Ken Macleod - The Sky Road

“You are talking to it,” he said, “when you talk to us. To the extent that it exists. The policy parameters have indeed been set democratically, but the implementation, the… administrative decisions, are made…” He chewed his lower lip. “It’s hard to say,” he finished lamely.

“Let me guess,” said Myra, standing up. “Expert system. AI.”

Se-Ha looked up at her, eyes dark and blank under his thin black brows. “That is possible, yes.”

Myra straightened and sighed. She was convinced, paranoically perhaps, that the mad preacher Jordan had been right: the General, the Plan, was at the bottom of all this, that it had implemented itself on the Sheenisov’s machine ecology and was in the process of taking over the world. With the best intentions, no doubt.

“God, yes, you’re right,” she said. “It’s you or the Outwarders. Both sides are like the fucking Borg. “You will be assimilated’—isn’t that what you’re telling me?”

Nok-Yung shrugged. “It’s not something sinister. We all live in the world machine. Why not live in a world machine that is on our side?”

Myra had to smile. “You want me to imagine the future,” she said, “as socialism with a human face—for ever?”

“Yes!” they both said, pleased that she’d got the point at last.

It really would be hard to end this conversation politely, but she would try.

“I’ll take your message back to President Suleimanyov,” she said. “No doubt you will await our response.”

Se-Ha and Nok-Yung stood up and shook her hand gravely.

“Goodbye,” she said.

“Goodbye,” they both said.

Se-Ha smiled mischievously. “I hope I see you again.”

They’d rented the plane, an executive jet that had seen better days, in Almaty. Just as well; Myra could not have borne to displace any passengers on the commercial flights out of Semipalatinsk, standing room only and a strict baggage allowance.

As soon as they were beyond Sheenisov airspace—and Sheenisov jamming—Parvus made a priority over-ride and poked his virtual head over the back of the seat in front of her.

“Sorry about this, Myra,” the AI murmured. “Urgent messages.”

“Patch ’em through,” she said.

The message queue consisted of calls from Suleimanyov, Valentina Kozlova and someone with an anonymous code identifier. She worked through them one by one.

As soon as she blinked on the President’s identifier, he was through, live from his office. Various aides and ministers hovered in the periphery of the shot.

“Hello,” he said. “Results?”

Myra grimaced. “They’re adamant that they won’t accept it I was as surprised as you are. In fact, I was shocked. I have a suspicion that the secret of their military and economic co-ordination is a military AI, and that it is… calling the shots.”

Chingiz took this with unexpected aplomb.

“It was worth trying,” he said. He waved his hand, downwards. “However, the Sheenisov are no longer our most immediate problem.”

“What’s happened?”

He smiled wryly. “As we expected. It’s all gone public now—everyone knows about the nukes. Our generous offers to the United States, and to other countries, have been referred up to the UN—and referred back to the Security Council, for immediate action. We are to turn over our nuclear weapons to forces under UN authority within twenty-four hours—twenty-three and a half, now—or face aerial and space attack. Specifically, on Kapitsa, which they have rightly identified as the focus of the problem. After Kapitsa, Almaty.”

Myra thought for a moment that the virtual view had gone monochrome, and that the plane had turned over. Then everything was normal again.

“If they carry through their threat against Kapitsa—well, I would hope for air support.” She smiled wanly. “But please, Chingiz. Don’t let them ruin Almaty.”

“I have no intention of letting them do that,” he said. “I suggest you return to Kapitsa. You have problems of your own. Evacuate the town, if you can. Let them hit an empty shell. We’ll send transport and cavalry.”

“Cavalry?”

“For… internal security. The stand-off around the government building is very tense.” He glanced away. “Your own Defence Minister is trying to get through to you. She can explain the situation better than I can. Goodbye for now.”

“Goodbye, Chingiz.”

Before taking the next call, Myra turned to Nurup and Mustafa.

“We’re diverting to Kapitsa,” she said. “I may be going into a very volatile situation. Street violence, at least. And possible bombing, maybe up to nuclear level. This is not what I hired you for. We can drop you off at Karaganda first, if you wish.”

The two mujahedin looked deeply offended.

“Our job is to keep you safe until you return to Almaty, or until you tell us to go,” Nurup said.

“OK,” she said. “I’m telling you to go.”

She reached for the intercom toggle. Mustafa was out of his seat in an instant, and placed a hand across the switch. His expression and tone were apologetic. “We stay,” he said. “It’s God’s will.”

And a matter of honour too, she guessed.

“Kapitsa it is, then,” she said.

The two men beamed at her as though she had done them a favour. Perhaps she had; they probably believed she’d just issued them two free passes to heaven. There were times when she envied the devout.

As the plane banked around she took the call from Valentina. This one was v-mail, recorded in one of the offices in the government building. Behind Valentina, men with Kalashnikovs lurked at windows. Bureaucrats turned desks into makeshift barricades. Somebody was operating a byte-shredder, wiping computer memories, setting up a blizzard of interference.

“Hi, Myra, hope this gets through. Jesus, did you hear that the nuke thing’s all over the media? We’ve got news collectors—warm bodies as well as remotes—coming in all the time, and the demonstrators are acting up for them so they can watch themselves being heroic on CNN. Fucking classic media feedback howl. The nuke thing has really freaked a lot of them out—in all the factions, the lefty headbangers and the pro-UN types and the fucking spa-cists. Not to mention our very own patriots. Our agents in the crowd—hell, even the reporters—are picking up talk about storming the building. We want you back as soon as you can; we’ll have a militia driver on standby at the airport.”

The message was time-stamped at 1.35 p.m., and it was now 2.50. Myra blinked up a split-screen of television news channels while taking the third call. The seatbelt light came on; the aeroplane was beginning its descent to Kapitsa. Thank God for ultra-precise radio tuning—Myra could remember when you couldn’t even take a call in level flight. The pilot’s voice was raised slightly as he argued with air-traffic control for precedence, throwing diplomatic weight and Kazakh curses about equally. Myra looked out of the window. More aircraft than usual—hastily hired jets, she guessed—were parked beside the runways. The media circus was in town.

Her anonymous caller flickered into view.

“Jason!”

The CIA agent gave her a tense smile, but warm around the eyes. “Hello, Myra. Good to see you. Wow, you look amazing. Just in time for your global stardom, huh?”

“Hah!”

“Almost as much excitement as the coup. Anyway… I’m here to tell you that we’ve got somewhere with the investigation.”

Undercarriage down, thump.

“What—oh, Georgi’s—”

“Yup. I’m sorry to have to tell you this, Myra, but—shit, we got this out of the black labs, it’s bleeding-edge stuff. We did an autopsy on a goddamn cell sample— don’t ask how we got it.”