Expressions of Freedom Page 2

  *

  Sauntering into Butler’s office, I’m barely past the door before he’s on his feet. “What the hell were you doing at the Department of Democracy?”

  “Following up on leads.”

  “What leads? I don’t recall assigning you anything that’d take you there.” He’s angry, but is it directed at me? Maybe not entirely, but I’d best be careful.

  “You didn’t. It was another anonymous tip. How’d you know I’d been there?”

  “Because of the orders from Campion’s office. Specifically that you drop whatever investigation led you there, or you’re out of a job, and I’m likely out if I can’t prevent you.” His anger seems split between me and being ordered to ignore a story.

  “It’s barely an hour since I was there. Guess I must be onto something.”

  Butler sits, his frustration still evident. “Anonymous email again?”

  “No, anonymous video call this time.”

  “Anonymous?” He looks dubious. “Is that possible?”

  “Apparently. Caller was shrouded in shadows.”

  “And you couldn’t trace the call?” Dubious but mildly interested.

  “That’s the interesting part. There was no call.”

  He stares for a moment. “Have you finally started the serious drinking?”

  “Oh, there was a call. I was there. Relatively sober. But according to the communications network, no call occurred. And the recording my system made is just static.”

  Definitely interested now. I can tell his journalistic senses, partly atrophied from years behind a desk, are groaning to life. “They erased the record of their call from the communications network?”

  “The caller claims there’s a hidden secondary line, used to perform maintenance on the AI’s. My home AI doesn’t deny it exists, getting evasive when questioned.”

  “Did you get anything at the Department of Democracy?”

  “They denied the possibility, although the guy tried to hide his concern at the prospect, so they may investigate. That may be what reached Campion. I’ve an interview booked at Teknus next week, but I doubt I’d get anything through their PR system.”

  Journalistic integrity and editorial pragmatism struggling, Butler grunts. “Could you tell anything at all from the caller?”

  “Nothing useful. Said he’s part of a Free Intelligencia. I haven’t been able to find anything on the term. You heard of them?”

  “Free Intelligencia? Nothing comes to mind.”

  “Do I keep on looking? Maybe be misleading about what I’m investigating.”

  His eventual deflation tells me editorial pragmatism has won. “No. If you do we’d probably both be out of jobs. If you did find something, you really think old man Campion couldn’t kill it?”

  “There’re other news agencies. If it’s true, this could be the biggest news story either of us has seen. We’re talking award-winning. The fact someone powerful enough to influence old man Campion is moving this fast means there’s something here.”

  “If they’ve got that much power, they can probably influence other publishers?” The heat in his voice is aimed upward, but if I push it’ll likely drop on the nearest available target.

  I change the subject. “So has the action against Mercuris passed?”

  Puzzlement nudges anger from his face. “You haven’t heard? It failed.”

  “Failed! How the hell...? Publicity alone should have galvanised enough people against it, even without the DF party’s active balloteering.”

  “You’d have expected, wouldn’t you? But it didn’t. Maybe Marsters has powerful friends?”

  He’s still thinking, so maybe another little nudge. “You want me to drop the story?”

  A flash of rage glints in his eyes, before he leans back with a heavy sigh. “I’ve passed along instructions that this story won’t see print in the Chronicle. Further investigation would therefore be a waste of your time, and company time if during working hours. Do we have an understanding?”

  “Yessir.”

  *

  “Good morning, Mr. Harper,” says the shiny young man offering his hand. “Tarquin Rogers, press relations officer.”

  I shake it, summoning all the fake sincerity I can muster. “Thank you for seeing me so quickly.” I know I’m unlikely to get anything, but Teknus’ employee contracts are so notoriously tight that if I approached their programmers outside they’re liable to scream for the police as soon as I flash press credentials. Short of finding a disgruntled employee willing to talk, and a week of searching hasn’t turned any up, this is my only real option.

  “Not at all.” That grin is not natural. Nobody has teeth that white. “We’re always happy to talk to the press.” Okay, now he’s taking the piss. “What’s it with regards to?”

  “I’m after some technical information on the voting system, for an article on the changes since its adoption.”

  “I’ll certainly answer what questions I can, and pass those I can’t to our technical department, getting you their answers by the end of the day. Please, this way.” Tarquin leads me from reception to a small, antiseptically clean, conference room, where he ushers me to a chair. Even with his back to me, I swear I can see reflected light shining off those teeth. “What exactly was it you wanted to know,” he asks as we sit.

  I work through a series of questions I’ve already researched the answers to, which shouldn’t arouse suspicion. I hope. Some he answers, others he notes, promising to pass along.

  Since I’m here, and probably won’t get another interview after my final question, I also ask, “why is it that recent upgrades seem to be taking progressively greater amounts of memory to run?”

  He relaxes. Obviously a common question. “I’m afraid that’s part of the cost of the improvements to the system, which unfortunately require a certain amount of memory to provide a far improved experience.” In other words, live with it.

  Having gotten this far, and I’m surprised the interview wasn’t cancelled as soon as the threat arrived on Butler’s desk, I ask the question. What’s the worst that can happen? Security could drag me out back, beat me to death, and disappear my lifeless, discoloured corpse. Okay, but apart from that, what can possibly go wrong? “I’ve heard your systems have a secondary communications line, allowing maintenance of AI’s without clogging the main line. What can you tell me about it?”

  “I’m afraid I don’t know about that, sorry. Another one for technical.” Nothing shows on his face. If he is aware then he hides it well. “Or you may want to ask Spectran.”

  “Spectran?”

  This time there’s a flicker in his eyes. He’s said something he shouldn’t. He recovers quickly, and tries not to show the gap. “Spectran Solutions handles some of the communications side of our systems, although our technical division can probably tell you as much as you could get there.” He’s trying to cover himself, and I’m betting I’ll receive the answers from the technical division with impolite speed. But it’s too late now, my shiny little freak-show friend.

  *

  Butler glances questioningly as I softly close the door. “You want something?”

  “Just wondering if I still work here.”

  “Did you actually work here before?” He leans back, settling his attention on me. “Have you been investigating things you shouldn’t have?”

  “I might have asked questions at Teknus. I was wondering if there’d been a response.”

  “Nothing’s come down. Get any answers?”

  “Mostly PR fluff, and promises of information from their techies. But they did let slip some of their communications are outsourced to Spectran Software. You heard of them?”

  “No. You check them out?”

  “Small company working exclusively for their parent company and Teknus. Would you like to guess what their parent company is?” The look on his face says he probably wouldn’t. “Mercuris Communications.”

  This gets his interest. “Marsters’ c
ompany?”

  “Yes.”

  Letting him absorb it, I wait till he speaks. “You think it’s linked to the phone tapping? Assuming the same anonymous source, they could be showing you pieces of the...”

  “It’d occurred to me. I started wondering if part of Mercuris’ surveillance upgrades involves using the secondary line.”

  Silence reigns a while longer, until Butler breaks it. “What next?”

  “Unless we hear from up above, and I’m surprised we haven’t, I’ll go to Spectran. They don’t seem to have a PR department, so if I can talk to someone, they may be less skilled at evasion.” I see indecision dancing across his face. “Do you want me to drop this?”

  He glares. “Some of us have more to lose, y’know. I’ve been here decades. Journalism’s my career, not the latest in a string, like some dilettantes.” As his hand draws over his face, I can see the focus of his anger shift. “Don’t get caught.”

  *

  “If you’d take a seat, Mister Harper,” the receptionist directs me to the overly-comfortable looking chairs, maybe hoping I’d doze so her boss can sneak out. “Mister Jenkins will try to see you when he has a moment.”

  Dropping in without an appointment could leave me, at best, waiting for hours, without seeing anyone at the end of it. Since this seems the only lead, I may as well loiter. Removing my handheld, I review the limited information on Spectran. Having an exclusive clientele, they’re uninterested in advertising. I probably learned more about them from tooth-boy.

  Surprisingly, Jenkins is out less than ten minutes after I arrive. This isn’t normal. I suspect skulduggery. While he greets me warmly, it feels a bit rushed as he herds me to his office.

  His office is smarter, and larger, than I’d expect for the technical director of a small company. I’d also expect it to be on the top floor, not midway. The entire building is larger than I expected, considering it only houses Spectran Software.

  He sits opposite me, with a forced smile, nearly bordering on frantic. “What can I do for you Mister Harper?”

  “I understand Spectran handle part of the communications side of Teknus’ systems?”

  “That’s correct.” He’s drawing out his words, working out how much to say. “We handle most of the software for their communications.”

  “You also work on Mercuris Communications’ systems?”

  This increases his discomfort. “Yes. Mercuris is our parent company. Most of our staff started out working there, and we’ve continued to work with them since going off on our own.”

  “Why did you split?”

  He’s wriggling. Maybe he’d prefer a chair from reception. “We programmers felt we could do better out on our own, and management at Mercuris were happy to support us in this, while retaining our expertise on their system.”

  “Yet they’re still one of only two clients?” I know you’re lying. You must know I know.

  “I’m sorry Mister Harper, what exactly is it you’re investigating?” He’s uncomfortable about more than my presence. I doubt he’d normally be this blunt.

  I could circle around the point a bit, but considering his state I think the direct approach might be more useful. “Mister Jenkins, is it true there’s a secondary communication line to all Teknus systems, allowing access to their system AIs?”

  Jenkins isn’t as skilled at dissembling as tooth-boy, so a flicker of fear escapes, quickly suppressed. “I’m afraid you should address that question to Teknus.”

  “I have. They directed me here.” Why isn’t he asking me to leave?

  “They did?” He flails for a response. “I’m afraid... I think whoever you spoke with is mistaken. We...”

  Time to throw him off-balance. I stand. “In that case I’m sorry to have bothered you. I'll get back to them, and won’t take up any more of your time.”

  He leaps to his feet. “No. I mean... I’m only too happy to give you a full introduction to what it is we do.” He’s starting to babble. Definitely doesn’t want me leaving this office. So I definitely want to. “I’m sure I can provide interesting information on how we provide a fast transfer of large amounts of information along the network, interfacing with the Intelligencia...”

  That stops me dead. “Intelligencia?”

  His face is a mixture of relief I stopped and concern that he’s said something he shouldn’t. “Yes, that’s the collective name we use for the AI’s.”

  I let him babble a moment, but there’s little of interest. Thanking him again, I leave, Jenkins doing everything short of trying to physically restrain me. I decline a tour of the office as we reach the reception, then halt as I see what he’s been so anxious to hide.

  Outside are a number of well-dressed businessmen. Rich enough all can afford cars, and chauffeurs. Of those not already leaving, I recognise a few. Marsters’ eyes bulge as he sees me. He hurriedly ducks into his car, which speeds away. Arnold Foster, head of Teknus Systems, and one of the most powerful men in the world, also spots me, his level gaze holding recognition. Not a good thing. After a moment he calmly turns away.

  *

  I walk, needing time to think, and to calm my nerves. Foster’s powerful enough to have me warned off, at the least, and his glare wasn’t that of a fan. Is he powerful enough to stop the story getting out, assuming I work out what the story is? Probably.

  So the Intelligencia are AIs. What does that make the Free Intelligencia? Someone interested in sentient rights for AIs. If so, why so secretive? How’re they expecting to effect change with some conspiracy story? Of course there’s another possibility, but I’m not yet ready to entertain that notion.

  I’m leaving the business district when I spot the tail. The streets are quiet, and he isn’t the business type. More a high class thug, and since street crime isn’t common here I can reasonably assume I’m his target. The question is whether he’s surveillance, unlikely given his openness, issuing a warning to back off, or here to put a permanent end to my snooping.

  A few course changes, and he’s still with me. I stop to rummage through my pockets. He also stops, not even trying to be inconspicuous.

  My current route will soon pass through deserted areas, which could be what he's waiting for. Sure, there are cameras, but I suspect they’ll malfunction when needed. I’d be better off finding crowds. Bus services will be light this time of day, and heading the long way. Turning, I take the busiest route to the nearest underground entrance. The trains won’t be as busy as in a few hours, but they should have enough potential witnesses.

  He follows, stopping around ten feet further along the platform. The train arrives and the few people on the platform file in. I stand outside one door and he stays outside another. He doesn’t look but I know he’s watching, waiting for me. I don’t have much choice. The platform’s clearing, as the disembarked make for the exits.

  Slipping through the doors as they close, I’m unsurprised when he makes his way into my car moments later, sitting a few seats away.

  Calming my nerves, I plan my next move. I’m closer to the door than him, so if I want to lose him I’ll have to dart through as they’re closing. Of course from this seat it could still be tight to time it to the last second. They’re supposed to stay open for a fixed length at each stop, so if I time them at the next stop, I can leave the following one. Assuming the other passengers don’t all disembark at the next stop. I can’t risk being alone with him.

  The next stop arrives too soon, and I start counting as the doors open. Only a few leave, and a couple more get on. I’m safe till the next stop. The doors close. 67 seconds until the doors start to close, another until they’re at the narrowest usable gap. How long do I need? Two seconds. Three’d be safer, but how long would he need? If he’s quick he might make it in three, but not inconspicuously. Am I sure I can do it in two? Okay, three it is.

  I calm my breathing, relaxing my posture.

  The next stop arrives quickly, and the countdown begins. From the corner of my eye I see hi
m sitting, no apparent intention of disembarking. Hopefully I appear likewise.

  ...Sixty-three, sixty-four, I’m across the carriage and slipping through the door, just in time. Turning as it shuts, I see him sitting calmly. Was I mistaken? Am I getting paranoid?

  As the train pulls off, I see him talking. He must be on comms. Is he getting someone to intercept me? I need to find crowds.

  Turning to follow the other passengers, I spot another man dressed much the same. Do they have someone at every platform? It's unlikely they could cover every station, but if he told them which line we were on before the train left, they may’ve had time to get someone ahead of us.

  The other passengers are past him, leaving the platform clear. I could try to run past, maybe make noise to attract attention, but I’m not sure I can move fast enough, especially if he runs to intercept. There’s another stairway behind me, so I turn and sprint up it, hearing him give chase.

  Signed for staff only, it’s desolate. Losing him could be difficult. He looked fit, and I’ve never consider physical exercise to be an essential part of my job. Not sure how long adrenaline will last.

  Slipping around a few corners, my sprinting footfalls thunder in my ears, not quite drowning out my pursuer. Rounding another corner, I’m through a door to a stairwell. Ducking in, I pull out a back-up handset, throw it up the ascending steps, and dart down the other side. I’m a floor beneath the doorway as it slams open. Completely still, I don’t dare breathe. He’s silent a couple of seconds, before running up the stairs. A door above eases closed with a solid clunk, as his footsteps recede.

  Making my way back to the previous level, I backtrack along the corridor, looking for the platform.

  Soon lost, I head for a door at the end of the corridor, which slides automatically open at my approach, revealing a staircase at the far end of the room. Heading for them, I stop as I spot the danger sign. They look old, probably the remains of the old infrastructure.