Adam-Troy Castro - Emissaries from the Dead

Which is why I’d had two sets of siblings, one human and one not. I’d had two names, one human and one not. I’d lived in two worlds, one human and one not.

I’d doted on my Vaafir, the Bocaian equivalent of a father. I’d slept in the home of my Bocaian family as much as I’d slept in the home of my biological parents.

I had been three years old before I fully understood why there were two completely different kinds of people, four before I was even sure which kind I belonged to.

I was eight on the night everybody became monsters and slaughtered each other.

Ihad never even come close to making sense of that night’s carnage until the day on Catarkhus when I stood before the murderer Emil Sandburg, who had tortured and murdered six sentients for no reason beyond sheer frustration at their inability to see or hear him.

The cell was monitored, but I’d activated a hiss screen to flood the listening devices with noise.

I said, What makes us think we’re better off?

He looked past me, through me, through even the walls of his cell, seeing not the shape of his cage but the shape of the idea that was forming. His lips twitched, the look of a man fed an exotic treat who was trying to decide whether he liked it.

Maybe , I said, it’s the kind of idea you have to be crazy to imagine. Maybe it’s the kind of idea you can only believe if you’re desperate for some kind of absolution. But that doesn’t mean it’s a bad idea, just an old one we thought we could safely outgrow. Maybe the Unseen Demons who we used to believe influenced all our worst impulses really do exist, and we were only wrong about what they were and where they came from. Maybe they come from all around us, and we’re just not equipped to notice them. Maybe that frustrates them so much they get even by pulling our strings. I took such a deep breath that the rest of my words emerged in a semi-hysterical shudder: Maybe one was with me on Bocai. Maybe one was with you, here .

From this moment on , I said, my life’s about finding out, one way or the other.

And if I do find them, I’m going to make damn sure they’re properly judged .

I’d never shared my theory with anybody else.

Sandburg could not have done much with the knowledge, as he’d lasted less than four weeks in his penal colony before being murdered by another inmate.

In that time, the mantra Unseen Demons had become a reminder to myself. Something I’d muttered aloud, whenever I’d needed reminding that I couldn’t allow myself to be beaten.

As far as I knew, nobody had overheard me. The hiss screen I’d used during that last meeting was state-of-the-art tech, which shouldn’t have been beatable by anybody.

But the AIsource had been listening.

By the time this is done, you will meet your Unseen Demons.

What was that? A threat? A warning?

Or worse?

A confession?

Without Skye beside him, Oscin looked like any other man. The only indication of a consciousness larger than his own was a certain distracted quality, as if he was splitting attention between me and another equally pressing problem. But his lips had curled into a smile other people might have found reassuring.

I murmured, “Where’s your other half?”

“Why, Counselor? Would you be more comfortable with her?”

“I don’t need to be comfortable. I’m just surprised to see the two of you apart.”

His next smile came complete with closed eyes. “My components are never apart, Counselor, but we don’t necessarily have to be physically next to each other in order to be together. We can undertake separate conversations with separate people, or act in concert a million kilometers apart. Right now, Skye is being quite charming with Mr. Lastogne. I promise, they’ll be back soon.”

“Where are they?”

Oscin saw my suspicion. “It’s just a routine break, Counselor. We didn’t know how long the AIsource would keep you. For all we knew, you might not have come out of there until after the suns turned off, tonight. In the meantime, Mr. Lastogne needed to stretch his legs, and Skye, being my usual delightful self, offered to go with him. That body has much more luck exercising charisma, I’m afraid.” He unclipped a canteen from his belt, curled his lips around a gentle sip, then offered it to me. “Would you like some water? A buzzpatch?”

“No.”

A vague disappointment darkened his features, but then he shrugged, set the canteen down by his side, and crossed his legs into a relaxed lotus. “Did the AIsource tell you something about yourself that they had no right to know?”

The surprise must have shown in my eyes. “Maybe two things.”

“It’s no big deal, Counselor, just a local habit of theirs. You may be familiar with the works of a twentieth-century fantasy author named L. Frank Baum? Specifically, his novel The Wizard of Oz ?”

I’ve never related to fiction of any kind, let alone works of such ancient vintage. “No.”

“That’s too bad. You see, Skye the single’s mother was a dear woman who loved antiquarian fantasy, and read her that particular work more than once.” A soft nostalgia entered his eyes, as he lost himself in a cherished memory that had never truly happened to him. “It’s about the ruler of a magical country, whose power is entirely based on his false reputation for omnipotence. He frightens his subjects, plays on their fears, and makes them so terrified that they flee his presence thinking he’s more than human.”

It sounded as inane as any other fairy tale. “This is an AIsource station. They run the place. They are All-Powerful. Or, at least, more than human.”

His attention snapped back to the here and now. “True. As they no doubt pointed out, one way or another. But on this station, they like reminding us of that fact, and they have a sincere talent for coming out first in any confrontation. They specifically like dropping references to things you consider personal; the more private, the better. Leaving you to wonder how the hell they know.”

Another difference between the way the AIsource acted elsewhere, and the way they acted here. I didn’t much like their etiquette, on-site.

“This is their home ground,” Oscin said. “Here, they feel entitled to a little arrogance. And they exercise it at every opportunity.”

“Doesn’t explain how they know—”

“You’d be surprised what they know. They don’t advertise it much, but they’re said to have an interface, somewhere—not here, of course, but on some other installation—where anybody willing to pay the fee can ask any twelve questions and receive twelve accurate answers. It doesn’t matter how obscure the questions might be, whether they’re about the location of buried treasure or the most shameful secret of your life. The AIsource guarantees perfect accuracy. I’m not about to say there is such a place, but based on some of the things they’ve said to me since the singles Oscin and Skye linked, I’d be very surprised to find out that there isn’t.”

“Yes,” I said, “but how?”

“Their computation speed is something like one million times the average human being’s. Their storage capacity is something close to infinite. They’ve been, pretty much, everywhere. How much would elude you, if you had resources on that scale? Face it: they’re the font of all knowledge. It’s just that on neutral ground, they’re polite enough to avoid rubbing our faces in it. Here, they want to.”

I wondered if that would extend to sending anonymous hate mail, then discounted the idea as unlikely. My long experience with hate mail had taught me it was a tactic for the frightened and impotent. If those messages did come from within One One One, a human being was sending them. But was it a human being responsible for the deaths of Warmuth and Santiago, or just one of the small legions of people who hated me for other reasons?