Harry Harrison - The Turing Option

“Please don’t. We’ll be all right, I promise. Sven will look after me.”

“I will indeed,” the MI said.

“When is D-day?” Snaresbrook asked.

“I don’t know yet, but I’ll give you as much advance notice as I can. A week minimum. There are a lot of things to do first.” He gave her a photocopy of a catalog page. “You’ll have to buy one of these shipping boxes and bring it out on that day. This one here. It’s one of those tough metal pieces of baggage that TV people, and cameramen, ship their delicate equipment around in. I will take Sven apart and pack all the components in the box. The military will help us with that.”

“Brian — you are getting positively Machiavellian in your planning.”

“You’ve lost me, Doc. As a fourteen year old I never ran across the term.”

“Using the techniques described by Niccolo Machiavelli,” Sven said. “These are characterized by political cunning, duplicity or bad faith.”

“You sound like you swallowed a dictionary,” she said.

“I did. Many,” it answered. Was there a touch of humor there?

“Possibly,” Brian said. “But if duplicity will get me out of here — just watch me dupliciate. Because there are a lot of soldiers standing guard, and only one of me. The only thing that I have going is the fact that they are protecting me from possible threat from the outside. They are not guarding me, I hope, with the thought that I will be cracking out from the inside.”

“Have you come to any decisions about what you will do when you get out?”

“Plenty. At first I thought of getting a hotel room and holding a press conference. Blow the whistle on General Schorcht and charge him with kidnaping and so forth. But I don’t think that would work. Too much of a chance of his calling me irresponsible, possibly insane, poor boy with that head wound. Back into the hospital and no way I could ever break out a second time. As far as the world is concerned I’m just going to drop from sight.”

“In Mexico?”

“Possibly. Do you really want to know?”

“I do not. What I don’t know I cannot reveal. I’ll get you out of here, as I promised, and then you will be on your own.”

“You’re a sweetie, Doc. And don’t worry, I know what I’m doing. I found something in my personal possessions when they were brought here. This plan is going to work because it really is Machiavellian.”

As soon as she was gone they went back to work. Brian took the purple Irish passport from the safe and slipped it out of its plastic cover. A photo of himself as a nine-year-old stared back, wide-eyed and frightened. Brian Byrne, born 1999.

“Two things to be done,” he said. “The photograph and the expiration date will have to be changed. The signature is all right. One thing the nuns taught me, with the lesson made memorable by the crack of a ruler across the knuckles, was good handwriting.”

He opened it on the table and weighted the edges so it wouldn’t close. Sven bent over it and looked at it closely with one eye, then straightened up.

“The manipulators have better optical resolution,” it said, pointing its right arm at the passport and looking at it with what appeared to be its fingertips. “There will be no problem making the alterations that you suggest.”

Sven had taken a number of close-up photographs of Brian, then had made an enlarged, life-sized print.

“Red hair,” Brian said, pointing. “It has to be black.”

“Not a problem. These manipulators are effective at the forty-micron level. I have obtained satisfactory dye and now will color each hair in the photograph black.” It did — and quite speedily as well.

The MI’s skills at forgery were equally impressive. The micromanipulators removed the original photograph by chipping away the glue that held it in place, one microscopic particle at a time. The retouched photograph was photographed again and a passport-sized print made. It was no better — or worse — than any other passport photograph. Before it was glued into place the embossed letters of the seal were carefully duplicated. Changing the dates of issue and expiration was equally as simple. Brian leafed through the altered passport — then put it back on the table.

“These other dates will have to be changed too. The one that the customs officer stamped in when I left Ireland, and the other one put there when I arrived in the States.”

The ping of the annunciator at the front entrance sounded. He gaped at the screen to see Shelly standing there.

“Hi, Brian, I just got back. Open up, please, there are some things we have to talk about.”

But she couldn’t come in. Impossible! How could he explain the altered Sven, take the time to hide the photographs, the money spread across the table, the passport? He couldn’t do it.

“Welcome back — it’s nice to see you.” Yes, that was it. He would have to see her — just not in here. “I was just washing up, give me a moment. It’s been a long day. Can we talk over a drink in the club?”

“Yes, of course.”

He left Sven laboring away on his new criminal career and joined her outside, blinking in the sudden glare. “What’s up?” he asked.

She frowned, pushed the hair out of her eyes as a dust devil swirled around them.

“It’s complex. Let’s get that drink first.”

“I hope it’s not bad news about your father. You said he was doing well last time we talked.”

“He’s fine, much better. Complaining about the hospital food, which is a very good sign. In fact I could make the time to get down here to see you because he is so stable now. They’ll do a bypass soon. I’ll go home for that, but I wanted to talk to you first.”

They had the club to themselves as they settled down over bowl-sized frozen margaritas. Nostalgia music played quietly in the background, ancient classics by the antique old-timers U2. She slurped and sighed, touched her lips with the napkin, then put her hand on his.

“Brian, I don’t think that it’s fair, locking you up in this place. As soon as I heard about it I put in a formal report, lodged a complaint, all through the proper channels. Not that it will do much good. They didn’t even bother to answer me. You know that I have been transferred back to Boulder?”

“No one told me that.” Her warm hand was still on his, the physical contact felt good; he did not pull away.

“They wouldn’t, would they? That’s what bothers me, the high-handed way they simply transferred me out of here. No questions, no consultations. Just — bang, and that was it. But there is still so much work to do with AI. To me it is much more interesting, more exciting than writing dumb code for military programs. What it all adds up to is that I’m thinking of a career change, that’s what. I’m going to resign my commission and become a civilian again.”

“Not because of me?” He pulled his fingers free of hers, clasped his hands together in his lap.

“Partly, or mostly. I don’t want to be part of a military system that can treat someone so badly. And it is the work as well. I want to work on MI with you — if you will let me.”

Shelly’s voice was low, serious. Her dark eyes were worried, looking into his, searching for help. Brian turned away, seized up his margarita and took a tooth-hurting gulp. “Shelly, listen. I can’t take the responsibility for your decisions. I’m having enough of a job taking care of myself—”

“I’m not asking you to, Brian. You misunderstood. This is my own decision, my own doing, all the way. I know that things are a lot better with you now. But I also know what you have gone through. It shows at times. So please understand that I am resigning from the Air Corps no matter what you say. I’ve served two enlistments more than the agreed time, which means I have more than paid back anything I owe them for my education. And there’s a personal motive as well. I have been so wrapped up in my work that I haven’t noticed the years slipping by. Not that I’m an old hag yet!”