Alex Scarrow - City of Shadows

‘Your name’s Nadine?’

‘Uh… yeah.’

That flummoxed her. ‘Nadine?’ She wasn’t expecting that. ‘Since… when?’

She shrugged. ‘Like, since, birth.’

2055, W.G. Systems Research Campus, near Pinedale, Wyoming

Waldstein stared at it. There it was behind the darkened glass, in a carefully controlled and monitored sealed envelope of cool air. A sheet of brittle and age-yellowed newspaper. A page of classified ads: columns of messages from the hopeless, the lonely, the bereft, the bewildered. An ad from someone who’d lost a much-loved bulldog answering to the name of Roosevelt and was offering a reward of $200 for him. Some old soldier looking for a fellow platoon member he served alongside during the Normandy landings, and someone else looking for a missing daughter who might just be living in the Brooklyn area. There an ad from a very lonely widower looking for someone else to share his suddenly empty life with — searching for a friend who might enjoy trips to the theatre, watching matinees of old Bette Davis movies.

This page of forlorn little classified ads was a perfectly preserved record of one day’s worth of misery in Brooklyn in the year 2001. A record of incomplete lives and broken hearts. Of final words that should have been said face to face, but never were.

Waldstein’s heart ached every time he studied this withered page of newspaper. There were words he wished he’d said to his wife, Eleanor, and his son, Gabriel. Words that he’d always felt foolish saying out loud, rather preferring to assume the pair of them knew he loved them very much, to save him saying such things. Words that he’d sell his very soul to be able to say to them one last time… now.

Words.

Beneath that light-filtering glass, a UV light glowed softly on the page, and a digital camera with an ultra-low light-sensitive lens and an infrared sensor closely monitored one particular personal ad. There it was halfway down the third column, one rather innocuous little paragraph of faint, slightly smudged newsprint.

The letters in that paragraph quite often flickered in a faint, spectral way. Just enough that if you weren’t looking directly at them your peripheral vision might just catch the subtlest sense of movement. A square inch of newspaper that undulated, shifted, stirred every now and then as if a small ghost lived in the very fibre of the newspaper itself.

It was a square inch of reality in permanent flux. The tiniest portion of the world caught in a perpetual state of undulating change, trapped in the eddies and currents of its own mini time wave.

Today, though, it seemed particularly agitated. Letters fidgeted, blurred, changed. As if it very much had something it wanted to tell Waldstein. The infrared sensor was picking up a temperature shift off the brittle old paper that was a whole tenth of a degree higher than normal. The minutest leakage of energy through the tiniest crack in space-time.

It wants to talk to me.

He studied the data monitor beside the glass case, watched the temperature read-out twitch and shuffle and occasionally spike. Beside it, the low-light image of the printed letters shimmered and danced like ghouls in a graveyard, caught only in glimpses of flitting moonlight.

Waldstein suspected the newly grown, birthed and trained team were struggling to find their feet. That poor old wretch — not Liam now, he’d chosen the name Foster instead. So much rested on his shoulders. And he’d been through so much recently. To have lost his friends in such a horrific way. Then to have also been through the appalling torment of being suddenly, prematurely aged. And then, after all of that, after sending his plea for help through time to the future, to hear back from his ‘creator’ and learn that he was somewhat less than human. Worse still… that he was going to have to fix things up again entirely on his own. To be the fatherlike mentor for a new team.

So much — too much to put on the poor thing. Waldstein’s heart ached for him.

That poor wretch Liam — now Foster — was entirely on his own, effectively running this project himself. He’d had to set up a replacement team, to mentor them, train and ready them for their respective roles, all the while knowing exactly what they were and yet having to go along with this appalling deceit. To lie to them.

Now it seemed, with these flickering letters on the page, there was more bad news coming through from 2001. From Foster.

The heat reading spiked again. Another tenth of a per cent of a degree.

It’s coming.

The letters shimmered and shuffled faintly. And there it was. Ink on paper. No longer shimmering with a desire to change. There it was. Bad news.

… Experienced significant event. Origin time-stamp of contamination 1941. Major displacement effects. Problem narrowly but successfully averted. New recruits performed well under stress. One team member lost. Require new observer immediately — Foster.

Joseph Olivera looked up from his floating data screens. ‘They need a new…?’

‘A new observer, Joseph. They need a new Saleena Vikram.’

Frasier Griggs paled. ‘You mean… send one back?’

‘Yes.’

‘What happened, Mr Waldstein?’ asked Joseph.

Waldstein shook his head. ‘I’m not sure. It seems like they’ve had to deal with a major contamination originating from sometime during the Second World War. Something big must have shaken things up for them.’ Waldstein smiled. ‘Their first big test. And it seems they’ve saved mankind.’

‘But one of them’s dead,’ said Griggs.

‘Indeed.’

‘What about the others?’

‘It seems they’re all right, Joseph.’ Waldstein touched a data pad and the air in front of him shimmered with holographic data. He swept the data to one side with his finger, and double-tapped a thumbnail image. It expanded in front of them, a digitized image of the page of newspaper hovering in mid-air. ‘You read it for yourself.’

Joseph and Griggs leaned forward to scrutinize the image more closely. They read it in silence.

‘He won’t be able to grow one back there,’ said Waldstein. ‘The memory needs altering. Which is why we’ll have to do it here and send her back.’

Joseph nodded. Waldstein was, of course, quite right. The other two team members — the Maddy unit and the Liam unit — weren’t ready to know what they were. If Foster was sent a Saleena Vikram unit foetus and started growing it right there in the archway, then the game would be up. He’d need to explain to the other two units exactly what they were.

Clones.

All three of them were designed to work at their best believing themselves to be entirely human. Believing they had real life stories, real loved ones, real memories. It’s what made their purely organic data matrices produce completely human-level decisions. That’s why Joseph hated to call it ‘Organic Artificial Intelligence’. Because it wasn’t artificial intelligence. It was Authentic Intelligence. If their brains — which were no different from any other human brains — truly believed the store of memories in their minds to be genuine then as far as Joseph was concerned, they were real people. Just as real as anyone else. More than mere genetically engineered replicas. Certainly so much more capable of strategic thought than the silicon minds inside the support units.

However, the moment they realized their lives were fabricated, a pack of installed lies; the moment they understood they hadn’t been born to loving mothers, but instead had emerged fully grown from plastic tubes, just like their support units… that was when their decision-making would become compromised. Unreliable.

‘Joseph, start a growth here in the lab,’ said Waldstein. ‘Then we’ll have to send her back. Can you edit her memory to make that work? She can’t suspect she’s a tube-product.’