – all hopes of subtlety forgotten now. Chunks of concrete danced and flipped gaily into the air. He was up again and moving, his chest hitching and hurting. He started to lurch into a side street, one leg dragging painfully behind him. He didn’t know it, but he was actually sick as he fled. He didn’t even slow down. Were they following him? Would they actually dare to gun him down face to face in the street? He reached out, searching for net-signatures nearby, but in his confusion he couldn’t determine who was who from the sigs. There were too many of them. He was panicking – he knew he was losing his mind, overcome with fear. He made himself stop. He was a believer in confrontation therapy.

He stood there, bleeding and hurting, making himself breathe, making himself understand the net data. He shut his eyes and reached out with microwave fingers. Two people had got out of the pod that he had crashed and were tentatively following him on foot. He knew that at least one of them was armed, because the man’s gun was connected to his DNI and Debian could feel its presence like a tumour in the net. All their personal details – everything from heartbeat to previous addresses – were laid bare to him. He breathed. Calm. Breathe. They are coming. Calm.

He reached out and slid back into the console of the silver pod. He sent it accelerating towards the two men who were converging on the mouth of the side street. They heard it just in time and scattered, terrified that their unmanned vehicle had come to vengeful life. He sent it chasing after them, not fast enough to catch them, but fast enough to make them run for their lives. He really did feel calm, now. He permitted himself a small smile and opened his eyes.