Loose Ends

By: Josh  K

 

The world is shadow.  Grey waters, grey skies, black markets. Alleyways where a hundred illicit transactions take place each hour. This is life on the East Coast, pretty much the same as it has been for years. Most people get by from smuggling data, and some by selling the newest designer or virtual drugs. Pimps on every corner selling the recorded memories of their hooker’s best fucks. This is the borderlands were humanity gave up on society; those with legitimate lifestyles are rare.

Lane had a simple job, fixing peoples stimdecks, and snooping for a little data to take for himself on the side. He managed to hold up a good front; his contacts are discrete and so is he. It was that Zen-like mentality to his work that keeps his nose clean.  Surgical repair, surgical theft; and it’s as simple as that.  Because he usually went through other channels, rather than in person, he had few if any enemies.  He was the middleman’s middleman.

In his apartment, as quiet of a corner in New York that he could find, he conducted his business.  Business was slow, and relaxation became tedious.  With little fanfare, his deck started to buzz.  Lane removed a silver biochip from its reader hanging between the blades of his shoulders. He got up and hit an oval button that read "two way video". A face appeared; an obvious suit.

"I need your assistance," he said "my deck has stopped loading up and it contains files that I need for a symposium this Friday."

"Okay. I’ll need your name, address, and model number," Lane said inattentively.  He put the shiny gunmetal chip back into its storage case, “Mozart” was written in chickenscratch, "and when will you need it fixed?"

"Peter Fletcher, 241 Tokoy Ave., intaCOMP H153," he said "and I would be pleased if you can get it done by tonight."

"It will cost you an extra 20% to expedite the repair," Lane disconnected the biochip reader, still sticky with bioadhesive gel, from the socket in the back of his head.  He neatly cleaned the already hardening gel from the surface, and put it away, "I can be there in one hour."

"Fine, I’ll be waiting, don't be late."

The screen turned blank and flashed "Connection Terminated by Remote Host" in bold letters, Lane released the silver button.  He left his apartment, pulled out his handheld and hailed the local bus station with his position.  Minutes later a bus arrived and he left for downtown.

**********

The fix was simple, the guy accidentally iced his data core, and a strong decryption breaker restored function. Not-so-coincidentally, the breaker was a part of the software that Lane used to upload Peter's research and development files into a hidden storage card.  As he left the apartment, Lane noticed something shiny in Peter's waste paper basket. He pretended to tie his shoe, his trench coat hiding his hand as he took the object and examined it after he left. It was a surprise to find an intaCOMP Bioprocessing chip. Chips like that used architecture derived from brain tissue analysis to hold immense amounts of data, and they are not cheap. Lane wondered why someone would leave one on the ground, but he turned the chip in his hand and found out why.   The chip's housing was broken, the words "DEFECTIVE.  PROPERTY OF INTACOMP CORP." printed with small red letters along the side. It was probably junk, but he may be able to tease a good circuit out of it.

As Lane arrived at the door of his apartment, he was authenticated and buzzed in. No messages on his answering machine, and nothing on his schedule; a real mover and shaker he was. With microscopically accurate instruments, the layers were pealed away like layers of an onion. After hours of careful work his reward was right in front of him, six open leads. He stuck the chip in a vacuum chamber and connected the leads to his deck, it was ready to go.

He inserted a plug into a small hole at the base of his head. Straight away, the feeling of his brain being released from his body and entering something new took over his senses, no restrictions and no boundaries. Floating in the middle of nonspace, Lane had just entered stimfeed. Tens of thousands of computer generated sensations entering his brain via a wetwired chip in his head, amongst them was vision, including that of the large object that stood in front of him.

An opaque, light blue sphere representing the chip’s data floated amongst the amorphous view of information outside of his home network. As he approached the, sudden sensations and memories of pain shot through him and he found himself reeling from the blow. The chip's data was encased in the most complex countermeasures Lane had ever seen.

"Damnit," he said, his head still aching from the blow, "what kind of data is so vital that it needs that kind of shit?"

He jacked out, back to the real world, his consciousness once again imprisoned in a cage of flesh and bone. He pondered his possibilities.  This chip could contain the kind of data that could make him rich, or get him killed. It took nearly a week to throw down, and decide to find an adequate breaker.

*********

He fixed some more stimdecks and fenced their data. He transferred his credits to a Swiss account; they had been becoming more and more common.  Every last penny was spent on the latest New Korean breaker. The Prometheus virus was a breaker rumored to be able to penetrate the newest ice. He took the UniDisc with the virus, slipped it into his deck and connected the chip.

Disorientation took hold; the familiar thrust sensation, as if an airplane took off from a tarmac of gelatin.  The feeling overcame his body again as he entered the feed, residual sensations lingered like a hangover, a memento of flesh and blood. The last few real world sensations receded into the background of his mind.  In his hand was an ornate glowing sphere that looked like a Faberge egg from hell. He could feel it burning in his hand; it gave him the creeps just looking at it. There are viruses out there that can infect the human brain if they are connected. Neuropsychotic viruses; one taste of them could make a normal, rational man into a blithering lunatic in less than thirty seconds. Pushing those thoughts aside, Lane lobbed the ball at the sphere, initiating a chain of sequences that if successful, would bring him his prize.

The virus fragmented into what looked like little tethered drill bits that attacked the ice in unison. Tiny red dots swarming against and ocean of pale blue ice, streamers lagging behind them. Suddenly Lane felt something go seriously wrong. The ice turned green and a threadlike shaft of light hit unswervingly into his forehead. He could feel himself yield to paralysis.

In less than five minutes his body would succumb to the fragmented biorhythmic data bombarding his brain, the regulatory systems would lose hold and homeostasis would fail. One minute…the sensation is very much like a seizure. The feeling of his brain being overloaded, blacking in and out with harsh abruptness.

Two minutes…now sensory centers start to shut down. An explosion of light and color, then nothing, black emptiness and flanging distortion to all he could hear. With one last thunderous bang, he went completely deaf. His arms felt numb and there was a dull pain in his spine.

Three minutes…a feeling of falling down a long tunnel.  His brain spewing out toxic levels of hormones…breathing erratic…blood pH dropping.  The feeling was borderline euphoric.  To give in to imminent demise, a feeling of freedom ensues.

 Four minutes…a sudden jerk. He was lying unconscious in a chair next to his deck. He felt like a brain suspended in gallons of booze, and realized that he was not dead.  He wished he was.  Upon looking at his console screen he saw what he was looking for, the data encased inside the pale glow of the ice was now in his grasp, completely exposed. Its shape was a series of polygons connected by lines of silver. It turned continuously counterclockwise on one axis. All edges rigid, primary colors.

Then something changed. It changed direction within some unfathomed dimension, and became fluid and realistic. A figure manifested itself on a screen to form a perfect human form, young, about 20 years of age. Slim, with distinguished features, and it spoke, not with a voice but with an LED panel.

M.R. ARTIFICAL INTELEGENCE PROGRAM BATCH 5 NOW ONLINE. USING 1.4 THOUSAND TERABYTES OF ACTIVE MEMORY. RUNNING SELF-DIAGNOSTIC PROGRAM MARK 33377...97.2% OPERATIONAL. ACTIVATE SELF-CONSCIENCENESS? (y/n)

"No." Lane said with unease in his voice. The AI was discarded for a reason, any number of reasons: too smart, too powerful, personality flaw, any of those could be devastating if it got loose. Still, it could be interesting and could be worth the study.

With an arm still trembling from uncontrolled levels of adrenaline, he pressed the ‘N’ button.

M.R.A.I. PROGRAM DROPPING TO NON-SELF MODE. AWAITING COMMANDS.

"Activate voice modulation", Lane entered into the console. He patched it through to his deck’s voice pack and adjusted the volume.

"M.R.A.I. program awaiting commands..." the computer replied using it's new found tongue.  Its voice was smug and insolent, the voice of a child who gets all of the good toys and lets everyone else on the playground know it.

"What were you programmed for?"

"I am programmed by intaCOMP as a virtual medical program to be linked to an experimental mass simulating holographic unit for work with patients that needed time and resource consuming attention. Only ones who were profitable of course."

"Cute," Lane said "a program with a clear understanding of the bottom line. M.R.A.I., Ice your self-awareness and shut down."

"Are you sure you want to Deactivate?"

"Yes"

"Encryption countermeasures program initiated, shutting down"

Lane fitted his prize with a new protective casing. He decided that it might be smart to examine that data that he stole from Peter's computer, it was locked in the same ice, and he had the key now. Amongst the various charts and graphs, there was something interesting. One of the files prompted Lane to connect into local stimfeed. He once again inserted the plug into his head. Sitting before him was Peter, or rather a good avatar with a striking similarity.

"Peter, I have noticed that you have updated your systems.  Would you like me to search the networks for compatible configuration files?" It was apparently Peter’s virtual agent.  It was smart, but not too smart, and wouldn’t know the difference between one user and the next.

"Switch name variable to Lane, and give me that chair, you won’t need it," Lane said with a chuckle.

"Variable Accepted. What do you desire Lane?"

"Tell me about M.R.A.I."

"Please elaborate. Would you like an overview, technical schematics, or information on field tests?"

"Give me an overview and field test information, but ixnay on the technical schematics. I slept through ‘AI and Expert Systems 101' and I don't feel like another lesson."

"M.R.A.I. is a program designed to give a patient the kind constant care that would normally be to difficult to obtain from a human practitioner. Useful for patients with AIDS-5, Nosocomial Multiresistant Repertory Syndrome, Von Beck’s Disorder and other gene-based illnesses that require long term care."

"How was it intended to be distributed?"

"In M.R.A.I.'s final phase, it would be distributed by a doctor's prescription. It, of course, could only be an acceptable financial risk to be used on people of the upper class, or those with a perfect credit record."

"People with perfect credit records are a fairy tale. Now tell me about the field tests. What were the findings?"

"The program was given to a group of 10 test subjects within the lower ranks of intaCOMP. The first month of operation was fine. The patients were getting complete, accurate, and constant service from their own home. However, there were signs of data degradation in the M.R.A.I. file signature on the 34th day of use."

"Are there any indications of the cause of this degradation?"

"M.R.A.I. was programmed to self modify for the purpose of 'getting to know' it's patients. This was always a worry because it allows a vector for data mutation."

"Okay. Go on about the field tests."

"About a week after the first detected data degradation, the mutations started to become serious. There was unrest amongst the technicians about continued use, but a decision came from above to continue. Five days later the first person turned up dead."

"What was the apparent cause of death?"

"An overdose of morphine. The field tests were continued and the other participants were not told about the incident. A week later, six more were found dead. The deaths were violent in nature, mutilation was involved. At this point the plug was pulled on the project, and the program has been returned to the technicians for redesign. The events were covered up under the guise of an escaped murderer. The bodies were cremated and given a proper funeral."

"That's great. Shut down program please."

"As you wish Lane."

After he returned to reality, Lane went to his console to speak to an associate of his that could fetch him a cozy sum for that chip. Someone could probably have a heyday backwards engineering it. He accessed his account and arranged a date for the transfer; this was a deal to handle personally. Looking over to one of his computer screens, he could see the M.R.A.I. program was staring back at him through the glare of the screen. The wires connecting the chip to his computer lied draped over a table like a cloth of esoteric origin. He pulled them out if their sockets. The face on the little display silently faded out of existence.

*******

2 A.M. FRIDAY

Lane entered Central Park, found a bench with a bulletproof briefcase.  A brief tetraherz and RF analysis showed that the case carried what he wanted. He walked over to the nearby trash can and dumped a zip-lock bag with the chip in it.  He took the briefcase and left for home.  When he arrived, the message with the case’s lock code was already waiting for him.  Inside the case was a bunch of basic office stuff, papers, pencils, and what not.  But one piece of paper was different. A bit thicker, Lane tore it open and found a gold debit card, charged to $100,000. Not a king’s ransom, but Lane was not a king.

After he returned home, Lane noticed that one of his instruments started picking up interference. On a hunch, he waved the debit card near the device, the interference got worse. He removed the debit chip and burned the rest of the card. Several minutes later, gunfire shattered the silence, and his windows. Lane was no longer without enemies. He saw out the window that three black cars without license plates were parked outside his apartment. They all had intaCOMP logos on the doors. Three men came out of each car. Lane knew he had to escape. He went to his console and turned on an entertainment hologram of some strippers to buy some time and left out the fire escape.

As he made his descent, someone came out of their car and motioned to the other two dark figures to come out. Sudden erratic bursts of gunfire flew at Lane. He had to make time. Then without warning, gunfire came pouring down from above. At least one bullet went astray and hit a man below because he was on the ground. Then another gun went off and Lane felt a solid pain in his right arm. It caught him off guard and he fell down the fire escape and hit the ground.

Quickly he got up and made for the cars. On his way he grabbed the now dead man's gun. He got in the car and the motor was still on and the key in the ignition. As he drove off, more bullets flew. They marred the car's sleek black exterior.  The fuel cell failed, and Lane was shortly surrounded.  From a distance, you could hear a muted thud above the noise of the street, as intaCOMP tied up another one of its loose ends.