Reality 36: A Richards & Klein Novel Read online

  PRAISE FOR GUY HALEY

  "Guy Haley is a force for good, a hidden gem of British SF."

  – Paul Cornell

  "Richards & Klein displays fascinating characters in a very believable future."

  – 5-time Hugo winner Mike Resnick

  "Haley's wit is both laugh-out-loud and sharp as a sword."

  – John Whitbourn, author of BBC prize winning A Dangerous Energy

  GUY HALEY

  Reality 36

  Richards & Klein

  Book I

  For my mother, who encouraged me to write.

  For my father, who always listened to my stories.

  "All members of the Community of Equals are created free and equal in dignity and rights."

  Extract from Article One of the 2114 Amendment to the Universal Declaration of Human Rights

  "Every sentient being: naturally derived, artificially created, altered, upgraded or otherwise – who seeks to dwell within the borders of the European Union, whether in physical actuality or within the confines of sovereign European Union designated virtual spaces, agrees without reservation to abide by the laws of the European Union, to be held accountable for their actions as such accountability is defined by their status under the law, to serve the interests of said state and its federal components… [and] to support it wholeheartedly according to their obligations as detailed in Directive 44871/112-b: 'Responsibilities and Rights of European Union Member State Citizens.'"

  Paragraph 8172, sub-section 47d 9 (abridged) of the 2078 European Parliamentary Directive regulating Synthetic, Simian, Cetacean, Trans- and Post-human entities

  "Freedom is not a luxury to be conferred upon those possessed of sentience; it is a fundamental and inalienable right of the sentient."

  Professor Zhang Qifang, speaking at the Napoli Science Symposium, "Morality in and toward Created Intelligences", Wednesday, January 18, 2113

  PROLOGUE:

  Richards

  Richards' body was a sculpted titanium box 1.793 metres high, 2.47 metres wide and 1.323 metres deep – at these dimensions' extremes, for in form he was fluid and bulbous, as most such AI hardware was.

  This shell was hardened against physical and electromagnetic attack, armour beneath the gleaming surface a complicated laminate of rare metals, semifluid conductors and active metalloid buffers. Holes of differing diameters pierced the final layer – a jacket of cleverly stacked copper atoms – creating a broad-spectrum Faraday cage. The delicate electronic brain of the man, if you could call it a brain, or if you could call him a man, sat inside: a fourteen-tiered ziggurat of latticed graphene spun on microgravity looms, the electrons that carried the messages of Richards' mind going about the business of yesses, nos and multitudinous maybes of quantum computing upon it.

  Richards liked his base unit, old-fashioned as it was. Many other Class Five AIs preferred plus-C optical set-ups, but not Richards. He claimed, when asked, that this older configuration gave him time to think. All who knew him well knew the truth to be somewhat more sentimental.

  The base unit sat upon a pyramid at the exact centre of a vault of machine-woven metal, a ten-metre cube perfect to the millimetre. The base unit was static and had no motive parts, but the pedestal pyramid could move, and did, when occasion demanded, for it floated upon an enclosed bed of mercury, protecting Richards from external shock. Though the pedestal and base unit combined massed at little under a metric tonne, they were balanced so that were a human being to enter the vault, he would have been able to push it round without difficulty.

  Not that any human had ever been in the vault. The atmosphere was an unbreathable mix of noble gases, the temperature maintained at a precise -36 degrees Celsius, bathed by ultraviolet light sufficient to render the room biologically sterile.

  There were other, less subtle discouragements to physical interference with the base unit; at the eight corners of the vault stood eight sentry guns, also hardened against electromagnetic attack. They were possessed of eight simple near-I minds that understood one binary command and one command alone – kill/not-kill. They were set always to kill. Their quad mounted machine guns, loaded with armour-piercing rounds, were matched with a military-grade EMP projector and high-power xenon laser apiece.

  Beyond the Real, within the digital second world of the System Wide Grid, vast and ugly things with teeth of sharpest code circled Richards' nominal soul. These leviathans were murderously alert to intrusion through the base unit's data portal, a fat Gridpipe carried upon microwaves to a shaped hollow on the vault's wall. The sole means by which Richards conducted his business with the wider worlds, the Gridpipe was a drawbridge that could be slammed shut at a picosecond's notice. There were no other entrances to the vault, virtual or otherwise; it was hermetically sealed, its seamless exterior locked in foamcrete, altered steels and spun carbons.

  These precautions were not unusual. Where Richards' body differed from those of his fellow Class Fives was that its location was widely known: hard by a fortified buttress, below the offices of Richards & Klein, Inc, Security Consultants, on floor 981 of the Wellington Arcology in New London, one junction down the old M1 from Luton.

  As Richards said, it was foolish to have an office that nobody could find. Nonsense – naturally, as a free-roaming digital entity Richards could go anywhere there was hardware to pick up his commands – but it made people laugh at parties.

  Richards liked to make people laugh at parties.

  Richards' power supply sat beneath the vault. Running from a pearl string of high-density Helium3 fuel pellets, the fusion plant was as heavily protected, gifted with redundant systems and as divorced from the outside world as that which it fed, beaming energy in wirelessly direct through Richards' Gridpipe.

  As to the essence of the man, the being generated by this chilled machinery in its impregnable fort, he was more of a people person than his mortal shell suggested, and was elsewhere.

  He was at a concert at the Royal Albert Hall.

  Chapter 1

  The 36th Realm

  Ulgan the merchant, sometime haulier of cargo, very occasional tour operator, sat counting his money. As is the way with most grasping men, and such Ulgan was, the enumeration of coin was his greatest pleasure. His business did not afford him the opportunity to do so as often as his wont, so he took advantage of the hottest time of day, when the sun burnt down through the dry air of the mountains, the time when he was least likely to be disturbed by those less avaricious than he. Under the meagre shade of a worn parasol, he lost himself in a happy world of greed for an hour or two, before time and trade called him back to the tedious affair of making more.

  He was therefore annoyed when a shadow took the glitter from the edges of his dirhams and his shekels and his dollars and his pfennigs and his other coins of a dozen lands. Ulgan liked to see them shine, and so was doubly vexed.

  "Good day to you, sir," said the caster of the shadow. His face was a solid block of black against the sky, the merchants' argot he employed accented in an unfamiliar manner. Ulgan squinted against the halo of sunlight around the stranger's head, and wished he would go away.

  He said as much, and roughly. "Go away."

  The stranger was undeterred. "I and my companion are seeking transportation across the Rift," he said pleasantly, which redoubled Ulgan's irritation. "I have it on good authority that you are the finest provider of flight services to the other side." Flamboyant gestures made a shadow puppet of him.

  The compliment did nothing to improve Ulgan's humour. He grunted back. "That's as may be." He dropped his gaze back to his money. "Flights are closed" – he waved his hand round – "is too hot, bird won't fly."

&nb
sp; "But sir!" said the stranger. He moved round the counting table to where the haulier could see him. "Today is a most marvellous day for flight. The air is clear and pure."

  "The air is too hot and too bright," grumbled Ulgan.

  "No, sir! You can see for miles! Surely any creature would be desirous of flight merely for the thrill of it!"

  "Who are you? You are strange here, unusual-looking, eh?" He appraised the stranger. "Your skin is dark, much darker than the men of the Skyways, but you are not so dark as the men of the Sahem-Jhaleeb, whose cities lie on the plain. Where are you from?"

  "Does it matter, friend, whence I hail?"

  "It matters, 'friend', that we do not care for strangers round here, and are not swift to aid them about their business." The stranger was very clean of line; his delicately made-up face carried none of the seams of hard living, no blemish of age or sun to detract from the aquilinity of his nose, no pock to drag the eye away from his firm chin and sharp cheekbones. This Ulgan did not say. Instead he spat on the dry dirt and said: "If you're so inclined, fly yourself."

  "Oh, but you are so unkind, sir, to mock me. I have not the facility for such a feat, and nor has my companion," said the stranger, as if Ulgan's manners were beyond reproach, when in fact there was little beyond reproach about Ulgan. "If I did, I would not be here imploring you for passage."

  Ulgan found the floridity of the man's language offensive. He had no time for pretty words from pretty strangers. Still, he was a martial fellow, that much was obvious from the metal plates sewn into his thigh-length brocade coat, the steel helm spike poking through his turban, the sabre hanging from his braided sash, so Ulgan was polite, by his usual standards, for he was above all else a coward.

  "Can't fly, won't fly. Sorry." He smiled a smile that was no smile at all. "You and your friend had best come back tomorrow."

  "My apologies, good sir, but I need to go today. I am on an errand of some urgency."

  "A thousand pardons," said Ulgan. "No flights today." And he began the pretence of enumeration, hoping the stranger would get the hint and leave to allow him to continue for real.

  "A pity," sighed the stranger. He rested his hand within the hilt of his weapon. "You do your kind a great disservice, sir."

  "For God's sake, Jag, stop wasting our time. Offer to pay the weasel; money's the only language these greasy little blighters understand."

  There was something hollow in this second voice that made Ulgan look up. He dropped his attention back to his cash before the sight registered.

  "Great Lugel!" he cried, his eyes widening. He rose from his seat and staggered back, though not with enough force to spill his coinage. "What in all the names of the seventeen beasts of enforced repentance is that?"

  "Why," said the stranger, "he is Tarquinius, my trusted friend and steed." The foreign princeling gestured towards a horsesized lion stepping round a hut, a lion of metal. The thing's face was made of sliding plates of dazzling copper, its body of blue-sheened iridium, its mane of fine-spun silver and bronze that cast a second sun of harsh reflections all around its feet. "I myself am Sir Jagadith Veyadeep, paladin. Perhaps you have heard of us?"

  "N-no!" said the haulier, cringing.

  "Oh, well," said Sir Jagadith disappointedly. "I suppose it has been a terribly long while. But perhaps it is not important for you to recognise us, and enough for you to know I have an important task to accomplish on the other side of the Rift. A task which, if left undone, may well spell the end for you, your village, your birds. Why, the whole of the Skyways. So, you must understand, I have to leave today."

  This was bad news. Ulgan's brow creased. He thought of his family (although they hated him), his friends (although he had none), his life, his birds, the whole of the Skyways. His money. "You did mention money?" He licked his lips, and took a step forward.

  "Why yes. Of course," said the paladin. "Naturally you will be amply compensated."

  "It'll be extra for the Gnomic beast," said Ulgan sharply.

  "Ha!" said Tarquinius, his voice sounding from the bottom of an upturned bell. "You are right and wrong there. I am gnomic, but I feel your feeble vocabulary seeks to furnish you with the word 'Gnomish', as in 'fashioned by Gnomes', which I most certainly am not." The lion walked to stand before Ulgan, the panels of its body sliding noiselessly against one another. He emitted the humming click of clockwork, and the air around him smelt faintly of ozone. "Those little bastards can hardly put together a half-decent pocket watch," he rumbled. "I am godformed, and am as old as time, so let's have a little respect." Tarquinius leaned forward until his muzzle was inches from Ulgan's nose. He blew hot, tinny air into his face, and fixed the merchant with a daggered grin.

  Ulgan took a step backwards. "Er… A thousand pardons…" he stuttered, meaning it a little more this time.

  "How much?" rumbled the lion.

  "How much have you got?" countered Ulgan.

  "Shall we say enough to ensure you and the next seven generations of your family will be mercifully free of the burden of meaningful employment?" said Sir Jagadith.

  "Er, a reasonable price," said Ulgan, his throat dry. "Kind sirs," he hurriedly added. "Magnificent sires?" The lion sat back.

  "Hmph," it said, and licked at its leg with a hideous tongue with a noise like a rasp on steel.

  "Here." The knight tossed a large coin on to the table. "This is my badge of office."

  Jagadith's badge was very big, and very shiny. And very… gold. Ulgan gulped. He gaped. His hands strayed towards it. He stepped forward again.

  The lion looked up from its ablutions. "Stand still, for god's sake, man!" it growled. "One more time and you'll have yourself a merry little dance."

  The knight looked about and beckoned Ulgan close, a brave thing, for Ulgan's dental hygiene was poor. "I have more," said the knight enticingly.

  Ulgan looked up, then down, then up, then at the lion, then at the badge. Profit won out over fear. He wiped his mouth. "Marrekee!" he called. "Rouse number twelve, we're taking a trip!"

  Sir Jagadith sat upon Tarquinius's back, waving at the fourwinged bird that had borne them over the Rift in a wicker cage slung beneath its belly.

  "Damn fool," muttered Tarquinius. His sonorous voice was at odds with the silence of the jungle, spaces used to nothing louder than the whisper of plant life, and turned it hostile.

  "Dearest friend, you are being ungenerous to our air captain," said Jagadith. The canyon was so deep that the fields upon its floor were a patchwork of hazy shapes, so wide that the cliffs of the far side were a caramel bar against the dusty yellow of the sky.

  "Do you know just how much money you gave him?" Tarquinius rattled his mane. "Foolish."

  "I did give him a great deal." Jag knocked Tarquinius's skin. The lion rang. "It was expedient, and matters little. He will fritter it away, or his sons, or his grandsons."

  "Expediency be damned!" growled the lion. "No one needs that much wealth. We'll destabilise the economy, then what good comes of keeping this Realm safe? A foolish act, Jag, foolish."

  "I fear you are putting emphasis upon coin when no emphasis needs putting. Who are we to begrudge anyone money, my friend? We have no need of it. Also, I am thinking he would not have brought us so far away from an established landing post had we not furnished him with his lavish fee. It is, perchance, liable to buy his silence."

  "Hmmm," said Tarquinius. The bird, feathered legs and forelimbs stretched wide, vanished from sight, and the lion turned away from the chasm to face the dark of the jungle. "I doubt it. Treacherous he seemed, and sly."

  Away from the Rift's edge was a fitful gloom slashed rarely by stinging whips of sunlight. The air grew heavy. Jagadith politely perspired, while Tarquinius, cooled by the arcane machineries at work within him, ran with rivulets of condensation.

  "This is a most hellish place," said the knight.

  There was a whir as Tarquinius's strangely jointed tongue retracted. "And anomalous. This jungle should not exist. There is t
oo much moisture for the geographic conditions. Relative humidity is up one hundred and ninety percent. Temperature is five degrees Kelvin plus. There are twenty-three species of plant extant here that would not be able to survive if this area conformed to the meteorological norm for this area. This should be a dusty plateau, fifteen point three percent afforested with pines. It is not. At the highest permissible vegetative density, we should be observing a dry montaine climax community. We are not. This is anomalous."

  "Oh, do be stopping with your tedious science, there's a good chap," said Jagadith.

  "Jag, there are three plant species that are not even native to this Realm. This is not a good thing."

  "Indeed not."