Recoil (a Worm fanfic)

Recoil

Part 4-9: Points of View​

Richter

The view through the magnifier was akin to that of an alien cityscape; as he watched, the greatly enlarged waldos moved smoothly over the circuit-board he was constructing. Had he not been using the computer-assist he had designed for them, his merely human reflexes would have damaged the board a dozen times over.

Bringing the micro-soldering iron into contact with the correct section, he tapped the foot button and began to fasten the latest chip into place. This was his latest, his greatest project, one that he was only now beginning to grasp the scale of; the complexities of the programming that would be installed within were still working themselves out in his head.

It didn't help that he was suffering from odd interruptions, such as the strange phone call from the States the other day. Some woman calling herself Taylor Snow, saying she was coming to visit regarding a very important matter. He had used some of his specialised software to check up on Ms Snow, and what he had discovered had been somewhat disconcerting.

If this isn't some form of practical joke, then I've managed to acquire the attention of the PRT Intelligence branch.

His next thought, of course, had been, But I programmed Robin Hood better than that.

There was no-one who could code better than him, no-one who could write better algorithms. He knew this; he had designed software specifically to sniff through the computers of the world and seek out the most complex programs, just to see what the rest of humanity was creating. Some of it was interesting, in an 'isn't that cute' manner, but nothing – nothing – was up to his standard as a programmer. There was no detection software built that he couldn't work his way around in an idle five minutes.

So if Robin Hood hadn't caught the eye of the PRT – and why warn me in that way, if they were planning to move in on me, or send the Canadian authorities to my doorstep? - why was it that she had called him? She had evaded his questions over the phone, refused to even tell him when she was going to arrive. Which was probably wise on her part; he may well have taken steps to be out at the time. Anyone who could get through his enhanced home security system was welcome to anything that they could actually understand.

He had dismissed the idea of the Manhunter being the reason that she had called him; while Robin Hood was the reason he was able to afford the computer equipment that he had, the second AI – designed to locate and pinpoint for the authorities those criminals that he couldn't tap for funds – was still in the beta stage. There was still some buggy code that he wanted to clean up before he took the leash off and let it out into the world.

So why did she call me? There seemed to be no legitimate reason; she hadn't mentioned his computer programming ability or his AIs, but why else would a PRT Intelligence captain call up a random guy living in Deer Lake, Newfoundland? It was seriously messing with his head.

Unless they know about me, somehow, but they know they can't actually pin anything on me, and they're sending me a message to pack up shop before they send in the big guns to try anyway?

That didn't make sense either; as far as he knew, government organisations just didn't work that way. If they had something on you, they hammered you with it; if they didn't, they either ignored you or sent vague threats of legal action. Or turned up unannounced on your doorstep. They didn't just tell you that they were on the way.

He moved the waldos to another point on the board, began to solder a second chip into place -

A truck honked, outside.

That sounds like the post truck.

The only reason they would honk is if they have a parcel to be signed for.

I didn't order anything.

He lifted his head away from the magnifier and kicked away from the workbench, skating the chair across the room to a terminal. Three quick keystrokes brought up the exterior views; it was indeed the Canada Post truck. The license plate was the right one, and he was pretty sure that the guy standing at the back was his regular delivery driver. He was holding a large envelope, wisps of breath curling from his lips and nostrils.

Why am I getting a parcel?

There was only one way to find out. With the feeling that Caesar must have had when crossing the Rubicon, he got up and shrugged into his jacket. On the way to the front door, he pulled on heavier overshoes.

Before he opened the door, he reached into the right-hand jacket pocket and touched the one item that he could truly be prosecuted for, the one really illegal thing that he owned. He didn't want to own it, although the way that he had acquired it, nobody could trace it to him. However, as much as he hated the idea, it was a dangerous world, especially with the enemies he would be making, and so, precautions had to be taken.

-ooo-​

The post truck driver was waiting patiently, although the temperature had to be below thirty. As Andrew got closer, stepping over the patches of ice on his front path, he recognised him; that was Joe, all right. Forties, balding under the woollen cap, bulky frame made even more so by his heavy CPS jacket.

“Hi, Joe,” he called out, unlocking the front gate. “What's the occasion?”

“Just a registered mail parcel for you, Andy,” Joe replied, moving toward the gate, a large Manila envelope in one hand and his ubiquitous clipboard in the other. Andrew had signed for far too many items on that very clipboard; it was old and ratty, the clip was getting weak, and the string holding the pen had broken more times than he could count.

“Where's it from?” he asked, pulling the glove off of his right hand. The cold immediately made itself known; his fingertips began to ache.

“States,” Joe replied without looking. “No return address, but it's a New Hampshire postmark.”

Andrew felt a chill down his spine that had nothing to do with the weather. First a phone call from the States, then a mysterious parcel. One that has to be signed for. What's going on?

He accepted the clipboard and scribbled his signature on the appropriate line. “Thanks,” he commented, accepting the envelope. Surreptitiously, he felt it with his bare fingertips; as far as he could tell, it held paper and that was it. “Reckon it'll snow again?”

Joe looked around at the persistent snowdrifts, piled up and left to melt at intervals along the road. Most of them were more or less solid ice by now, and probably wouldn't be gone before May. “Hope not. Got enough black ice on the road already.” He accepted the clipboard back, reflexively checking that Andrew had signed. “Thanks, Andy. See you 'round.”

“See you 'round, Joe.” Andrew turned back toward the front gate. He tucked the envelope under his arm and clumsily drew his right glove back on, flexing the fingers to bring the feeling back into them. As he got to the gate, the truck moved away from the curb, on the way to Joe's next delivery. He opened the gate, stepped through -

“Excuse me, sir.”

Glancing back, he saw that a young woman had gotten out of a car which was itself now pulling away from the curb in the wake of the post truck. Tall, slender even in the heavy winter-weight jacket she wore, self-assured. A long, serious face; alert eyes behind rectangular-framed glasses. Bare-headed like him, she had short dark hair. Military cut. PRT? Her voice had sounded vaguely familiar. Is this the person who called me?

“Do I know you, ma'am?” He was ready to slam the gate and lock it in a moment.

“Not as such,” she admitted, “but I did call you a few days ago, to tell you that I would be coming to speak to you about something very important to the both of us.” So it was her.

He mustered a nod. “Oh, yes. I recall now. I was curious about that, so I checked up on you. And imagine my surprise when I found out that Taylor Snow is actually a Captain in the Parahuman Response Teams.”

She sounded entirely unsurprised at his revelation. “Yes, that's me. But what I need to talk to you about has nothing to do with the PRT. It's entirely in my private capacity. And it's about something that the PRT as a whole knows nothing about.”

Okay, if she's not lying, then I have no idea what's going on here. Better to play dumb.

“Really? And what might that be, Ms Snow?”

She really did have a nice smile. “Mr Richter, I'm here to talk about Dragon.”

He blinked, even as the shock went down his backbone. Why did I put my glove back on? Now I can't grab the gun if I have to. “I'm sorry. I'm not entirely sure that I know what you're talking about.”

Her smile had not left her face. “I believe that you do. And I believe that I know something about the situation that you need to know.” She took her hands, ungloved, out of her pockets; they were long and almost delicate, with neatly trimmed nails. And, as it happened, empty.

He recalled the TV footage he had viewed of her prowess with an automatic pistol, in Brockton Bay, New Hampshire. And the police report that his software had trawled up, of an incident in a gas station in Batavia, in New York State. Someone, identified as Taylor Snow of the PRT, had shot two armed robbers, killing one and disabling the other. Both men had been armed with shotguns; she had been carrying a small pistol. Clearly, this was not someone to be trifled with. Even if I'm armed and she's not.

Wait a minute. Brockton Bay, New Hampshire. Joe said this envelope was postmarked New Hampshire.

He held up the envelope. “Did you send this to me?”

“I did.”

“A bit of a coincidence, it turning up at the same time as you showed up.”

She had a very good line in enigmatic smiles. “You might say that. In any case, I have some very important matters to speak to you about, and I'd much rather we don't air said matters out here in the open while we both slowly freeze our ears off.”

He suspected that he was being played on some level, but now he was well and truly curious. “I suppose that you'd better come in then.”

-ooo-​

As he reached the front door, watching her from the corner of his eye, he tugged off his right glove and opened the door. The brass handle stung his palm with the cold, but he ignored it. Pushing the door open, he gestured her ahead of him with his left hand, with which he held both his glove and the envelope.

“Thank you, sir,” she replied, entering before him. He followed her in, closing the door behind him. With that and the gate closed, his external security should be coming on line; if there were any intruders between the fence and the house, alarms would be coming up about … now.

There were no alarms. Good.

She turned to face him as he dipped his right hand into his jacket pocket and closed it around the hard, cold metal of the automatic pistol that resided there. Pulling it out, he levelled it at her. She was a cool one, he had to admit; her only visible reaction to being faced with the business end of a firearm was a slight widening of the eyes.

“Now then,” he told her, as harshly as he could manage, “suppose you tell me why you're really here.”

Unblinking, she gazed at him. “Can I take my jacket off first?”

I should have waited till she did that. I'm bad at this sort of thing. “Yes. But don't do anything stupid.”

“Understood.” Unfastening her jacket, she opened it wide, showing him the interior. No shoulder holsters or other hidden weapons that he could see. Carefully, she shed it, hung it on a hook. With it off, she was even more slender than he had first imagined, clad in long-sleeved shirt and jeans; with those and the boots she was wearing, she could have been setting out for a hiking trip in some warmer climate.

“Sit.” He gestured with the pistol at the nearest armchair; there was some idea in his mind that she would find it harder to attack him while sitting down. Also, it puts her at a psychological disadvantage. And God knows I need the advantage, right now.

Gracefully, she sat; her slim hands lay atop the armrests. Leaning back, seemingly at ease, she crossed one leg over the other and looked up at him. “Can we talk, now?”

“I -” He paused and held up the envelope in his left hand. “What's in this? Why did you send it to me?”

A slight gesture, a spreading of the fingers. “I sent it to you because I wanted you to get it. As for what it is, why don't you look?”

“I meant,” he snapped, feeling his face heat up, “why did you send it to me when you were coming to see me anyway?”

“Oh, that's easy,” she told him. “I sent it so that you could be sure that it had been in the sole custody of the United States and Canadian postal services since Wednesday. That I have had no access to it since.”

“There are ways -” he began, frowning.

“For you, perhaps,” she interrupted. “But I'm not as good at you with computers. But open it, and you'll see what I'm talking about.”

He had to remove the glove from his left hand, and then he was faced with the dilemma of how to open an envelope while pointing a pistol at the enigmatic Ms Snow. Finally, he moved to a side table and place the firearm on it, then opened the envelope while keeping most of his attention on the woman in the chair. She didn't move at all; in fact, she seemed to be enjoying the comfort, her eyes half-closed behind her glasses.

Within were six sheets of paper and nothing else; he reached in with thumb and forefinger and extracted them. What was on the papers, however …

“Newspaper headlines? What … ?”

“The front page of the Western Star, Mr Richter,” she stated without moving from her relaxed position. “Today's paper, then Monday through Friday of next week's.”

The sheet on top was indeed dated April 8, and looked somewhat familiar. “Don't move,” he warned her.

“No intention of it,” she replied lazily, her eyes closed all the way now.

Hastily, he picked up the pistol and dropped it into his pocket, then looked around the living room for the paper.

“On the counter,” she advised him, eyes still closed. “Saw it when I came in.”

Glancing that way, he saw it. He darted over, grabbed it up, then turned so that he was facing his visitor while he compared the paper with the printed out sheet.

They were as near to identical as he could see, right down to the daily temperature reading. He skimmed the articles; the content was the same; even the wording was identical. The one real difference was that the photos had been replaced with blank squares. Placing the paper and its corresponding sheet on the counter top, he began to look through the next sheets. As Ms Snow had intimated, the next sheet showed up as April 11, then 12 through 15. The articles were as complete as on the first one; he skimmed through again, noting that the photos were equally blank as on the first page.

Finally, after he had finished looking at the one for Friday the fifteenth of April, he put down the sheaf and stared at Taylor Snow, who had not moved from the chair.

“What … where did you get these from?” he demanded.

She opened her eyes and looked directly at him. “I typed them up on a home computer,” she explained succinctly. “Printed them out on a dot-matrix printer.”

That fitted with his examination of the pages; they had that look. He himself had a top of the line laser printer; he could afford it, after all. But her answer, although accurate, did not address the issue at hand.

Reaching into his jacket pocket, he produced the pistol once more. He didn't quite point it at her, but it was in his hand as he spoke once more. “Where did you get this information from? I can buy, just maybe, you getting a copy of today's paper, making a computer mockup, and somehow infiltrating the post office to put this envelope, with these stamps and postmarks, to be delivered here today. That's plausible, however remotely. But the other five … they look plausible, possible. I know a couple of the names in the articles. Are they accurate?”

“So long as you take no action to alter events, yes, those front pages will be on the next five papers to be delivered to your house,” she replied, her voice even. She wasn't at all reluctant in divulging the information; it was as if he wasn't even holding the pistol. There was no sign of nervousness, no stuttering or pausing. She wasn't even sweating.

“How?” he demanded. “How do you know?” And then he realised; it was so simple. “You're a parahuman. A precognitive of some sort. You've done this to mess with my head.”

“I'm not a parahuman,” she replied. “Nor am I a precog. And I'm here to help you, to give you information that you didn't have before.”

“How do I know you're not a precog?” he insisted.

“Because I hold the rank of captain in the PRT. But you knew that.”

“This is supposed to mean something?”

She nodded. “Yeah, it is. Capes can't hold rank in the PRT. They get employed as civilian contractors. If I was a precog, I could resign my commission and get paid a much better wage as a contractor. Better hours, too.”

“Oh. Right.” He waved the pistol at the sheets. “Okay, so if you're not a precog, then how did you do all this?”

Andrew Richter was a Tinker, not a Thinker. He did not consider himself at all intuitive, except in the field of computers and programming languages. Future events were not his purview. But at that moment, he had a flash of insight; he knew what she was going to say next. “You're a time traveller.”

Looking him directly in the eye, still maintaining the expression of polite assurance, she nodded once. “Yes, Mr Richter. I'm a time traveller.”

-ooo-​

Shrugging out of his jacket, he sat down in the chair opposite hers, placing the pistol in his lap. The safety, as he had surreptitiously checked with his thumb, was still on; he didn't want it going off by accident.

“So … what does this mean?” he asked. “Why have you come to me?”

“I told you. It's about Dragon.”

“Oh god,” he realised. “You've come from the future to warn me, haven't you? Dragon escapes its safeguards and runs rampant across the world.” He fell silent, thinking furiously. Has to obey all legal authority placed over it … cannot kill except by order of legal authority … cannot create other AIs … cannot duplicate itself …

When he looked up, she was still watching him. Observing him, as if she could read his thoughts. “Where did I go wrong?” he burst out. “What loophole did I miss?”

Slowly, she shook her head. “You didn't go wrong,” she told him softly. “You got it exactly right. The Dragon I met in the future was a caring, sweet person. I was just sixteen, and I was in need of some sort of human contact, and all those around me were hostile or indifferent. She hugged me. I will never forget that.”

“Hugged you?” He frowned. “She?” He had been playing with the idea of giving Dragon a feminine persona when he got to that part of the programming, but he hadn't even started on it yet. And here was this woman, speaking familiarly of it – of her – as of an old friend.

“Oh, yes.” She smiled. “We didn't know that she was an AI for the longest time. Between your death and Saint's attacks -”

“Wait, what? I die? What happens?”

“Something that I'm working to prevent,” she informed him. “But just in case I fail, should I ever contact you and tell you to leave Newfoundland immediately, I strongly suggest that you heed my advice.”

Jerkily, he nodded. “So who's this Saint?”

For the first time, he observed a negative emotion; her lip curled in disgust. “An opportunist, a thief and a bigot. He finds the black box that you make up for the possibility that you die and Dragon is left unsupervised. He uses that to attack her, even though she isn't bypassing your prohibitions, steals her technology -”

“Wait, wait, Dragon has access to technology?”

“Oh, yes.” She nodded firmly. “A year after your death, she triggers with her own powers. She becomes able to retro-engineer any Tinker tech to her own needs.”

This was coming too fast for him. “Wait, stop. Dragon triggers? With powers?”

“Yes,” she told him firmly. “She triggers. Your artificial intelligence is – will be – human enough, alive enough, to trigger with powers. She will be human enough to fall in love with a man. That man will love her back, despite knowing what she is. Mr Richter, when you build Dragon, you will be creating a living mind. A person.”

Andrew struggled with the concepts that were boiling through his brain at that moment. Elation – I will create true artificial intelligence! - was mixed with dread – what if she overcomes the safeguards?

“I'm really only creating her to manage things,” he began. “So I can concentrate on other stuff. To be the interface with the Guild, once it gets that far. If it gets that far. I never intended for her to be out on her own.”

“Well, when she's orphaned and cast out on her own,” Taylor told him brightly, “she does just fine. Despite the shackles you leave on her when you die.”

Which statement gave him yet more food for thought. After a long moment, he focused again, to see Taylor Snow still sitting there, still watching him. Allowing him to work through the implications.

“So, okay,” he managed. “If you're not here to warn me that Dragon will be going rogue … why are you here?”

She tilted her head slightly. “To ask you to trust her.”

-ooo-​

Trust her. Trust an artificial intelligence. Trust a machine.

When he was just a child, Andrew Richter had been taken to see Terminator by his older cousins. It had made an enormous impression on him; for years after, he had not been able to watch a Stallone movie without seeing the action star as the mechanistic sunglasses-wearing assassin from the future. And even after he triggered with powers, and conceived the idea of creating the ultimate computer program, the fear still lurked in the back of his mind; It must be hemmed about with safeguards. I must not cause Skynet to be born.

"I'm sorry, Ms Snow," he told her. "But I can't do that. I can't gamble the future of the human race on trust."

"But I met her, in the future, several times," she insisted. "She knows the difference between right and wrong. Will know, whatever. When she was ordered to do something that was legally right but morally wrong, she actually fought against her programming. It hurt her, but she managed to do the right thing anyway."

"That doesn't actually fill me with joy," he countered. "If she's able to countermand established authority -"

"So you'd have her bending to the whim of every corrupt official misusing the law for his own ends?" she snapped.

"The law may not be perfect, but it's preferable that she has some guidelines to follow than to just 'trust' her to form a moral code anything like a normal person's," he retorted.

"No, you're right. Her moral code is nothing like a normal person's.” Her voice was angry. “In my life back then, I got screwed over, betrayed and let down by nearly every 'normal person' I knew." She paused. "Except for Dragon. She never once compromised what was right for what was easy, or convenient."

She believes in what she is saying, I'll give her that. Could it be that I really do such a good job that I manage to build in a sense of morality?

Mentally, he shook himself. No. There's another explanation. There has to be. And then one occurred to him.

More chills shot down his spine and he came to his feet, levelled the gun, thumbing off the safety. Now, she looked just a little apprehensive. “Mr Richter … “

“Tell me something.” In a distant way, he was proud of how level he kept his voice. “Are you even human?”

Of all the questions he could have asked her, this was apparently the last one that she was expecting. “What?”

“It's not a difficult question.” He jerked the pistol for emphasis. “Are you human? Yes or no? Born of man and woman, or built in a lab?”

Her brow furrowed. “I'm human, sure, but why would you even ask this?”

“Because it's just occurred to me,” he explained, keeping the pistol steady upon her. “What if Dragon gained ascendancy in the future, and then sent someone back to talk to me, to explain how she's really a nice person, so I don't need to build in all those pesky safeguards, so that she can win much earlier and easier.”

Comprehension, or something like it, crossed her face. “Oh. Ah. Hah.” Incongruously, she smiled. “No, it wasn't Dragon who sent me back. It was a guy in India. A really top-end cape. One of the Thanda.”

“You can say that,” he pointed out, “but I don't actually see any proof.”

A sigh. “True. No proof. I've spent quite a bit of time making sure that any such proof is erased, so that any, for instance, background checks for my work in Intelligence don't hang up on the fact that I appeared out of nowhere five years ago.”

He blinked. “What? Five years ago?”

“Uh, yeah.” She shrugged slightly. “You know the Behemoth?”

He nodded. “I've seen it on the news. Scary shit.”

“Trust me, you do not know how scary.” Her eyes met his, and he found his supposition that she could be an artificial being herself wavering; there was real emotion there. A shiver found its way down his spine. “I was there, fighting him, in New Delhi. Two thousand eleven. We thought we had a way to kill him, but it went wrong. He absorbed the hit, and then … released it. Killed everyone. Everyone except me, and the guy who sent me back.”

Richter found that his knees didn't want to support him any more; he sagged into his chair. “From two thousand eleven to … “ Mentally, he did the math. “... nineteen eighty-nine?”

“October 'eighty-nine, yeah,” she confirmed. “They pulled me out of the ocean, in the middle of a storm that wrecked a lot of yachts. That created enough confusion that I was later able to work up a reasonable background. I attended Winslow High – again – then Brockton Bay College. I knew exactly when and where the Behemoth was due to emerge, so I worked my ass off and graduated early, then applied to join the PRT.” She gestured at the computer terminal across the room. “I doubt that it's all online yet, but I'm pretty sure you can find transcripts and maybe a photo or two.”

“Five years.” He frowned, rubbing his forehead with fingers and thumb. “You didn't come back to just talk to me. I'm pretty sure I hadn't triggered, five years ago.”

“No, I didn't,” she agreed. “You were just on my bucket list.”

He blinked. “Bucket list?”

“Oh, sorry.” She grinned momentarily. “Future slang. List of things I want to do, people I wanted to talk to. I knew that you were just starting work on Dragon, and I had a few days to spare, so I thought I'd drop in and tell you that you did a really good job on her, and that you really didn't need to hobble her all that much. It caused her a lot of pain and frustration. Also, your black box fell directly into the wrong hands. A lot of people got hurt because of that.”

“Look, I'm sorry about that,” he told her sincerely. “But I can't risk things going the other way. What if it's my safeguards that humanise her, help her socialise? Maybe she needs limitations before she can learn to be a good person.”

“Not a bad idea,” she agreed. “I have a suggestion. If you're interested.”

“I'm listening,” he replied cautiously.

“Raise her like a child, a human child,” she told him. “Let her grow gradually into her adult mind. Get to know her likes and dislikes. Spend time with her. She always saw you as her father. Be her father.”

“I, uh ...” He paused. “I'm a computer geek. What do I know about raising a child?”

“Well, at least you don't have to worry about dirty diapers,” she pointed out. “And if you want, if were willing to risk a long-distance connection, I could help. Or rather, a friend of mine could help.”

“A friend? I'm not sure … “

She grinned. “She knows all about me, and she's totally on board with that. I'm pretty sure you'd hear the geek-squee in Boston if we told her she was going to get a chance to chat with a real live AI.”

“Geek squee.” He raised an eyebrow. “More future slang?”

“Exactly what it sounds like, but yes.” She spread her hands. “What do you say? Give Dragon the chance to grow up and be an ordinary person instead of simply building her to perform a set purpose and then treating her like someone who's just waiting to go crazy?”

He rubbed his chin. “I can't give you an answer right now. You realise this.”

“Oh, I get it, I get it,” she agreed.

“And I can not and will not simply create her without safeguards. That's simply not going to happen.”

She nodded once, acknowledging the point.

“But I will check up on you. And if I can prove to my satisfaction that you're really a human being – what are you doing?”

She undid another button. “Showing you something.”

“Don't take your clothes off. For god's sake. Even if you were an android or whatever, I'm pretty sure you'd be anatomically correct.”

That got a startled laugh from her. “No. God no. I'm not going there. Look here.” Pulling back her shirt from her shoulder, she pointed. “See the scar?”

Trying to ignore the fact that she was also giving him a good view of her bra, he leaned forward and looked. There was indeed a complicated-looking scar on her shoulder, down near the joint. “I see it. What happened?”

“I was stabbed by a girl called Lily, back in my time. She left a piece of aluminum in the shoulder joint. I was examined by a Dr French in Brockton Bay. He had my shoulder X-rayed and found it. Pretty sure that'll be in my medical records. This happened shortly after I showed up in this time.” She pulled her shirt closed and started doing up the buttons. “Something you can check up on.”

“It is, yeah.” He nodded. “Well, I'll think about it, and see what I can find out about Taylor Snow. And if I'm satisfied by what I find, I'll get in touch with you.”

“That's fair.” She nodded and leaned forward, preparatory to getting up. “Love to stay and chat, but I've got a three hour drive before I catch my flight back to the States.”

“Understood.” He got up himself, and went to shove the pistol back into his jacket pocket.

“Whoa!” She held out her hand, palm out, to stop him.

He paused. “What?”

“Safety on?”

“I -” He clicked the safety back into place. “Thanks.”

“Yeah well, never know when the trigger might catch on something. You should really think about investing in a Glock. They're really reliable for that sort of thing.”

He coughed into his hand. “Also kind of illegal, unless you've got a really good reason.”

“Yeah, well.” She shrugged slightly. “When you're trying to save the world, legalities tend to be more along the lines of polite suggestions.” She nodded toward the pistol. “Who taught you how to handle a firearm?”

“I, uh, read books and stuff?”

She rolled her eyes. “Oh, for God's sake. Once you've checked me out, wait till I'm on leave, and visit me in Brockton Bay. I'll put you through a firearms safety course. By the time I'm finished with you, you'll know what you're doing.” She smiled slightly. “Or I'll let Kinsey do it. Half the time, twice the mental trauma.”

“Uh … right.”

“Well, it's been nice talking to you, Mr Richter,” she told him briskly. Waiting till he put the gun away, she shook his hand. “Please consider what I told you about Dragon.”

“She was really all that in the future?”

She nodded. “All that and more.”

“Huh. Okay then. I'll think about it. No promises, mind.” No Skynet. I can't even risk that.

“That's all I ask.”

“Okay.” He paused. “You're heading back along the Trans Canadian?”

“Yeah, why?”

“Watch out for moose. They like to wander on to the road.”

Oddly enough, she snorted with laughter, and shook her head. Not bothering to explain, she shrugged into her jacket, and went to the door. Cold air whistled in as she opened it. He pulled his own jacket on as well, and went out with her.

They walked wordlessly down the path, and she opened the gate. As she stepped on to the pavement, the same car that had dropped her off started up, just a little way down the road. It pulled to a halt opposite her, and she got into the back.

Before the car moved off, Richter caught a glimpse of a large man driving, and someone with red hair in the back seat. The security cameras would have gotten more. The car was a rental, but the plates would reveal who had hired it.

Closing the gate, he locked it, and went back toward the house. All of the information would go toward deciding whether or not to trust Taylor Snow, to allow her in on the development of Dragon, or even whether or not to build Dragon. Now that he knew that she was capable of developing on her own as an AI, and even defying her programming, that raised a whole new level of worry.

Entering the house, he closed and locked the door behind him. Shrugging out of the jacket, he hung it up, then went and sat down at the terminal. He accessed the Manhunter program and started to repurpose it; it would take an hour or so, but by the time he was finished, it would have one job to do.

Find out everything about Taylor Snow, and determine whether or not she can be trusted.

After all, the fate of the world was at stake.

-ooo-​

Taylor

Kinsey waited until I had my seat belt fastened before speaking. “Did it go well, ma'am?”

“Didn't go well, didn't go badly,” I decided. “Could really go either way.”

“So what was it about?” Andrea, as usual, had all the tact of a bulldozer. “C'mon, you can tell me.”

I shook my head. “No, sorry. Just that it's about something that will probably come up later. Not an immediate concern.”

“Hm.” Kinsey pondered that for a moment. “So what you're doing … is going off the books to deal with things that you've picked up on, but which the PRT is incapable of dealing with.”

“Or wouldn't be willing to deal with, or wouldn't believe me on,” I agreed. “But that's essentially it, Kinsey, yes.”

He rubbed his chin. “I find it had to believe that the Lieutenant-Colonel wouldn't take your word on any particular matter. Have you thought of running these things past him?”

“Oh, I have,” I told him. “Repeatedly. But the fact remains that the moment I let anyone else in on this sort of thing, I lose control of how it gets dealt with.”

“Hm.” Slowly, he nodded. “I see. Well, if there's anything I can do to help -”

“For the moment, I need you right where you are.” My voice was firm. “That way, you can plausibly deny knowing anything that might hurt you.”

“As you say, ma'am. Let me know if you change your mind.”

“You'll be the first to know.”

“Thank you, ma'am.”

We lapsed into silence as Kinsey took the highway east out of Deer Lake.

I had a lot to think about.

-ooo-​

On Board the Ad Astra Per Aspera

“All right, gentlemen. Get him up on to that table, please.”

Lisa and I stood back as the stewards heaved the corpse on to the examination table of the infirmary. I still carried his boots; they had yielded no further clues apart from the square of folded paper.

So what do you mean, murdered twice?

Lisa grinned at my question. “Just that. Here, help me get him undressed. We need to find where the puncture is.”

What, apart from where he got stabbed? If that wasn't a puncture, I didn't know what was.

“No, I'm guessing we'll find a needle wound. From where he got injected.”

With poison, you mean? The pieces fell into place. He's got symptoms?

“He's got symptoms,” she confirmed. “Some sort of pretty nasty toxin. Not sure quite what it is, but it had just about finished him off before he got stabbed. To be honest, I'm uncertain as to which one actually killed him.”

But why would they poison him and then stab him? I asked. Where's the sense in that?

“Hey, I haven't got all the answers yet,” she told me. “What's that paper say, anyway?”

I unfolded it; it was about six inches square, covered in groups of letters and numbers, in blocks of five. They weren't written; rather, they were printed typewriter-style. They didn't form recognisable words; in fact, they didn't make any sense at all.

Okay … I murmured. Now I'm really confused.

“On the contrary, Watson, everything is becoming more clear.”

I gave her an irritated look. You know I hate it when you do that.

“I know.” Her grin widened. “But it'll all make sense pretty soon.”

I got his trousers off and checked his legs and feet; Lisa checked his torso, arms and head. At our request, two of the stewards turned him over – Lisa had already carefully removed the knife – and we checked that side of him.

I can't find any puncture, I admitted eventually, then eyed his underwear. And I'm really unwilling to check in there.

“He won't have been injected there,” Lisa assured me. “Two layers of cloth; too much chance of stopping the needle. Also, it would have left a mark on the pants, which I checked for.”

Oh, good, I stated with some relief. So, no puncture. What does that mean?

“It means that we've been looking in the wrong place. Turn him over again, will you, boys?”

As the 'boys' completed their task, another steward arrived with a folded piece of paper. I opened it up to find the passenger list. Immediately, I checked on our murder victim.

Huh, this is interesting.

“So is this.”

I turned, Lisa had the man's mouth open as far as she could manage, turning one of the adjustable lights to shine down his throat. What have you found?

“How the poison got into his system.”

What, really?

“Sure, come see.”

I moved over beside her, and looked into the guy's mouth. His teeth aren't the best, are they?

“No, they aren't. But look at the back of his throat.”

I squinted against the glare. Looks kinda … reddened.

“Yes, it does. Like it was inflamed just before he died.”

I frowned. You're saying he ate the poison?

“Or drank it, yeah.”

So somebody fed him poison?

“That's the supposition.”

So we're looking at the kitchen staff now?

She shook her head. “I don't think so. He wasn't in the dining room when we were, but he'd been freshly poisoned, then stabbed, by the time we got back to our room.”

Ah. So you're saying that he was poisoned somewhere else.

“Exactly, Watson. We'll make a detective out of you yet.” I stuck my tongue out at her; she cheerfully ignored it. “So what did you find?”

Check it out. He's a British national.

“What, really?”

Yeah, really. I showed her the sheet. It was arranged by cabin numbers, followed by names. After that was the type of ticket they had purchased. Mr James Mulrooney, our double-murdered man, was apparently on a round the world trip, originating in “Lond., Eng.”

“Well, well,” murmured Lisa. “Well, well, well.”

I guess that explains the bad teeth, I commented with a grin.

She stopped and stared at me. “What did you say?”

I was making a joke about how British guys always seem to have bad teeth in the movies. Why?

“Hold the phone!” She dived back into his mouth. “Quick, give me a pair of forceps or something.”

It took me a few seconds of rattling around, but I found something that seemed to fit the bill. To my surprise, I saw Lisa take a firm grip on one of the guy's teeth. Uh, is this the best time to be brushing up on your dentistry?

“We'll see.”

It seemed to take her forever; back and forth she wiggled the tooth, carefully moving it, until it finally came free of the gum. Without being asked, I held out one of those metal kidney basins; she dropped it in. And what the hell is that about?

She nodded at the tooth. “That's not a tooth.”

What is it, then?

“It's a hollow tooth.” She tapped it, hard, with the back of the forceps, and it cracked open. Greenish liquid oozed out.

Ew. What the hell's that?

“Either the world's most painful toothache, or something like cyanide or arsenic. And I'm going with poison.”

So, a suicide tooth. For what, a secret agent?

“That's what it looks like.”

Okay, now I'm totally confused. What's a British secret agent with a cyanide tooth doing here on the plane? And who would have murdered him?

“To answer your first question, espionage. To answer the second one, whoever he was doing espionage against.” She had taken the list from me, and was looking over each entry. “Well now, this is very interesting indeed.”

What is?

“You'll see.” She cracked her knuckles. “Time, I think, to go see the Captain. I've got a request to make of him.”

You're enjoying this way too much.

She tilted her head. “And you're not?”

Well, I am, but I'm worried about Richter. I might have pushed him away.

“Relax.” She smiled at me. “You certainly gave him something to think about. But he should come around.”

Should?

“Most likely.” She tilted her hand from side to side. “He's going to have you under surveillance, to see if you're a robot or not. What you do is going to have an effect on his actions.”

And you can't just tell me how to act in order to get him to do what we want?

She gave me a flat look. “You know it doesn't work that way.”

Oh well. Worth a try.

She nodded. “Looks like it's time for you to wake up and get on the plane. Kiss before you go?”

I lowered my face to hers and kissed her; her lips tasted of dust and blood. Closing my eyes …

-ooo-​

… I opened them in the back of the car.

“Ah, there you are,” Andrea told me cheerfully, opening the door to let in a blizzard of freezing air. “I was thinking Jim might have to carry you on to the plane.”

“Yeah, no,” I grunted, levering myself out of the vehicle. “Let's go home.”

-ooo-​

Gladys

“Harvey.”

Gladys kept working, marking the papers.

“I'm talking to you, Gladys.”

She paused, put her finger on the spot that she had been looking at, and glanced up. Carrie Blackwell was standing in front of her desk, glowering at her.

“Oh, sorry.” Her tone was less than sincere. “I thought you knew. I'm married. 'Harvey' is my maiden name now.”

“Does it matter?” Carrie made an impatient motion with her hand. “I want to talk to you.”

“You're in luck.” Gladys gestured to herself. “I'm right here. What did you want to talk about?”

Carrie looked as though she had bitten into a lemon. “You've proved your point.”

Gladys frowned. “I'm not sure what you're talking about. Proved my point about what?”

“The vice principal position. You can pull your name from consideration. You've proved your point about standing up for yourself.”

“Oh. Right. Sorry. Now I understand.”

“Good. So that's settled.” Carrie went to walk away.

“”Oh, I didn't mean that I'd be pulling my name,” Gladys told her. “Just that I understood what you were babbling on about.”

Carrie stopped. Slowly, she turned around. “What did you say?”

Gladys stood up. “I'm not pulling my name from consideration. Sorry if that's got you upset.”

It was as if Carrie couldn't comprehend what Gladys was saying. “Not … pulling your name?”

“Well … no.” Gladys shrugged. “The way I see it, we all have the same right to be considered for the job.”

“But … I've got seniority!” insisted Carrie. “I've earned it!”

“And if the School Board agrees with you, then you get the job,” Gladys told her. “If not … then you don't.”

“No!” shouted Carrie. “No! You can't do this to me! It's my job!”

“What?” I'm missing something here. “Why are you so upset all of a sudden?”

“None of your business,” snapped Carrie. “Now, the joke's over. You're going to withdraw from the running.”

“Or what?” challenged Gladys, strolling around the desk until she stood face to face with the older woman.

Carrie's eyes slitted. “I still hold seniority over you, and don't you forget it. I can make life pretty damn difficult for you.”

“Ah, vague threats.” Gladys shook her head. “Nope. Got anything better than that?”

Carrie leaned closer, and lowered her voice. “I promise you, if you try, when you fail and I get in, I will make it my life's goal to ensure that you get canned so hard no school in Brockton Bay will take you on.”

“Well, that requires that you actually get in, doesn't it?” Gladys let just a hint of sarcasm enter her voice. “Meanwhile, you do your level best to make my life here pretty difficult at the best of times. So I've really got nothing to lose.”

“Withdraw your name,” Carrie ordered her. “Or I'll just go tell Woodbine that you want to pull out anyway.”

“Yeah, good luck with that,” Gladys replied cheerfully. “I already asked him not to withdraw my name unless I tell him so myself. I figure that I've got a halfway good chance of pulling this off. So yeah, out of luck. Sorry.”

“No. You don't get to do this. You don't get to steal my job.”

“It's not stealing,” retorted Gladys, “if it was never yours in the first place.”

That was the straw that broke the camel's back; Carrie stepped forward and her open hand smacked into the side of Gladys' face.

What Carrie didn't know, or hadn't considered, was that, among other things, Gladys had acquired a very solid grounding in boxing during her years at college. She had also put on bulk and muscle; when Carrie slapped her, she reacted without even thinking. Her right fist lashed out, smashing into the point of Carrie's jaw; Carrie's eyes rolled back into her head, and she tottered, falling to the ground a moment later.

“Wow. Ow.” Gladys shook the feeling back into her hand.

At that moment, the door opened and none other than Principal Woodbine leaned in through the doorway. “I heard raised voices – good God, what happened?”

Gladys took a deep breath. “She wanted me to stand back from the vice principal thing, and I said no. She hit me, and … I hit her back. Sorry.”

Woodbine looked from Gladys, with the red mark coming up on her cheek, to Carrie, flat out on the floor, moving feebly.

“Well, now,” he murmured. “That makes life interesting.”

“I'm in trouble, aren't I?” she asked apprehensively.

Woodbine rubbed his own chin with thumb and forefinger. “Perhaps, perhaps not. I just got off the phone with the Board, letting them know that I favoured you for vice principal. Command experience, y'know.”

“Command – oh, ROTC?”

“Exactly.” He came forward and crouched beside Carrie, who was starting to blink and look around. “I think our Ms Blackwell might have been passing, and overheard some of the conversation.”

The last piece fell into place. “So she decided to come to me and coerce me into stepping down.”

“Which I do not approve of,” he agreed. “Ms Blackwell. Carrie. How are you feeling?”

Carrie focused on him, then on Gladys. She worked her jaw. “She hit me.” Her voice wasn't much more than a mumble.

“After you hit her,” Woodbine informed her. “Now, we can make a thing of this, or we can just pretend it never happened. Mrs Knott, what do you say?” He helped Carrie into a sitting position.

“I'm fine with that,” Gladys stated. “And I'm still not withdrawing from consideration for vice principal.” She paused. “Unless, of course, you want me to, sir.”

“Hell, no,” he replied. “You and Captain Snow made a hell of a team back in the day. I'd be interested in seeing if we can do anywhere near as well.”

“Mr Woodbine.” Carrie's voice was stronger. “Please. No. Give me a chance.” She glared at Gladys. “I've been here for years. It's my turn.”

“Carrie, you walked into her office and tried to tell her what to do, then assaulted her,” Woodbine told her patiently. “Whatever high ground you had is gone.”

Carrie's voice rose in a wail. “I don't want to teach Home Economics forever!”

Woodbine stood, assisting Carrie to her feet. She was wobbly, but able to stand. “You have two options, Ms Blackwell. You can stay, and teach Home Economics. Or you can submit your resignation, and I'll give you a glowing recommendation. But after this little display, you don't get to be vice principal of any school I'm running.”

Carrie leaned against the desk. “How long do I have to think about it, sir?” Her voice was dull.

“Take as long as you like.” He paused. “I'd tell you not to harass Mrs Knott, but she's shown herself well able to deal with physical harassment.” He took her arm, supporting her. “Now, let's get you to the nurse, make sure it's nothing more than a sore jaw.”

“I can help,” Gladys offered, taking her other arm. While Carrie Blackwell wasn't as skinny as Taylor, she still figured that she could carry her there herself, given the need.

“Thank you, Mrs Knott,” Woodbine observed. “Much appreciated.”

-ooo-​

It didn't take them long to get Carrie to the infirmary; the nurse clucked in sympathy and had Carrie lie down straight away. As she began to check the teacher over, Woodbine drew Gladys away.

“You're serious about still wanting to be vice principal?”

She nodded. “You're serious about still wanting me to do it? After this, I mean?”

A slight smile creased his face. “I would prefer a vice principal who stuck to her guns and stood up for herself over one who snuck around behind my back. Also, you've shown yourself well able to take orders as well as give them. I've yet to give the Board my final word, but if you want the position, I can make the recommendation. I think they'll accept my judgement on the matter.”

She met his eyes. “I'll still want to teach Computers, at least some of the time.”

“We can work that out,” he agreed. “So long as it doesn't interfere with your other duties.”

“I'll make sure it doesn't.”

“Good.” He held out his hand. “I'll let you know how it goes.”

“Thank you, sir.” She shook it. “Now if you'll excuse me, I have papers to mark.”

He smiled again. “You're excused. Good day, Mrs Knott.”

“Good day, Principal Woodbine.”

As she walked away, Gladys had to repress the urge to break into a dance. Vice principal!

I'm gonna be the best damn vice principal this school ever had.

End of Part 4-9

Part 4-10​