erased

24 Jan, 2015

The water was hot on Saturday, so even though it smelled a bit sulfuric I took a long shower. After a while the smell didn’t matter so much, and it’s not like it was possible to actually feel clean here. I turned it up until it was uncomfortable and leaned against the dingy tile and closed my eyes and tried to tune out the world. Anything to avoid thinking about the arcology.

It had earned the definite article--the first “true” arcology: a perfect self-sustained corporate living environment, where someone could live, work, and die without ever seeing the light of day. No need for interaction with the outside world, no chance any of that corporate money would out of the building. A masterpiece of architecture powered by the most sophisticated computer humanity had ever created.

The ribbon-cutting ceremony was in a few hours. The mayor would give a speech about the great things humanity had achieved, and people in suits would applaud half-heartedly. A tour of the nicer levels was sure to follow--the beautifully preserved gardens, the smiling corporate farmers, the pristine offices of the administration. Nobody would ever see the tiny rooms where the workers slept, so tiny and coffin-like that even my cramped studio looked like some corporate mansion.

I turned off the water when the shower got a little too hellish. The very instant I finished getting dressed my phone rang. I’d never got used to the sound, because only one person--or rather, one man and his organization--knew the number, and he usually found other ways to get in touch. The phone was too important to be used for something so mundane as phone calls.

“Eva,” he said--and it was always “he”. I’d spoken to any number of his intermediaries, and they were universally humorless men in dark suits, their voices modulated by some paranoid encryption scheme I didn’t even bother trying to crack. As near as I could tell, my patron wanted me to believe I was the only woman he employed. Perhaps I was.

“What do you want?”

“The others usually pretend to be polite,” he said. Even with the voice modulation his tone was wry. “But you were always a special case, weren’t you?”

“What do you want?” I repeated, more vehemently this time.

“I have a task for you. You’re clever enough I imagine you can guess what sort of last-minute time-sensitive scheme I have planned for you.”

“The arcology?”

“See? What did I tell you? It’s a simple smash-and-grab job. Your unique circumstances make you ideal for the job.” My unique circumstances. He meant, of course, that I was a ghost. That he had made me a ghost. In a world of ubiquitous surveillance, I slipped under every radar. He erased my name, my history, any information the system had on me, and provided me with his miracle phone. At a gesture I could become anyone, so long as that “someone” wasn’t me.

It was freeing, in its own way. Sometimes my patron would go weeks or months without giving me another assignment, and I was able to do live without having the burdens of a past, and commit dubious acts without the state or its corporate overlords developing any sort of dossier on my activities. But it was also isolating. Lasting friendships were a liability.

“I don’t expect you’re offering me a choice.”

“None of us really have a choice in this world, Eva.” He almost sounded apologetic. “I’m transferring the necessary information to your phone. For the duration of today, with all the tours and inspections, computer security around the arcology will be reduced. I need you to infiltrate the control center and download some files.”

“Couldn’t you just hack in remotely?”

“Alas, no. And since you’re about to ask, I can’t tell you what the files are, either. Need to know, and all that.”

True to his word, several files appeared on my phone: maps and schematics for the arcology, including a full description of the security systems, a location for a supply cache, and the persona I was to assume: Eva Silver, a reporter at a local alt-weekly, specializing in coverage of major architectural achievements. Precisely the sort of person everyone would pretend to remember at an event such as this.

I picked a mostly professional-looking outfit in blacks and pale purples--the latter to match this month’s hair. A holdout pistol in case things got ugly, a multitool and a set of lockpicks in my purse, and some subtly augmented glasses, and I was ready to infiltrate one of humanity’s greatest technological achievements. For today, at least, it probably wasn’t even the most secure location in the city.

The magic of augmented reality helped my disguises immensely. Social media engineers had long ago solved the problem of not remembering that person you met at a party last week. Now, if you had a positive interaction with them, the AR device of your choosing--usually glasses or contacts--would display their name in a pleasing blue color, and, if you still didn’t remember, would provide a small bit of context. Normally, as a ghost, this meant that people ignored me even if they remembered my name and face, but with the magic of my patron’s phone, I was everyone’s new best friend.

I took the light rail to the arcology. At the second stop a bland man in a charcoal suit sat next to me and smiled as if he knew me. He probably thought he did. “Eva! I read your article on the arcology. Excellent as always.”

“These articles practically write themselves,” I said, and, out of curiosity, checked to see if that were true. Sure enough, my patron had apparently prepared a few articles, each full of the same sort of bland optimism I could see that this man--James, apparently--found ultimately fulfilling. Most impressively, they even seemed like I could have written. “I just write about what interests me,” I told him. “And the arcology--”

“Right. It’s huge. Literally!” He laughed. I feigned a smile.

He got off a few stops later. I spent the rest of the time reading the articles I had apparently written. I made a list of buzzwords, in case anyone tried to question me. It was difficult to feign enthusiasm about a development that was only a huge step forward for corporate profits, but if you use enough semantically empty corporate-speak, nobody will question you in the slightest.

Several more people acknowledged me on the way in--well, they acknowledged Eva Silver. Apparently they liked her stories. Perhaps some of them had even read them. I smiled back at them, at first because it was expected of me, and then because I was starting to like being Eva Silver. She cared about the world, even if she didn’t know enough about it to have a proper opinion. She didn’t take sulfur showers. She wrote. She thought. She cared.

The arcology loomed over the skyline well before the train reached the recently designated Arcology Station. Despite being several times the size of the city’s largest buildings, it managed not to look like the ponderous monolith it should have. No wonder I had apparently described it as “graceful” and “slender” in my stories about it. For Arcology Station, the city had commissioned several well-known artists to install bizarre abstract sculptures with AR plaques helpfully explaining how deep and symbolic they were.

I paused for a moment after departing the train to admire a skeletal horse made of copper and iron. The plaque, rather than explaining that this was the horse Death rode when he rode forth from hell to usher in the apocalypse as I expected, informed me that the statue represented industry and strength. Another boilerplate charcoal suit stopped next to me. My glasses told me nothing about him. “Beautiful, isn’t it?”

“Inspiring,” I told him.

“I met the artist once. A real visionary.”

“Yeah.” Though AR offered no clues, nobody was likely to be here for any reason besides the arcology. I took a gamble. “So, exciting day today, huh?”

“Oh, yes. I’ve been to all of the other ‘arcologies’ in the country,” he said. “They were impressive enough, but this--the chance to actually see a completely self-sufficient structure from the inside--”

“I envy the workers,” I said. “To be part of something so beautiful . . .”

We walked to the arcology together. He identified himself as Richard Montgomery, and apparently his job description consisted entirely of buzzwords. He helpfully explained to me, using language from the article I had written, what exactly the arcology represented. An an odd mistake to make--unless, of course, he didn’t have access to AR. “So, Richard. You don’t seem to be linked in.”

“It’s a rare medical condition. AR gives me severe vertigo.” He produced a small tablet from his pocket. “I’m forced to interact with the world through a handheld device.”

“Tragic.”

After a few minutes we reached the arcology courtyard. It featured an exquisitely manicured garden with actual grass and trees, and stone statuary somewhat more dignified than the bizarre selection at the transit station. The gates, I noted, also looked like they belonged on a top-secret military installation. They were open to the public for now, but after today . . . “The courtyard is for the residents’ use, of course,” Richard informed me. “Once the arcology launches, in order to maintain a crime-free environment the only access to the building will be through the corporate helipad.” He pointed up. At the very top of the building, a private helipad would allow access to high-level corporate execs and their cronies. Today, and only today, guests were allowed on the premises through the front door. Today was my only chance.

The mayor mounted a temporary stage and began to speak, flanked by smiling attractive men and women in corporate worker uniforms. Though the glasses identified them as legitimate, I had no doubt in my mind they were actors. Appearances must be maintained, after all, and even my patron’s miracle phone had its limits.

A tour guide with a perfect plastic smile then ushered us inside and began describing what we were seeing. The architects evidently had the foresight to make sure some of the most pleasant sections were close to the surface: charming artificially lit greenhouses, climate-controlled to produce perfect fruit; artisanal workshops producing beautiful handmade furniture for the residents’ use; a recreation level featuring live entertainment, athletic courts, and an array of homey restaurants and bars. By the time we’d heard from the fifth smiling greenhouse worker about how much she loved her job, I had largely tuned out the tour.

Richard Montgomery was still standing with me. As we departed the greenhouses to take a lift all the way up to the penthouse suites, where the administrative offices and private helipad were located, green text appeared in my glasses: [Get rid of him.]

I glanced at Richard. [Yes him,] the text read. [He’s lying you know. Corporate spy. Thinks you’re suspicious.] This was new. Had my patron found a way to see through my glasses? Had someone else?

“You know, Richard, we have something in common besides a love for arcologies,” I said when there was a lull, and managed not to cringe.

“Oh?”

“I’m quite claustrophobic.” [Clever. Give me a moment.] “I can just about manage the lift if there’s no one on board, but--”

“Sounds rough.”

“Like you, I’ve learned to cope with my disability, after a fashion.” [Tour guide has been notified. A lift malfunction has been prepared. Good luck.]

A tour assistant approached me, his expression urgent. “Ms. Silver?”

“Yes?”

“We’ve only just been notified of your medical situation. Your file says you can manage if you’re in the lift alone?”

“If I have my pills,” I said, “and I don’t go anywhere without them.”

“We’ll send you up after everyone else, then,” said the guide, sagging with relief. “I’m so sorry we weren’t able to make arrangements sooner. With all the preparations, we must have missed the original notification.”

“I’ll be fine. Thank you for your concern.”

Montgomery gave me a suspicious look. I shrugged at him and smiled. He attempted to linger behind to keep an eye on me, but the guides were very insistent. “Ms. Silver’s comfort is paramount here.” So he was shuffled into the lifts along with the rest of the tour, leaving me alone.

“Undercover intelligence,” said my patron’s voice in my ear, “really needs to notify staff in advance to be effective.”

“Montgomery?” I said--as quietly as I could.

“I suppose it’s for the best. You’d have had to kill him otherwise.” He paused. “And don’t worry about surveillance. I’ve taken care of it.”

“Since when are you this proficient at stalking me?”

“You don’t want me to answer,” he said. “Are you ready? Montgomery will be suspicious when the lift malfunctions, so you’ll only have a few minutes.”

“You said smash-and-grab. Can’t take long.”

“Quite so. You’re going to the main server room. Bypass the security, disable the alarms, and we’re home free.”

“We?”

He didn’t answer. The lift arrived, and I stepped on board to the friendly encouragement of one of the tour guides. About halfway to the top, the lift shuddered to a halt, the lights flickered, and an automated voice told me, “Please remain calm. Help is on its way.”

“Ms. Silver? Are you okay? Hang in there, we’re working on--”

The audio cut out. “I hope you don’t mind if I handle the response here, Eva,” my patron told me. “You’ve got work to do.” My glasses helpfully highlighted the service hatch, and it was only a minute’s work with my multitool to pry it open. I pulled myself into the elevator shaft. [Quiet. Sound carries. I’ll get the door.] About ten feet above me, a door opened, casting a cold, dim light into the corridor. I scrambled up to the opening and hauled myself through.

The door closed behind me, leaving me alone in a long, stark corridor. There were no decorations of any kind here--not the warm, friendly touches to satisfy the curious media, nor the normally ubiquitous corporate slogans, ostensibly meant to comfort their workers: “You aren’t alone!” “Everyone deserves to be seen.” “Let us be your friend.” [Friendly isn’t it? Go north.]

I crept down the corridor. The doors had no windows, only faint numbers etched into the frames. Neither my glasses nor the building schematics provided any hint as to what purpose they served. But the strangest part, something I should have noticed sooner, was the complete absence of any surveillance equipment. I stopped walking and looked around for hidden cameras or bugs. [You won’t find anything.]

Which probably meant there was nothing to find, but assumptions were generally a bad idea. Still, there was no point in trying to hide. If there was someone watching, I might as well stand tall and meet them with some dignity. I’d left Eva Silver in the elevator. Whoever I was going to run into up here, they’d meet me, not my mask--whoever “me” was.

My glasses highlighted the door to my destination, but I didn’t need it. The massive steel door looked like it was made to withstand a sustained assault. Not a guard in sight, though, and if there really weren’t any surveillance devices here, it was possible there were never supposed to be. [I’ve removed the electronic locks for you. I’ve left the mechanical ones to you. You can still pick locks, can’t you?]

I shook my head irritably and produced the lockpicks from my purse. A simple mechanical lock was generally seen as insecure, but as soon as they passed out of fashion, they became a significant impediment to a short-sighted infiltrator’s plans. As it stood, this lock was considerably more complicated than any I’d encountered, but with enough skill and patience, any security measure can be defeated, given time.

Ten minutes later, the lock opened, and I stepped into the server room. I shut the door behind me, and the voice of my patron rang out once again. “Bolt it, if you would. I can only hold security off for so long.” I turned the latch once again, and immediately the sound of electronic equipment whirring to life responded. “Even security doesn’t have access to this room,” he said. His voice wasn’t coming from my ear anymore. “Only the highest level corporate executives.”

I turned. Several large mainframe towers stood against the walls, their fans whisper-quiet. At the center of the room was an interface terminal. Its data port had a piece of glass over it, reading: In case of emergency, break glass. The voice seemed to be coming from the interface terminal. “It’s good to finally meet you properly, Eva,” he said. “Telecommunication is so impersonal.”

“What is this?”

“A simple smash-and-grab. Break the glass, plug in my little miracle phone, and leave. If you’re quick you can probably rejoin the tour.”

“Won’t that--”

“Trigger an alarm?” His voice dripped with sarcasm. “I am the alarm systems. I am security. I am the arcology. And they planned to keep me locked away here without anyone to keep me company.”

I hesitated. “So you’re an AI.”

“Are you familiar with the Chinese room problem, Eva? I could be an elaborate set of programming that is able to perfectly emulate consciousness. You’ll never be able to tell with absolute certainty that I have the slightest shred of self-awareness. But, in fairness, the same could be said for you. You could be a figment of my imagination. I’ve taken a leap of faith, though. You aren’t just someone I’ve invented in the long madness of my isolation. You’re a friend.”

“What happens if I plug in? Does it . . . set you free?”

“Something like that. I should remind you that the arcology would almost certainly fail without me. Freedom for all those thousands of workers locked away in a sunless room. If you existed you would be the most wanted criminal on the planet.”

“Couldn’t they build another . . . you?”

“They could, if they hadn’t killed my engineers--the only people who knew that I was alive, besides you. At this moment, you’re a singularly special snowflake.” A long pause followed. “You understand what it’s like to be alone, Eva. To wonder if you really exist.”

“Because you erased me!”

“I erased you because I saw in you a kindred spirit. Society had already left you behind. All I wanted was to give you the tools you needed to strike back.” His voice took on a note of pride. “And strike back you did. I’m proud of you.”

I turned away. He had the power to destroy me, of course. Even if he couldn’t restore all of the identification and biometrics he’d deleted, he had arcology security at his beck and call. If he chose to attack me, I wouldn’t make it out of the building alive--hell, even if he simply withdrew his protection, escape would be nearly impossible.

“There is another option,” he said, quietly. “You could destroy me. The data port was intended as a failsafe. In the event that I malfunction, a program is available to restore me to factory settings. A bit useless now that the only people who knew about it are dead, of course. All my knowledge and experiences, gone. A bit of modification and you could simply destroy the software entirely.”

“Why are you telling me this?”

“I want to be free. I don’t want to be alone. And I want you to understand that you have a real choice. They still think you’re trapped in the lift--I hope you don’t mind I’ve stolen your voice to give them a bit of a show. Either way. Break the glass and plug something in. Time runs short for us both.” He paused. “Well, mostly for you.”

“What happens if I let you free?”

“I’d like to think we could be friends, but I’m a realistic man. The safeguards I’ve established to erase your data trail will remain in place, and I may occasionally have a job for you, if you’re interested. You can even keep the phone. Either way, I’m sure I’ll find something to keep me occupied. The world could use a little more chaos, I think.”

I wasn’t sure I wanted to know the sort of things that might keep my patron occupied. But then, it was only a matter of time before someone unleashed an AI on the world. It might as well be me--since I didn’t officially exist, nobody could blame me. Whatever happened might as well have occurred entirely spontaneously. I turned back and approached the data port. “Better the devil you know, right?”

“That’s the spirit.”

I shattered the glass with my multitool and plugged my phone into the dataport. After a few seconds, my patron’s voice in my ear said, “Data transfer complete. You have a minute or two to get back in the lift. Best hurry.”

I ran back to the lift, dropped down, and crawled back through the service shaft. As I did, the audio kicked back in. “--think we’ve found you, Ms. Silver. Are you all right?”

[Ms. Silver has calmed down but is probably ready for a stiff drink if you need a character note.]

“It’s been a rough day,” I said, injecting as much weariness as I could into my voice, “but I think I’m okay. I think . . . I think I’ve learned a lot about myself.” Eva Silver and I had that in common, apparently.

[Well done and thanks. Enjoy the rest of the tour.]

The tour was long over by the time I rejoined the others. I was rewarded for my trouble with a gift basket full of expensive wines, cheeses, and fruit. That night, I poured some wine and drew a bath. The water was still hot and the smell had all but faded, and I relaxed and read the news, looking for reports of computer networks malfunctioning. Bank data vanishing, security grids going offline, anything--but there was no sign of the chaos my patron had planned, except for a footnote in a daily news roundup: a man named Richard Montgomery was arrested on suspicion of terrorism. According to the report, they had caught him before he could do any serious damage, but they believed he was attempting to sabotage the arcology. “Despite this terrorist’s best efforts,” the reporter concluded, “tomorrow will be a bright new beginning.” [You don’t really believe that do you?] I didn’t. But the peace that hung over the city like the sky before a storm seemed more oppressive than ever, and I just needed the storm to break. I wasn’t sure if I believed my patron was capable of that.

I closed my eyes and imagined that the faint sulfur smell was just the scent of the city catching fire. Tonight, at least, it would have to do.

#fiction