“No.”
A vague disappointment darkened his features, but then he shrugged, set the canteen down by his side, and crossed his legs into a relaxed lotus. “Did the AIsource tell you something about yourself that they had no right to know?”
The surprise must have shown in my eyes. “Maybe two things.”
“It’s no big deal, Counselor, just a local habit of theirs. You may be familiar with the works of a twentieth-century fantasy author named L. Frank Baum? Specifically, his novel The Wizard of Oz?”
I’ve never related to fiction of any kind, let alone works of such ancient vintage. “No.”
“That’s too bad. You see, Skye the single’s mother was a dear woman who loved antiquarian fantasy, and read her that particular work more than once.” A soft nostalgia entered his eyes, as he lost himself in a cherished memory that had never truly happened to him. “It’s about the ruler of a magical country, whose power is entirely based on his false reputation for omnipotence. He frightens his subjects, plays on their fears, and makes them so terrified that they flee his presence thinking he’s more than human.”
It sounded as inane as any other fairy tale. “This is an AIsource station. They run the place. They are All-Powerful. Or, at least, more than human.”
His attention snapped back to the here and now. “True. As they no doubt pointed out, one way or another. But on this station, they like reminding us of that fact, and they have a sincere talent for coming out first in any confrontation. They specifically like dropping references to things you consider personal; the more private, the better. Leaving you to wonder how the hell they know.”
Another difference between the way the AIsource acted elsewhere, and the way they acted here. I didn’t much like their etiquette, on-site.
“This is their home ground,” Oscin said. “Here, they feel entitled to a little arrogance. And they exercise it at every opportunity.”
“Doesn’t explain how they know—”
“You’d be surprised what they know. They don’t advertise it much, but they’re said to have an interface, somewhere—not here, of course, but on some other installation—where anybody willing to pay the fee can ask any twelve questions and receive twelve accurate answers. It doesn’t matter how obscure the questions might be, whether they’re about the location of buried treasure or the most shameful secret of your life. The AIsource guarantees perfect accuracy. I’m not about to say there is such a place, but based on some of the things they’ve said to me since the singles Oscin and Skye linked, I’d be very surprised to find out that there isn’t.”
“Yes,” I said, “but how?”
“Their computation speed is something like one million times the average human being’s. Their storage capacity is something close to infinite. They’ve been, pretty much, everywhere. How much would elude you, if you had resources on that scale? Face it: they’re the font of all knowledge. It’s just that on neutral ground, they’re polite enough to avoid rubbing our faces in it. Here, they want to.”
I wondered if that would extend to sending anonymous hate mail, then discounted the idea as unlikely. My long experience with hate mail had taught me it was a tactic for the frightened and impotent. If those messages did come from within One One One, a human being was sending them. But was it a human being responsible for the deaths of Warmuth and Santiago, or just one of the small legions of people who hated me for other reasons?
The thought was enough to give me cottonmouth. I took the canteen, put it to my lips, and threw my head back so far that rivulets ran down my chin.
When I gave it back, Oscin took another gulp before sealing the vessel tight. “Well, there goes that theory.”
“What?”
“Some cultures disapprove of arrangements like mine. They call them criminal, or even perverse. On some of my past postings, there’s been so much discrimination that Oscin and Skye have had to pretend to be a pair of separate individuals just for personal safety. For a moment there, I was afraid I had to watch myself around you.”
“How do you know you don’t?”
He almost laughed. “You drank from my water, Counselor. Most of the people I’m talking about wouldn’t.”
“That’s stupid,” I said. “What would drinking your water have to do with it?”
“They give my condition the status of a disease and can’t help acting like it’s contagious. I agree, it’s stupid. But I’m happy you don’t feel that way.”
I wondered why the likes of the Porrinyards would even care, since I was nothing to them; decided it was one of those strange people-behaviors I didn’t need to know about, then forced myself to my feet. Oscin saw what I was about to do and jumped up, intent on hovering nearby until I could stand without assistance. I resented the hell out of that even after I almost swooned. “So what else did you want to tell me?”
“Pardon?”
“I’m not stupid, sir. You hustled Lastogne out of the room. Is there some information the two of you needed to share with me that you didn’t want him hearing?”
“There’s only one of us,” Oscin said.
“Forgive me. Whenever you two act independently, you strain the limits of my syntax. What did you want to tell me?”
“Nothing about your investigation.”
“About Lastogne?”
“There are any number of things I can say about Peyrin,” Oscin said. It wasn’t hard to read undercurrents of resentment in the calm but chilly way he spoke the other man’s name. “But no, not him either.”
This was still a prime opportunity to follow up on one of this station’s many contradictions. “I’d like to ask you about him anyway—or at least, something he said about you yesterday.”
“Oh?’
“He’d said, ‘They’re cylinked. They don’t make friends in the usual sense.’”
He seemed darkly amused. “Peyrin said that? Why, the backstabbing son of a bitch.”
There were depths here I wasn’t getting. “I’ve never met any cylinked pairs before, so I had no reason to disbelieve him. But between the way you’re acting, and some of the things you’ve said, makes me wonder if he’s…”
Oscin finished the sentence for me. “…full of Tchi shit.”
“Exactly.”
He walked away, cocked his head as if listening to the advice of an observer I couldn’t see or hear, then came back. “Nobody’s a closed system without wanting to be, Counselor. Not even me. It wouldn’t be any more fun for me being trapped in two heads, with nobody else to talk to, than it is for an unlinked individual like you to be trapped in only one. So, yes, I do make friends in the usual sense. I care for some people. I get angry with others. I even fall in love from time to time, though it’s a little harder to manage, given that it has to be a person capable of pleasing my shared, and therefore somewhat more demanding, perspective.”
“And that’s where Cynthia Warmuth fell short?”
A little angry now: “Cynthia Warmuth was kind, generous, eager, compassionate, and, as I’ve already said, needy, pushy and grating. It’s a matter of taste, not misanthropy.”
“And yet,” I noted, “Lastogne said what he said. Why?”
“Didn’t I tell you on the way over that we made love once? I mean, Lastogne and I?”