Guy Haley: Omega point

"What," said Valdaire, "preferable because they are not real? The UN says otherwise."

Sobieski looked exasperated, keen to move on. "If we are successful in isolating them, it should set the EuPol Five loose, and we'll have the time to leisurely devise a scrubber to wipe k52 off the map. There is the risk of potential damage to the Realms, but…" Sobieski spread his hands. "It's better that than nuking them."

"I'm curious to know what he wants, and why he is doing this," said Swan.

The Texan snorted.

"Our role at the VIA is to understand why the machines do what they do — not even the Director knows that, and he's a number like me. If we don't interrogate k52, how can we stop this happening again?" said Swan.

"Ask yourself, Swan," said Milton.

"I have, but I am not k52," said the AI reasonably. "My conclusions are therefore irrelevant."

"And what, Assistant Director Sobieski, what if it fails?" asked the South African. "What if your pet Kraut here doesn't bring this Waldo fellow back in? What if k52 dices your agents to dogfood? What then?"

Sobieski looked at Swan. Swan twisted his wand in his hands.

"Then, to borrow the Assistant Director's terminology, we will nuke the place. There's a stratobomber on tightbeam link to me only, targeting the Realm House with EM pulse-generating atomics, low megaton yield. It is an option of last resort."

"How low a yield?" said the Boer.

"Low," said Sobieski, "but once you take into account the energy released by the failure of the Realm House's tau-grade fusion reactor, there will be a big hole in Nevada."

Swan looked round the table. "In addition, we risk a large amount of collateral damage to the Grid. We can buffer the overspill, but the Realms are deeply entrenched in the network."

"And how much is that gonna cost us?" said Milton.

"Thirty per cent of the Grid could be damaged. Estimated cost runs to 360 trillion dollars," said Swan. "Disregarding physical damage to the Real."

The Boer slapped the table. "'Disregarding physical damage to the Real,' fucking number."

"Then Klein, Chures," said Milton. "You better not fuck this up."

"I have a lead. Oleg Kolosev." As Otto spoke the files were called onto the room's screens. "Old friend and partner of Vellini's. If anyone knows where to find 'Waldo', he does. Kolosev has also been arrested and convicted by the VIA. He tried to hide himself when he got out. Unlike Vellini, Kolosev has been unsuccessful, running home to the Ukraine. Richards and I use him sometimes. He's not of the same standard as Vellini, but they were close, and he may know where Waldo is. No matter how hard he tries to hide, he is easy to find, and he will talk for the right price."

Sobieski narrowed his eyes, thinking. Then he spoke abruptly. "Klein, Chures, you're leaving for Kiev in the morning. Henson, prep your teams. Swan, continue your attempts to dig out the EuPol Five and shut off k52 from his choir in Europe. I want this wrapped up by the end of the week."

It was morning when Richards followed the bear out of the woods, his head banging.

The woods looked worse by day. The pale fingers of dying trees thrust up through the rhododendrons, brown leaves as imperishable as old-school plastics choking the ground beneath them. Away from the sunlit path, blackness gathered thickly.

"Dangerous," the bear commented. "Dangerous and full of death." At that he'd shaken his enormous head, remembering something better. "We had best stick to the road."

Richards was suffering the combination of his arrival and what he suspected was a mild concussion. Every sunbeam that filtered through the canopy stabbed at his eyes. His lips were swollen, one eye bruised shut. He was miserable with human suffering, too stiff and sore to feel angry at the length of time it took for a meat body to heal. The roll of the bear's shoulders as it strode along filled him with nausea, and the reek of his clothes as they warmed intensified it, so he focused on the twinkling drive to keep it at bay. The parade of stones soothed him. When the sun was strong enough, he saw that each one was a tiny skull carved from quartz, all as different as snowflakes. He knelt down and picked one up.

"I wouldn't do that if I were you, sunshine," murmured the bear.

Richards put it into his pocket.

"Suit yourself." The bear shrugged.

Richards stood stiffly. "What's going on here? Aren't you going to give me a hint, or are we sticking with violence?" he asked. His lips hurt.

The bear glowered at him. "Prisoners don't get to ask questions," it said.

"Regulations?" said Richards.

The bear ignored him.

The road narrowed, weeds growing thickly between the skulls, until it petered away. A rhododendron blocked their path. The bear swiped it out of the way, and they were out of the woods.

"Wow," said Richards.

They stood at the lip of a vertiginous slope. Close-cropped grass fuzzed the ground. Where the drop bottomed out a shining sea of wheat rippled with waves. Rich green copses rode the crops like sombre ships at anchor. Clouds lumbered through the sky, flat bottoms topped by extravagant mounds of cotton, patches of brilliant blue interspersing them. Sunbeams stole through gaps and played like searchlights over the land, teasing from the crests of hills vibrant rainbows, making a trillion diamonds of the wheat.

And so it went on, until the swell of the prairie disappeared into a haze of pollen, the horizon masked by the obscure romances of plants. In the distance a thunderhead arched up, an anvil of dark rain, illuminated sporadically from within. It was the kind of hyper-real landscape one only ever found in the most realistic of online environments, realer than real.

"Wow," repeated Richards, shielding his eyes. "I don't think I'm in Kansas any more," he said in his best Dorothy voice. The bear did not react favourably. It was not one of his finest impressions, he'd admit.

"Ahem," said the bear, pointedly. "Prisoners should be shutting up."

"Up yours, Toto," said Richards. "On what grounds are you holding me prisoner?"

The bear adjusted its tiny helmet and clenched its great paws, the set of its shoulders speaking of enormous tension.

"On the grounds that there's a war on, and that you are not where you are supposed to be. We've had his lot come in through the woods before, trying to trick us. I've got strict orders, keep an eye on the house, round up anyone I see, take 'em in. That'd be you."

"I don't know what you're talking about," said Richards. He suspected though: k52. Had to be.

The bear leaned in close and sniffed at him. "No. I suppose you don't. You don't have the scent of one of his about you. Hang on a minute…" The bear sniffed again. "You're people!"

"Look, mate, you've got it wrong, I'm not people," said Richards.

"Don't you bloody 'mate' me, sunshine. I'm no mate of yours! You're people." He jabbed his claw into Richards' chest. "Bloody people. Coming in here, lording it over us. This place is supposed to be a sanctuary." The bear's tirade collapsed into a growl.

"But I'm not people. I am an AI. If I'm not mistaken, like you."

The bear squinted at him. "Hmm. You look like people, smell like people, but…"

"Yeah?" said Richards encouragingly.

"You don't feel like people," admitted the bear.

"I'm not. The name's Richards. I'm a Class Five sentient."

"Ooh, la-di-da, Class Five," said the bear, waggling his claws and doing a tippy-toe dance from side to side. "Sorr-eee. If that's true, what are you doing here?"

"Just passing through."

"Right," said the bear, folding its arms. "I've heard that before. What's your serial number?"

Richards ran off his full code, and then the complex equations required to furnish the bear with a quantum key to verify his identity. Out on the Grid, this kind of encryption was done instantaneously; here things were different. For a start, Richards had to speak the formulae aloud. The bear looked off to one side. "Hang on, sunshine, this might take a moment, network's all done in."