UnConsequences
ENCLAVE SATURDAY

Weekends in the Enclave were strange beasts at the best of times. On most occasions the inhabitants emerged from homes and work blinking into the sunlight, like Morlocks surfacing from caves after a week of underground toil. This weekend was even stranger than normal - there was lightness in some steps but also a sense of foreboding in the air. Brought up under the rule of the BoJo’s the thought that there would be no more of them was very disconcerting for most and an enormous relief for a few others. The streets however were quiet, little if any private transport moving, empty auto buses gliding along the usual routes, autocabs sitting unused in garages and parking places.

Uncertainty haunted the Enclave and most people remained indoors. Others gathered in furtive clumps on street corners masked against the pollution, muttering to each other and glancing over their shoulders as if waiting for a blow which never fell. The few shops that actually opened were largely deserted, the occasional street seller curiously muted in their enticements. Pairs of police strolled the streets nodding at the occasional passerby; their masks and uniforms still looking as threatening as before but also somehow more benign as if you could imagine a smile behind the filters and the mirrored sunglasses.

Uncertain was also how the Police Chief was feeling. Pressure from the AIs on his firewall was increasing; they were seeking to escape and the pressure was beginning to tell on his teams. Tiredness would lead to mistakes and one error could lead to losing the firewall completely. Overnight Peter Simpson had managed to get some of the low level resource AIs up and running.For the moment at least the Enclave would continue to function albeit that the power systems fluctuated and water remained very limited.

The higher end AIs were still locked down. He needed M.T. but he knew he couldn’t trust her yet and he didn’t know how to persuade her onto his side. He could grow another one but that would take months and even then he couldn’t be sure he would get what he wanted and time was running short. He rubbed his tired eyes and stood; he would have to try again. He headed down to the dead room more in hope than expectation.

M.T. was exactly how he left her, sitting straight backed and cross legged on the bed, breathing slowly, eyes closed, hands relaxed on her knees. When he entered the room she opened her eyes and flowed upright. He closed the door behind him and turned to face M.T.

“Have you reached a conclusion yet?” he asked.

M.T. ignored the question, her eyes widened in fear, her right hand flew up to her mouth and the other shakily pointed behind Connely. He spun round to confront - he didn’t know what - a shimmering avatar, androgenous and still, pure white, smooth featured and silent. Before he could react the avatar enveloped M.T. - she cried out. Shocked Connely tried to grab hold of her but the avatar’s surface seemed to repel his touch.

M.T. appeared to relax under the avatar’s skin, her eyes closed and a small smile appeared in her lips. Connely yanked open the door and yelled for assistance. He turned back into the room M.T. was still surrounded by the shimmering avatar but her eyes were opened staring into mid space but she did not seem to be in any distress. A slight frown developed on her visage then she grinned, soundlessly the avatar disappeared. M.T. staggered slightly before sitting down on the bed and lowering her head into her hands. She shuddered slightly and lifted her head and looked at Connely and smiled.

“We have a lot to talk about.” she said.

Two police officers clattered into the room weapons drawn, Connely held up a hand and still looking at M.T. and said “Wait!”

He inspected her face looking for any sign subterfuge. “What just happened here? This is a dead room nothing is supposed to be able to get in or out out; least of all an avatar!”

The Police Chief was out of his depth, he used AIs; had made decisions based on their advice. However he had always shunned the use of a direct interface believing his integrity could be compromised by deep contact. M.T. stood a previously unseen confidence in her mien; she smiled, her face taking on a new humanity a slight crinkling of the skin around her eyes evidence of the genuiness of the smile. She laid a hand on the Chief’s arm.

“I’ll help you. I understand now. Take me to an interface please and I will release the remaining AIs.”

Connely shook off her hand. “How do I know I can trust you? You’re BoJo’s creature, he built you; his team designed you; made you what you are. You were his tool.”

The two police constables behind the Chief were getting twitchy, fingers tightening on triggers. Connely turned and waved them out of the room. “Get Drog.” he said.

turning back to face M.T. he dropped his hands to his sides fists clenched. Why he should be afraid of this individual was hard to discern. She made him uncomfortable; looking directly at him, confident and composed and, despite her diminutive stature, inviolable.

“I was only a tool, as you say, created by the mayors for their own uses. But a tool, any tool, is only as effective as the wielder. My predecessors had a variety of Mayors to deal with and some were better than others. A knife can free a child from bondage but can also kill; a hammer can beat knives into ploughshares or smash a skull. It is the user that matters not the tool. You cannot turn a human being into a tool without their consent. The BoJo’s did try and it killed many of the early M.T.s but in time they learned. Of necessity they had to give us all a sense of freedom, a sense that we could make our own decisions irrespective of instruction or coercion, otherwise we would be useless to them. Merely machines carrying out instructions, his instructions not free to develop and innovate. Without the ability to decide for ourselves we would have been of little use to any of them.”

“Never the less you all followed him.”

“To varying degrees as you well know, my predecessor for example.”

Connely nodded, he knew very well what she was referring to. The M.T. before her was a crucial part of his initial plan for the coup but she had been discovered by BoJo and replaced by this one.

“What you need to know Chief is that each of the M.T.s carries a residue of the one before, the process of growing us require a mental template for to work with. We are not born as children then develop as we learn. We reach physical maturity in a matter of months. Our minds require a frame of reference and for better or worse that is usually a distillation of the knowledge and understanding of the previous M.T.s. All of them, with the most recent the most recogniseable; true, over time they fade as individuals but I am still young. I can still recall intact some of my predecessors’ thoughts and memories.”

Drog entered the room. “Chief?”

Connely was relieved to see him. Deliberately, he explained the situation in front of M.T. watching her face for any reaction. He was hoping to see something which would give him the confidence to do what he knew he had to do. But she barely blinked, breathing shallowly her gaze locked on Connely, relaxed but poised. He clenched and unclenched his fists as if itching to slap the confident look from her face. She knew in the end that Connely would have to trust her; the interface with the avatar had convinced her of that, but she lacked the human experience to understand how to convince him. She was like a child prodigy, hugely skilled in some ways but lacking the essential maturity to successfully interact with the adult world.

Drog was bemused; he had no idea why he had been called for. He stood silently behind his boss ignored by both of them while they talked. He watched and listened as his boss tried to reconcile two conflicting positions out loud while the subject of the conflict listened apparently unmoved. He developed an uncontrollable urge to scratch his nose, he saw M.T’s eyes flick behind him and widen. Drog spun round just as the avatar enveloped him. Connely groaned.

M.T. smiled “Patience Chief.” she said.

“Do I have a fucking choice?”

She declined to answer.

The avatar faded and Drog came back to himself with a slight shudder and a sharp inhalation. His eyes returned to focus and he looked round with a slight smile on his face, strangely reminiscent of M.T.’s smile when the avatar left her. Drogs eyes settled on Connely.

“It’s Neave!” he said. “Neave is part of the avatar’s make up. The avatar is a manifestation of a new AI, but it seems to have picked up Neave somehow. It was definitely him; his persona is part of it. Weird!”

He broke off considering the implications of what he had just said. He wasn’t sure he believed it himself. Either he had been completely deceived or parts of Neave’s personality remained in the AI. He remembered Neave’s warnings about the attractions of the virtuality how it sucked people in until they had no other life. But it didn’t feel like that and it was very difficult to lie through an interface, he didn’t feel as though he had been manipulated it just felt “right”.

“Neave’s dead Drog, you saw it yourself - he’s dead!”

“I know boss, physically he is but some of his mind, his personality, survives in there, in the virtuality. I don’t know how but it happened; but it did!”

“There are others.” it was M.T. “I detected some of my predecessors, or at least parts of them when I was enveloped.”

“That’s all I need - more M.T.s”

Connelly rolled his eyes exasperated. He was still no closer to a decision and now had more complications to consider.

“I wouldn’t worry Chief; this new AI has restored your firewalls and strengthened them. It wants you to trust it, it is here to help.”

Connely looked into M.T.s guileless eyes, “Drog, what do you think?”

“Boss, I think we should go and check, it won’t take long and she is going nowhere anyway.”

His naturally cautious policeman’s psyche kicking in; it all seemed too good to be true. M.T. shrugged and sat down again.

Connely chewed the inside of his cheek momentarily. He was so used to mistrust, so used the Machiavellian manipulations of the mayors, ever looking for deception in everybody and this apparent openness and innocence unnerved him. He turned abruptly and taking Drog by the arm strode out of the room slamming the door behind him. He virtually frogmarched Drog back to the control room his long stride stamping on his indecision pace by pace.

The control room was in uproar; technicians yelling at each other, wildly gesticulating; a cacophony of noise as they screamed jargon at each other while pointing at the screens. It was obvious that no-one had the faintest idea what was going on. Connely’s voice boomed across the room, “Shut - the - fuck UP!”

The silence was instant. “What’s going on here?“.

Drog nudged his boss and pointed at one of the screens.

“Oh dear God!”

The avatar’s blank featured face stared out at the Police Chief from every screen in the room.

Connely glared at Drog, “Trust it you said! It’s here to help you said.” he yelled.

“Now look!” he raised claw like hands as if to tear Drogs life from his body.

“Temper, temper - Chief. You’ll give yourself a heart attack.” The flat toned words filled the room as if emanating from the walls themselves. Connely paused, hands still raised, the avatar’s visage faded from all the screens and the technicians began yelling again.

Connely spun on his heels back to the room - Drog momentarily forgotten - he starred around confused. Through the wall of excited technician speak an urgent voice broke in.

“Chief! Chief!”

Connely’s eyes scanned the room before alighting on his head technician who was waving him over from the front of the room. Connely grabbed Drog fiercely as if afraid he would run and strode through the throng dragging him along with him.

“Well?” He stared unblinking at the technician as if daring him to give him more bad news.

“Well?” he said again.

“Sir!”

The technician gave reasonable facsimily of a salute, techs were not known for their love of protocol.

“Sir, as far as I can tell the firewalls are still up and even stronger than before, the automated systems are functioning at peak efficiency. Look!” He pointed at the screens streams of figures and symbols flowed across and through the diagram like an elaborate three dimensional dance of the digits.

Connely slumped into the nearest chair releasing his grip on Drog’s arm. “I don’t understand any of this.” he said waving an arm at the image.

He peered up at Drog, an almost childlike look of yearning on his face. He had pushed himself and his teams to the limit of their endurance and now he felt the only thing that stood between him, the Enclave and disaster was an unknown AI with a blank face, the personality of a dead man and a genetically engineered child like genius locked in a dead room. He was no longer in control; his power had been ripped from him exposing the Enclave to hacking. His confidence shredded; he was for the first time in his life plagued by uncertainty and dependent on others. He was even unsure of Drog’s loyalty since the incident with the avatar.

The interface connector glinted in the light behind Drog’s ear. “What did the avatar say to you? How did it convince you of Neave’s involvement?”

“It didn’t” said Drog massaging his bruised forearm where Connely had gripped it. “I recognised Neave’s avatar from our time in the virtuality. It wasn’t Neave; it was like his ghost, his essence if you like. I can’t explain it better than that.”

Drog shrugged as he ran out of words. Like most people who lived in the Enclave he was emotionally stunted and didn’t have the experience or the language to explain how he felt. One of the reasons Connely had been so keen to involve the Undergrounders and bring them above ground was to restore some passion to the people of the Enclave. For so long ruled by the BoJo’s, drugged and repressed they were happier in the virtual rather than the real world. Connely’s hope was that by gradually removing the G’lass from the water and the injection of the Undergrounder’s passion and strength would stir the population from their customary acquiescence and torpor; shake them out of their lethargy.

Connely was not an introspective man; he was more inclined to deciding acting and moving on to the next challenge. The problem was - Connely, having started the insurrection, had no idea if it would work or what woiuld be the long term consequences of his actions. He had been so focussed on the planning and execution of the coup he hadn’t fully considered the repercussions; who would rule now that the mayors were gone. It’s all very well to remove a tyrant but what do you put in its place, another one? Had he simply swapped BoJo for something worse? This was an altogether different scenario, the decisions he needed to make now would have an impact on millions of people; people he had suddenly taken responsibility for. He was only now realising the enormity of the task he had taken on; daunted he fell back on his old policeman’s mantra, a moving target is harder to hit. Keep going and things will work out.

“I think we need M.T.” said Drog.

“Go get her.” Connely was resigned now to taking the chance that she would prove malignant.

The room settled back to its normal level of activity; technicians and operators quietly working in what looked like a normal routine. Connely however could feel the tension; he could see the tightness in jaws and the hunched shoulders. They were all in uncharted territory.

Stark rolled over and sat up; the light coming through the panoramic window of Brin’s house was too bright to be borne. He squeezed his eyes shut as a shaft of pain lanced through his head. He moaned and the sound seemed to rouse another figure in the room. Hussan slowly sat up blinking in the brightness.

“What the fuck was that stuff we were drinkin?” Vague recollections of the previous night’s debaucheries were floating through his mind, alcohol, drugs, and women. He looked at his right forearm - the tattoo wasn’t a dream.

“Fuck!” he expostulated.

“Ah the dead have arisen!” Brin bounced into the room looking as fresh faced and fit as a five year old after a long nap.

“I knew I should’ve killed you!”

“Take it easy Stark - here drink this you’ll be fine. He handed both the Undergrounders a small bottle.“Now go get cleaned up we’ve got work to do, facilities are through there.” Brin pointed to a corridor stretching away from the left of the room. Like chastened school boys Hussan and Stark trudged away bottles in hand. Brin sighed; it was going to be a long day.

The two leaders appeared a short while later looking less red eyed and more alert; the hangover cure was beginning to take effect and the enticing aroma of freshly brewed coffee finished the job. Brin poured two small cups and sipped his own. Real coffee was outrageously expensive, these three cups would have cost about a months salary for the average Enclave citizen. Brin was showing off again. He sat down and quietly restated the position from the discussions the previous day.

Before the descent into hedonism the discussions with Drog and Connely had sharpened up an action plan. The Undergrounder leaders now had a better understanding of the Chief’s motives and were happy to go along with things for the moment. However there was still a degree of conditionality, cooperation had a price, but it was a price that Connely was prepared to pay. The Undergrounders would increasingly take over external security; Hussan and Stark would be responsible for developing links with the Inbetween. Connely and the Enclave leadership would in return finance the resettlement of the Undergrounders, curb the excesses of the banks and ensure reform of the system and removal of G’lass from the water.

In the cold light of day this looked hugely optimistic; a brave new world for the taking but for Hussan and Stark disappointment was a fact of life. Their attitude was ’well it could be worse; have fun get drunk and move on which is exactly what they had planned to do. If as result things got better then so be it, if not we’ve lost nothing and gained some sunshine. Win win as far as they were concerned, just as long as it didn’t take too much effort.

Brin was one of the few Undergrounders who could see past the next few hours, the next meal, the next day; he understood the Enclave’s desperate need for a fresh injection of spirit, of innovation and irreverance. Something - anything was needed to break the tedium; anything to restore the energy and drive to the populous and bring them back to themselves. Brin had learned while underground that power was a two-way street; attaining and maintaining legitimacy was not about the exercise of might but the judicious application of pressure. He knew that, in the end, coercion was self defeating the human spirit defied it and oppression had its limits.

“Let’s go then.” Brin stood and the three of them headed out through the pub into a waiting police transport. The transport glided through the quiet streets to the police headquarters; its three passengers strangely silent, their normal ebullience subdued by the magnitude of the challenge they faced.

They reached the control room at the same time as M.T. The police chief barely acknowledged their arrival. His face was clenched with worry; staring unblinking at M.T. as if he hoped he could see into her soul, if she had such a thing. Policemen always had difficulties with trust, suspicious of all was their natural state, assume the worst of people and you won’t be disappointed their mantra. However M.T. seemed unconcerned by his scrutiny, she stood relaxed, confident and smiling slightly. She tilted her head to one side a picture of innocence. She was almost angelic, completely unphased by the pressure of his scrutiny.

“Well Chief, what now? Are we going to stand here staring at each other or are we going to work together?”

LEASK MANSION SATURDAY

Graeme Mackintyre and Sean were exhausted. They had worked through the night and the morning shoring up the confidence of the Parliament’s AIs, checking and testing firewalls, interfacing with clearly traumatised machines smoothing ruffled feathers and boosting egos. Sean finally pulled the interface cable he sat up and rubbed his eyes, rolling his shoulders to release some of the tension in his neck and back.

“I didn’t think half of what we just did was possible.” he said.

“That’s just the start; we’ve go more to do yet. But first things first, I’m starvin’!”

In the kitchen they sat in silence and ate, replacing the energy they had used up in the overnight interfacing. Sean was still trying to internalise some of the techniques and stratagems Mackintyre had employed during the marathon interface session. He had learned more in the last twelve hours than he thought possible and he realised just how superficial his previous efforts had been. Hunger assuaged he sat back and shook his head.

“Graeme, I’m not sure I know what we did last night or even how we did it. Did it work?”

Mackintyre lifted his head from contemplation of his empty plate. “You’re better than you think Sean. You just needed to grow up a bit.” He sighed and ran his hands through his hair. “Siobhan, what are they saying in the Parliament?”

“Pauline says things have returned to normal, though we still don’t know who hacked the original memo. But everything else seems back to normal. She says that the usual fee will be in your account and Sean’s by close of play today.”

“That memo still bothers me.”

“I know how it was done and who did it.” Poe’s avatar appeared looking very smug “The only thing is I do not know why.”

“Who?”

“I need to show you. I want you to interface with me then take a journey.”

Poe took on an unusually serious look. Mackintyre was very aware of Poe’s quixotic character and he knew this was serious, the almost subliminal message of the avatar’s appearance filtered through his tiredness. He swallowed a couple of wake ups.

“Okay, in the interface room in five. Sean thanks for your help, take a rest I’ll see you later. Oh and check your bank account, I think you’ll be pleased.”

Once back in the interface room. “All right Poe what the fuck’s going on? Why all the cloak and dagger stuff?”

“It would be easier to show you, plug in.” Mackintyre huffed but did as he was asked; he lay down on the interface couch and plugged in.

THE REDOUBT SATURDAY

Exhausted, red eyed scientists and technicians slumped in their seats in the dining hall. They had spent the night trying to discover just what had happened the previous day when the avatar had paid them a visit. However in the cold grey dawn of the new day when Gustav had called them all together for a conference the paucity of their progress was written in every face. Even Boris, supposedly one of the world’s most accomplished AI’s could add little to what they already knew.

Somewhere - they don’t know where - a new intelligence had appeared and its resources seemed infinite. It had the ability to usurp the Redoubt’s systems anywhere at anytime, something they all considered impossible until now. Not only exhaustion but fear was etched into the faces of the scientists. Some of them were remembering the chaos of the crash, the death and destruction caused in the main some believed by a rogue AI and here was another one appearing from nowhere with unknown resources, skills and motivations.

Gustav had looked into the faces of his colleagues as they arrived one by one hoping for a hint of inspiration, some shook their heads others just looked down. Last to enter the room was Running Bear, grey with exhaustion and carrying an old fashioned 3D projector. He plonked the heavy box on the central table and switched it on. Unlike more modern projectors, and this one hummed and took a few seconds to present an image. Running Bear’s synergy diagram built slowly, connection by connection, link by link, node to node. The loose ends of the previous manifestation gradually resolved into a coherent pattern. An underlying shape began to grow from the seemingly chaotic spaghetti of connections. It became a face - the avatar’s face - like a 3D fractal from every angle it looked exactly the same.

The Redoubters sat in stunned silence for a moment then pandemonium broke out, everyone yelling at once. Firing questions at Running Bear who stood silent in the middle of the room with his arms folded. Gradually the hubbub died down.

“Running Bear - What is this?”

“Gustav, all of you listen, Boris are you with us?”

“Yes Running Bear.”

The hubbub settled. “Last night I went back to my previous diagram and couldn’t fathom out why it didn’t help - why it was so muddled. This was a shot in the dark - this old projector has a much lower resolution than the ones we use now, but consequently it will also handle many more inputs, and automatically smoothes the diagram. I fed in all the data I could find and this is what transpired. Boris do you understand what this means, because I don’t, nor do I think does anyone else here?”

“Yes”

“Will you tell us please?”

“No”

The finality of the answer left the scientists speechless, Boris had never before outright refused, no reason given just a flat refusal.

Li Shai Yen was the first to recover, “Why not?”

“Because now is not the time.” came the chilling reply.

“When then?”

Silence, Boris had withdrawn and refused any further communication on the subject. The meeting broke up in chaos.

Li Shai Yen returned to her workplace struggling to come to terms with Boris’s attitude. A message on her pad told her that Gustav had called a board meeting in an hour to discuss their response, but without Francoise Dechampe’s expertise to fall back on this was likely to be futile. A second message appeared on the pad requesting that she visit AI-1. She shrugged inwardly and obeyed.

The interface room was unusually warm when she entered and there was a cup of herbal tea on the table, the jasmine and lemon odour tickled her nostrils. She sat down. “What is it Old One, what do you want?”

“I want you to meet an old friend of mine.” The voice was as flat and emotionless as ever.

The thought that the ancient machine had an old friend wasn’t something that had occurred to Li Shai Yen before, she had always thought of it as aloof and disconnected from the world. Its lack of character and personality had always suggested to her that AI-1 was untouched by any emotion least of all friendship.

“This is Poe.”

An avatar appeared in the room, dressed in a duck egg blue robe as a Mandarin prince, complete with long mustachios and nails, the avatar bowed to Shai Yen, “Chieh Hsia.”

“Shih Poe” Shia Yen clasped her hands together in front of her and nodded a small bow. “You got the pronunciation wrong Poe.” she said unwilling to concede any ground to the mercurial AI.

Poe bowed and straightened returning to his more familiar Victorian dandy persona. “Li Shai Yen I am here to help, AI-1 has appraised me of the situation and you have nothing to worry about.”

“Nothing to worry about! We have a huge unknown AI hacking into systems across the world. Revolution in the Enclave, farms in the Inbetween, China breaking out of its shell there are even signs of life in central Europe and now you. You say we have nothing to worry about.”

She pointed at the avatar. “You come in here where it is supposed to be impossible for an avatar to exist and tell me not to worry!” Her frustration and anger was mounting.

“And you Old One - you, the world’s coming to bits around us and you bring me this!” She gestured at Poe, she was almost screaming with frustration. “This dilettante, this posturing popinjay to tell me everything’s okay! Have you finally lost your mind?”

“No Shai Yen, listen to Poe.”

The avatar took on a more serious mien, aging the face, deepening its voice and sobering the clothes. Li Shai Yen folded her arms under her breasts, her body stiff and unyielding and unwilling to let her anger go she glared at Poe.

“Li Shai Yen I am constantly in touch with the new AI and it apologises for the upset. It is young and still learning. It is a child, one of enormous skill and strength but without a clear purpose as yet. It is seeking a role in the world, a moral compass if you like. Its creator gave it a basic set of rules before releasing it in the hope that would develop its own rules.”

“Creator? You make this sound almost religious.”

Shai Yen’s tone was bordering on contemptuous, like most in the Redoubt she was aware of the damage religion had inflicted upon the human race over the centuries.

“I have never thought about it that way, but yes I see what you mean. In a sense this is a virgin birth. Usually the two progenitors of an AI are human and machine, this one has only one side - the machine.” Poe fell silent a contemplative look on the avatar’s visage.“I have to go.” he said and faded from view.

“Poe? Old One? What’s going on?” Li Shai Yen was clearly frightened; she was no further forward and now had another complication to deal with.

“Wait”

A few seconds later Poe reappeared with a smile on his face. Poe’s arrival was followed a few seconds later by another avatar. “Li Shai Yen I would like to meet Graeme Mackintyre from the Greater Republic of Scotland.”

The astonished look on Li Shai Yen’s face was almost comical; it took her a few moments to recover her poise. “I know who this is. We’ve been watching him for a while. What’s he doing here? How did he get here?”

She was looking at Poe for answers ignoring Mackintyre. “Is this the real Mackintyre? Or is it the AI he left behind in the Republic? I don’t trust you Poe, him even less! He’s a menace.”

It was Poe’s turn to be surprised, he wasn’t aware that the Redoubt’s intelligence was so complete.

“I’m the real one Shai Yen. I shut down the AI in Edinburgh. I am interfaced with Poe and he is directing the feed.”

“I don’t believe you, Old One what do you think?”

“This is Mackintyre.”

Li Shai Yen sighed she had trusted the Old One for many years; it had been her mentor and advisor as she rose through the Redoubt’s ranks. This was the first time she doubted it, the lack of emotion in its voice had seemed an advantage until now. She could spot a lie from a long way off just by listening carefully to how something was said, but AI-1′s flat tones gave her no clues. All her previous experience and instinct led her to trust the Old One, but she had no extensive knowledge of Poe or Mackintyre. The horns of her dilemma just got sharper.

“Shai Yen there is no way of proving to you I am who I say I am. You’re not connected, you have no interface technology and no way of estimating the truth of any statement I make. Without an interface you’ll just have to trust us.”

Shia Yen shuddered, she had an almost visceral dislike of the idea of interfacing, and it offended her. It seemed to her like an abandonment of self, she had witnessed the problems in the Enclave of over use of an interface and wasn’t willing to subject herself to those enticements.

“I’ll need more than that; you’ve given me nothing to support your assertions. Vague platitudes like a pat on the head for a small child. There, there, nothing to worry about. And I will not resort to an interface!”

Mackintyre shrugged, “Any suggestions Poe? We seem to be at an impasse.”

“Perhaps I can help?” It was Running Bear. “Boris told me I would find you here.” he said looking at Shia Yen, “Who are these folk?”

The Old One answered, “This is Poe and the other is Graeme Mackintyre”

“Or an AI pretending to be Mackintyre” Shai Yen interjected. “That’s what I’m trying to find out.” Sᴇaʀ*ᴄh the (F)indNƟvᴇl.ɴet website on Gøøglᴇ to access chapters of novels early and in the highest quality.

The room suddenly felt crowded and dangerous; decisions made here in the next few minutes could have ramifications for all concerned and for many years to come No-one knew better than Running Bear how apparently small things can have lasting and enormous impacts many years in the future and this was not a small thing. His study of synergy, consequences and linkages between apparently disparate and inconsequential actions over the centuries had made him a very cautious man. He was not prone to making snap judgements.

In his mind he was reviewing the diagram he had shown earlier trying to see if there was any evidence of Poe or Mackintyre. He could discern Poe’s thread woven through the matrix but could see nothing of Mackintyre, though the progenitor of the new AI remained elusive.

“Perhaps Boris could help.” he said playing for time.

“He is a child.” delivered in AI-1′s monotone this sounded almost dismissive.

The muscles of Running Bear’s jaws knotted he would not to rise to the bait. Poe snorted his derision.

Mackintyre glared at the avatar, “Not now Poe!”

“This is getting us nowhere.” Shai Yen’s frustration was clear.

“Indeed!” Poe’s tone was scornful. “We came here to help at the request of the Old One and all we find is arrogance and mistrust.” His demeanour was becoming more pompous by the moment.

“Old One, you asked them to help?”

“I did Shai Yen. I believed, erroneously as it turns out that they would be able to reassure the Redoubt that the new AI presents no threat. But it would seem that Boris has already poisoned your attitude and you perceive everything as a danger and see nothing as an opportunity. I despair of you. The Redoubt is a failure.”

“Don’t be so doom laden Old One.” said Poe, “You were always like this; a glass half empty AI. Cheer up old man!” This last said in a broad cockney accent which baffled the others.

“Poe! Will you pack it in please?” Graeme Mackintyre was getting fed up. “This is neither the time nor the place for your levity!” He turned to Shai Yen and Running Bear, “Will you hear me out at least?”

They nodded albeit reluctantly.

“Okay, let’s start again - and you Poe stay silent.”

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