Beautiful Intelligence (9 page)

Yuri – face blanched, trembling – turned to Zeug and said, “Do you understand? Just copy what I do–”

“No, Zeug!” Hound shouted. “You copy what
I
do.”

“When does the decoy go?” Leonora asked.

Hound punched a tag on his wristband. “That Skud-Fli launches
now.
”

From the hide a few hundred metres down the valley the jet rose, turned, roaring away. The copters followed.

Hound grinned. “Decoy worked,” he said. “All wristbands off now, spex too. Hold the thermo sheet above your head. When we’re on the edge of the village we won’t need ’em.”

“What den?” Dirk asked.

“You’ll see.”

Yuri said, “But–”

“No more talk! You obey. Thinking ain’t needed. Just do what I do and keep an eye on Zeug.”

He raised the thermo sheet to his head and ran out, following the goat track to the main path made by the geologists, where he halted. The copters were a distant duo following the orange jet glare of the Skud-Fli. The other four followed him, sheets correctly held. Zeug was extraordinary: upright, stable, staring at Yuri. Stressed no doubt, but following his mentor like a chick following a hen. The sun had set: cicadas stridulating. Just enough light to get them down to the village, so Hound began trotting down the path.

No sign of the copters. No sign of auxiliary fliers. No sign of foot patrols. Hound looked behind him to see the other four bouncing along the path, Zeug most obvious because his skin glowed pure white in the twilight.

“Man, need to sort that out,” he muttered to himself. “Like a lamp, he is.”

He stopped. In his backpack lay the ultrathin boiler suit he kept for biohazard work; a brown utilitarian garment with no flash. He pulled it out, told Yuri to make Zeug wear it.

“Anyone got a hat?” he asked.

They had emerged from the cave system with only the four backpacks stashed at the end of the exit tunnel, packed so long ago Hound had forgotten half of what he put in them. Dirk rummaged through his pack to produce a bandana and a pair of non-nex sunglasses.

“Put them on him,” Hound told Yuri. To Leonora he added, “When we get to Ghar Lapsi port you can maybe buy fake tan. Zeug’s too white. Stands out.”

They ran on. At the village they stowed the thermo sheets in their backpacks and entered the main street, concealing themselves beside a mini grove of jasmine bushes in tubs. Hound detached himself and ran down to the tourist bar where the girl he had chatted up worked. The horses he liked the look of stood in their stables, nickering. Routes checked, he returned to the others, but didn’t tell them the plan because he knew they wouldn’t like it.

“Follow me,” he said. “There’s not many people about. We’ll use back alleys.”

They walked in single file through the evening gloom, the alleys Hound chose unlit, though they passed through some light pools made by back garden illumination. Behind the stables he paused; then through the gate, across the yard.

Leonora grabbed him by the arm. “Horses?”

He addressed the whole team. “We need speed. Must be naked too – and no vehicles.”

“I cannot ride
these,
” Yuri said.

“You don’t need to,” Hound replied. “You think I don’t do my research? I ride. Dirk rode Arabs in Morocco. Leonora rode when she was younger. It’s just you and whitey, man. So you sit up in front of Dirk. Or me. Zeug has the other – unless you want him up in front of you, Leonora?”

She shrugged. “We will all do what you say to the letter.”

Good girl. That message was aimed at Yuri. He said, “Dirk, you’re the best, you take Zeug.” He grinned at Yuri. “I got you, then.”

Yuri grimaced.

Hound told Leonora to saddle up a horse, then he unbarred the stable doors and saddled up two others. Minutes later the horses were prepared. No sound of people nearby, apart from the clink of distant wine glasses and tinny music.

“Get ready y’all,” he said.

They manhandled Zeug so that he sat in front of Dirk. Zeug’s expression did not alter, but something in his manner, the tense way he held his head low like a cat about to pounce, suggested he was stressed. Hound had to remind himself this was a proto artificial intelligence that copied gestures – no human. But Dirk seemed contented, if not happy, as did Leonora.

He jumped up, then hauled Yuri into the saddle. He said, “The hooves will make a lot of noise – man, the
moment
we’re out in the yard, ride on. Don’t let anyone stop you if anyone comes. Kick ’em. Now go!”

Clattering hooves echoed around the yard. Dirk drove his horse on, Leonora following, Hound last. At the gate Hound rode forward to lead the way. Near the end of the alley a woman ran from a doorway and cried out, “Hey! What you doing!” but it was too late for her. They were away and cantering.

Hound led them through groves of squat trees where no solbike pursuit could follow. Fifteen minutes later he halted, listening. Nocturnal silence...

~

They were to flee from Ghar Lapsi, a tiny divesite port in a western vale that Hound had chosen. He led them there as night passed by, insect-heavy and warm, with low cloud obscuring the moon and stars. And satellite eyes.

No sign of copters.

“Time for a few hours’ sleep,” he said. “We’ll take a small boat out, first thing in the morning. Then off to Hammamet, Tunisia, and my old friend Sandman Entré.”

At dawn they let their rides run free in a deep valley, hoping that it would take the horses a while to climb out and be noticed as strays. With the sun climbing above the ocean horizon they walked into the port, acting nonchalant, Zeug covered as best they could manage with clothes and accessories. The place was almost empty, so Hound led them straight to the harbour, where he knew fishing smacks bobbed, and maybe a few boats run for the delight of tourists: the port was a newbuild. He jingled cash in his pocket.

A long jetty led out into the harbour, its walls pale grey stone slicked with algae and jagged with barnacles, boats clanking against one another as the water lapped against them. No sign of any cap’ns however.

Leonora tapped his shoulder. “He’s looking at us,” she said, pointing to a man standing fifty metres away on the harbour wall.

Hound glanced across. The man stood silent and motionless. Something clicked at the back of his mind. Alert at once, he paused, took stock of the situation. No obvious danger.

“Where dere a boat?” Dirk asked.

Hound ignored the query. The man moved, walking to the jetty entrance. Urgent alarm call at the back of Hound’s mind...

“Get down, all of you,” he said.

“Wh–”

“Get
down!
It’s a panicman. Beyond all of you.”

Hound fought to control his beating heart; pulled off his backpack and wrenched out the emergency flask. Pulled out the Hebetisol. Threw backpack and flask to the ground. Injected the Hebetisol.

Without delay the drug kicked in. Panicmen were expensive: this could only be Aritomo Ichikawa’s assassin. Hound felt his body become heavy, full of inertia. The flags flapped in slow motion, the waves lapped moment by moment. Sound was dull, bassy.

A panicman altered his perception as did a high-speed camera, forcing his brain to apprehend reality a hundred times more often per second than normal. Hebetisol did the same thing, but with far more risk of brain damage. This would be a slo-mo fight to the death.

Hound had used Hebetisol once before. He recognised the symptoms in his own body: sluggishness caused by his brain perceiving his body as heavy; slo-mo arrow of time in the external world; his assassin also moving slo-mo. But that assassin would not now be able to use the mental effect to run rings around his enemy.

The trick with panicmen was to observe them as closely as possible, that their motives and tactics be guessed. This panicman would have orders to capture everybody, but kill Hound. So Hound was at an advantage. Killing, no problem; and his strategy would require less complexity than the other’s.

The panicman walked along the edge of the jetty: slo-mo stroll. Hound approached. His opponent wore a tunic and vest, leaving the arms bare. That was helpful, for Hound would be able to see his muscles move, and from that deduce what the panicman was thinking. He, on the other hand, was well covered, and knew how to keep his face impassive. But the eyes were often a giveaway. So difficult to conceal the truth expressed by eyes.

The panicman strolled now just twenty metres away. Hound reached for his flechette gun and raised it as quickly as he could, but his arm seemed made of lead, and anyway he knew from the panicman’s slo-mo dive that his tactic had been guessed. He fired anyway, watching the dart ammo emerge from the barrel and spin lazily towards his opponent.

A bullet approached him. He had not seen a gun in the panicman’s hand. He judged the trajectory and began to move out of the way, but it was like forcing his body through invisible treacle: the physical restrictions of the real world. The bullet grazed his left hand.

He fired again and again to give the panicman too much to think about. Then he stopped, guessed trajectories and sprayed out more. Covering fire.

He dropped the flechette gun and pulled out his snub-nose. Too slow! The sluggishness of his body began to make him anxious. The panicman had a second gun out and was slowly raising his hand to take aim.

Hound lowered his left hand so that the panicman would not be able to see him aim his snub-nose. This was a risk: firing through his own fingers. He saw muscles on the panicman’s upper left arm move, caught the hint of a dive to the left. He guessed, aimed, fired.

A bullet came his way. Chestwards.

But his own guess had been right – his bullet was heading for the panicman’s chest and that dive could not be amended enough to make the shot miss.

Bullet approaching him. He observed its trajectory. Chest area. With all his strength he pushed against the invisible forces that seemed to constrain his body so that the bullet would strike him in the least dangerous place. One metre away: ten centimetres. He watched the bullet pass through the fabric of his clothes, leave a hole and scorch marks, then felt it move between ribs beneath his left armpit.

But the panicman was down, blood fountaining in scarlet slo-mo from a chest wound.

He began to turn. The others were lying in attitudes of distress, horror unmoving on Yuri’s face, shock frozen into the expression on Leonora’s face, Dirk impassive, lying on the ground as if asleep. But Zeug... that artificial face looked like nothing Hound had ever seen before, cycling through expression after expression – fear, wonder, awe, it was difficult to tell – as if a loop of copied emotions cycled through his brain, to then be written on his bioplastic face. Then they made eye contact, and Hound received the ghastly sensation of looking into Zeug’s brain... and the moment was chilling. Nothing lay behind those eyes.

He stopped himself speculating. This was nonsense. Again he had fallen into the trap of assuming that Zeug was at least human-like. He was not. He
copied.
He remained non-sentient.

The Hebetisol began to wear off. External time appeared to speed up. Then a stab of agony behind his eyes as the light of the sun pierced his mind. He felt pressure in his chest, a bad smell in his nose. As normal time re-established itself he vomited and collapsed to the ground.

Sounds twittered like a cage of birds: his ears made no sense of it. Then the dull, underwater sensation vanished and life became too fast, too loud, too intense. He gasped for air.

Voices. “Hound... Hound...”

“Will he perish, like they do sometimes?”

That was Yuri... then another voice.

“He has saved us. But we need to get away fast. Do not touch him.”

Leonora. His mind was returning. He tried to stand up.

“He’s coming round!”

“Leave him... leave him. He knows what is best.”

Leonora again. Hound realised the woman really admired him, trusted him; he could hear it in her voice. To think that he had considered abandoning the AIteam.

He struggled to his feet, grabbed his backpack and the flask. Headache gripped his temples. He heard himself speaking. “Steal a motor boat. Too late now to charter one. Dirk, man... take us to Gozo. I know a ferry company there. Will get us to Hemma... Hatta... to Tunisia. Hurry!”

Dirk span around and ran along the jetty. Shielding his eyes from the orange morning sun Hound followed, glancing behind to see the dying panicman but nobody else. The bullet wound in his side began to flare. Breathing hoarse. But they had a few seconds yet before the gunshot sounds brought danger. Fairweather cloud misted higher sky into pastel blue, reducing satellite vision.

“Could still make it,” he said. “The panicman would’ve been monitored through the nexus, but he’s gone now. We got a window.
Move
it!”

“They will know we are here,” Leonora said. “The helicopters will return to capture us all.”

He shook his head. “They won’t have enough power to get back from where the Skud-Fli leads them. In France, remember?”

“But...”

“We got a
window,
” he insisted. “Speed is all. Dirk, what you got?”

Dirk leaped into a six-seater motor boat. Hound glanced back to see people gathering on the harbour wall where the jetty met it.

“Jump in,” he shouted. He leaped into the back of the boat and hotwired the engine with the only thing he had; a recharger cable. The bullet wound made his left arm hang limp. His head throbbed. The motor coughed into life. “Leonora, smash the computer! The nexus pod – there, at the front!”

The boat leaped away from the jetty but its tie-line caught it.

“Shit!” Hound took his snub-nose and fired at the rope where it strained against the side of the boat: and they were away. “Dirk, take charge. Steer into open sea but shadow the coastline.”

He sat back with a gasp of pain. He felt sick again.

“Leonora,” he said, “look in my backpack. Poradol ampoule. Quickly.”

She did as she was instructed. The others sat low in their seats, except Dirk who steered the boat at top speed along the Maltese coast.

“If the sun burns off this high cloud we’re done for,” he told Leonora. “We need to be outa this boat soon as possible.” He glanced at Yuri and said, “Throw out any cameras, mobies you find – anything that might be hooked to the nexus.”