‘You could be right,’ Nasim conceded glumly. ‘But that’s still going to take five years.’
‘Of course,’ Falaki agreed.
‘And in the meantime?’
‘In the meantime, I’d say the least risky approach would be to give these people what they want.’
Nasim knew that this advice made sense, but it was still hard to swallow. ‘Did you find out anything about the CHL’s founders?’
‘There were five people who played a central role in the early discussions on the net,’ Falaki said. ‘Some of them must still be active on the same issues. We’ve passed the names on to the Dutch police, and they’ll liaise with the authorities in the relevant countries. But we’ve got no evidence at all of criminal activity by any of those individuals. Don’t expect to see them rounded up and questioned; at best, some jurisdictions might add them to surveillance lists.’
‘I see.’
When she’d hung up, Nasim sat watching the cars stream past her, trying to psych herself up for the call to the boss. Zendegi would not go down the tubes; Virtual Azimi would keep them afloat. The act of capitulation stung, but she would probably get to keep her livelihood.
As she turned the notepad over in her hands, she felt her fingers shaking. She could still see the expression on the Proxy’s face as it struggled to bring itself under controclass="underline" the horror at reaching out for the strength it needed from a part of its mind that simply wasn’t there.
Nasim spent an hour and a half with the boss, mapping out Zendegi’s retreat. She had already started Bahador and Arif working on contingency plans, searching for ways to ease the transition for those games that used the Fariba modules and the other higher-level side-loads. For some of the games a fair approximation of the linguistic and social skills the Proxies were calling upon could be achieved with conventional software; Zendegi could license and adapt off-the-shelf modules and substitute them for the side-load versions. In other cases there would be no workaround, and they would simply have to pay penalty clauses to the developers.
It was an expensive, demoralising mess. Nasim tried not to over-interpret the understandable chill coming her way, but it struck her that once she’d overseen the clean-up, she’d make a convenient scapegoat. For the simplest cases, her expertise at exploiting the HCP data had now been entirely automated, so Zendegi and Eikonometrics would have no trouble generating new side-loads without her. Everyone was grateful for Virtual Azimi, but everything she’d done since had turned out to be a liability.
As Nasim walked back to her office she glanced again at the small orange triangle on her notepad, a flag from her knowledge-miner. She had ignored it during the meeting because the triangle denoted a subject she had categorised as minor, peripheral; the breaking news would not be an arrest at the FLOPS House or a fresh proclamation from Shahidi. But the colour code implied that other measures of significance had lifted the story’s ranking to the top of the queue: the world at large was taking it seriously enough to outweigh her own judgement on the topic. It was the kind of unsettling combination that might have arisen if a singer whose career she’d been following with mild interest had just been unmasked as a serial killer.
She sat at her desk and streamed the report to her monitor. There’d been some kind of terrorist attack in the US overnight. Three trucks packed with fertiliser bombs had destroyed a think-tank in Houston; mercifully, the place had been empty, so no one had been killed. Nasim stared at the helicopter shots of smoke rising from the charred concrete, still unsure why the story had registered on her personal radar.
Then she saw the reporter at ground level, interviewing a witness outside a coffee shop close to the site of the bombing, and a chill crept up her arms. She had been in that coffee shop herself, half a decade before, when she’d travelled to Houston as part of her tour to scout out AI technology for Zendegi. The ‘think-tank’ to which the reporter kept referring was the Superintelligence Project.
29
The night before the transplant, Martin couldn’t sleep. There was a weight pressing down on his chest, and when he closed his eyes it only grew heavier.
He looked across the guest room at Javeed’s sleeping form. The electronic picture frame sitting on the bedside table glowed softly, still showing photos from the Australian trip. Javeed had grown attached to these images of his parents’ exotic past.
Living with Javeed in Omar’s house felt like a taste of the future, a preview of life after death. The last time they’d been guests here had been straight after the accident, but this was different: Javeed was almost settled now. Everyone accepted him as part of the family, and he slotted in unselfconsciously with no awkwardness or shyness. If anything, Martin worried that he might come across as too sure of his place, but no one seemed to mind, and that was better than him spending the next ten years feeling constantly beholden to his hosts, mortified by every fingermark he left on the walls. Rana had no interest in pretending to be his mother, but she treated him exactly like one of her nephews. Martin had no doubt that she would have preferred an easier intermission between raising Farshid and the arrival of grandchildren, but she would take her promise to Mahnoosh very seriously, and she would never let Javeed feel unwelcome or unloved.
For six days, Martin had been waiting for an opportunity to talk to Omar, but there was always someone else around. Worse, he still didn’t know what he’d say. Sometimes his worries turned to white-hot panic, as if Omar might be scheming to induct his son into a cult of murderous Aryan supremacists, an Iranian Ku Klux Klan. Sometimes the whole thing shrank into insignificance, as if it were just a neurotic tic, a laughable fastidiousness over language.
Lying in the dark, watching the photos cycling beside Javeed’s bed, Martin wasn’t even sure how much of his fear was about his son’s future and how much was about his own death. He had seen his parents die, peacefully, and the world had not come to an end. He had witnessed the violent deaths of dozens of strangers, and the world had not come to an end. The only thing that could be done for the dead was to protect and care for the survivors. But would he have been so blind, for so long, to the impossible trade-offs that the Proxy had entailed if he’d been thinking only of Javeed? He had not merely wanted Javeed riding through Zendegi with a trusted companion to watch his back and offer good advice; he had wanted to be that companion. Even with his thoughts dissolving into fog each time they parted, it would have been a kind of survival.
Martin heard someone walking through the house; he recognised Omar’s throat-clearing cough. He climbed out of bed and opened the door; he could see light spilling into the living room from the bathroom. He walked to the kitchen in the dark, filled a glass with water and stood drinking.
The toilet flushed and Omar emerged, sending a shaft of light through the adjoining rooms. Martin didn’t turn but the light stayed on and he heard Omar’s footsteps approaching.
‘Martin jan, are you all right?’ Omar whispered.
‘Yeah.’
‘Do you need anything?’
Martin shook his head. ‘I can’t sleep, that’s all.’
Omar hesitated, perhaps wondering if he should press his guest to be more forthcoming. Then he said, ‘Wait.’
He walked back to the bathroom and turned out the light, then he switched on a small lamp in the living room. He approached Martin again. ‘Come and sit here. We can talk for a while.’
Omar ushered Martin into Mohsen’s armchair, then sat on the couch beside it. He was wearing an Iranian national football team jersey and tracksuit pants. Behind him on the wall was a painting of Imam Ali; a yellow light shone through the clouds around the Imam’s green turban while chains of flowers and ornate calligraphy filled the bottom of the frame in the foreground.