“Calpurnia,” I said, “can we use pigeon drones in this kind of weather?”
“Sure, as long as the wind doesn’t pick up.”
Bug, or some other maniac on his team, gave the AI a sexy, late-night-jazz-radio voice.
“Cool. Let’s put a couple of them in the air.”
“Of course, Joseph,” she said, which made me feel all tingly. “What are they looking for?”
“Access traffic cams,” I said. “Locate a dark blue Crown Victoria within three hundred feet of my location.”
“Done.”
“Track it. I want the license plate.”
“On it,” she promised.
There was a soft whir and a side panel opened near the left rear wheel and two small bundles fell out and rolled into the gutter. They were gray and unobtrusive in the steady rainfall. Luckily it wasn’t a full-blown storm — for once Mother Nature was aiding and abetting me instead of the bad guys.
As soon as the follow car was past and there were no pedestrians close, the drones’ proximity sensors activated the flight controls. The pigeon popped tiny propellers and rose straight up, then the wings deployed to hide the props. Once the bird was flying at sufficient speed, the propellers folded back into the body and the wings flapped like normal bird wings. It was very fast and the sensor software tracked possible line-of-sight observers to make sure none of this happened when anyone was watching. These are not the drones you buy at Target. These babies cost about four hundred thousand each, and if they were captured by anyone who did not have the right kind of RFID transponder chip, they would self-destruct.
The AI system that ran it was something new for us. It was the most sophisticated computer intelligence software in existence by something like an order of magnitude. Or maybe three. Freakishly intuitive, with natural conversational modes, various combat modes, and all sorts of other extras I barely understand. Bug — the über-geek head of the DMS computer sciences division — rebuilt the software after obtaining it from Zephyr Bain, the woman who’d designed it. Calpurnia’s original program was to oversee a curated technological singularity. Meaning Bain and her crew were trying to bring about a controlled end of the world as we know it. She wanted to kill off the vast multitudes of poor who she considered to be a drain on the global system; but she also wanted to kill off any one percenters who controlled companies that polluted and exploited the planet. So, a little altruism and a whole lot of bugfuck insanity. Calpurnia was designed to be self-learning, but Bain had built it too well, because Calpurnia became self-aware in the bargain. That self-awareness did not lead to a Skynet scenario, which is why we don’t have robot Arnold Schwarzeneggers stomping around shooting plasma rifles. No, Calpurnia went the other way and committed suicide rather than end the world. As acts of heroism go, it was really pretty goddamn touching. Lot of actual human beings I can name would never even consider that kind of selflessness.
While all that was happening, Bug put the new quantum upgrade of MindReader online. So, the suicidal self-aware artificial intelligence saw the birth of an almost godlike computer mind and begged it for salvation. Calpurnia downloaded every last one and zero of Bain’s carefully constructed master plan into MindReader and then erased herself out of existence.
Or so Bug said. And he named the DMS AI system in honor of Calpurnia, to celebrate her sacrifice, because that gave us a much-needed win and — let’s face it — saved the whole world. Personally, I have my doubts about some of that. I think maybe the best parts of Calpurnia are still alive within MindReader Q1. That scares me a little. Maybe more than a little. But it also gives us one hell of a weapon to bring into battle against other maniacs who want to burn it all down.
The data from the pigeon drones came in and Calpurnia processed it.
“The car is registered to the Secret Service motor pool,” she told me. “It was checked out this morning by Agent Virginia Harrald. There are two heat signatures in the car.”
“Thanks.”
“Would you like me to kill their engine? I could override their drive systems and—”
“No, thanks.”
“I could blow out the tires.”
“Maybe later.”
“Just let me know, Joseph. I’m happy to do whatever you need.”
“Sure, sure. Monitor their radio and cell phones.”
“On it. No current chatter.”
“There is a second vehicle, a black SUV.” As I made a random left, I gave her the plate numbers. “Find it.”
A minute later, Calpurnia said, “The second vehicle is two blocks on a converging route, one block over and two blocks ahead. It just made a right turn. Probability of a pincer interception is high.”
“Shit.”
“Language, Joseph.”
I made a mental note to kneecap Bug.
The next street was a one-way going the wrong way, but there was a public parking garage close to my end. No traffic heading in my direction, so I swung in and went into the garage. As I got my ticket from the machine I heard the squeal of tires and figured the Crown Vic was following after almost leaving it too late to make the turn.
I began moving up the levels.
“Calpurnia, call Top Sims’s cell.”
“It’s ringing.”
First Sergeant Bradley Sims — known as Top to everyone — was my number two, and he’d come to town with me to see an old friend. And by “old friend,” I mean the smoking-hot anchorwoman on the six o’clock news. Dinah Trevor. She looks like a taller Kerry Washington and has a Pulitzer. Not sure when they’d become friends, but Top kept a lot of his private life to himself.
“Morning, Cap’n,” he said, sounding more thoroughly relaxed than I think I’ve ever heard him.
“How much would you hate me if I asked you for a favor right now?”
There was a sound, maybe the rustle of sheets.
“Depends,” he said cautiously. “You need me to be anywhere in the next half hour, you’re likely to fall off my Christmas card list.”
“Yeah, well, guess this will save you a stamp,” I said, and told him what was happening.
“On my way,” he said.
The line went dead before I could even thank him.
I kept busy entertaining the Secret Service while I waited to spring my own surprise.
CHAPTER FIVE
It was the largest Roman Catholic church in the United States and was one of the largest churches in the world. Valen hoped it was large enough to let him get lost inside.
He spent two hours wandering through the collection of contemporary ecclesiastical art, and it might as well have been science fiction for all that he understood of it. Religion had formed no part of his life. Being aware of it was not the same as being part of it, and the various depictions of its strengths and weaknesses in movies, books, and TV gave him only a surface understanding.
He knew — or at least believed — that a priest was required to talk to someone in need. And he knew that many priests and ministers and other clerics were trained in psychology. They acted more like therapists than evangelists.
Even so, it took him five tries, five separate visits, before he worked up the courage to speak to any of the priests. It was as much a matter of timing as security. If he was too visible, or if there were too many people around, then either he couldn’t speak with any frankness, or he would risk creating liabilities. Gadyuka was probably having him tailed, and he did not want to put anyone in the crosshairs of a cleanup team.