closed, “can let in the water at any time, while that—” he pointed to the curved dome of the ceiling. “—can open like the roof of an observatory.”
Simon didn’t know what to say. He looked at the roof, at the water valves, at the Spectors themselves hanging mutely in the air like massive steel thunderclouds. “Do you mean to tell me,” he said, “you can finish this ship in less than a day, then just open up the room and float it into the Thames, with no one the wiser?”
Hayden beamed like a schoolboy. “That is exactly what I’m saying. With the help of my friendly and obedient AIs and the technology you and I and others like us built unawares…that is exactly what we can do.” He was looking up at the massive submersible as it slowly came together. “Hey!” he called, his Scottish brogue growing thicker the more he drank. “What’s the estimated time of completion?”
A harsh mechanical voice spoke from the empty air: “Sixteen hours, thirteen minutes.”
“That’s it then,” he said, turning back to Simon with a mischievous grin. “And when it’s done, we’re goin’ t’ steal this bastard and float it roit outta here.”
Simon couldn’t stop looking at Spector III.
This changes everything, he thought.
OXFORD, ENGLAND
Green Meadows
A car horn blared at the front gate, and Ryan nearly jumped out of his skin.
“What the devil?” he said. He pushed himself away from the most succulent pork roast he had enjoyed in a month. “Already?” he said to his soon-to-be wife, Sabrina, and the cook, who hovered worriedly at the dining room door. “I thought they said eight o’clock.”
“Well,” Sabrina said with fragile good cheer, “your friends always have been rather…exuberant.”
He smiled in spite of himself and put his linen napkin to the side. “Exuberant,” he repeated. “Spot on.”
The car horn honked a second time. “Why doesn’t he use the bloody intercom? My god, you’d think he was raised in a tube.” He stalked to the mullioned window and looked out over the spacious front lawn of the estate. A massive black car, Andrew’s Range Rover, was hunched just outside the wrought iron gate, lights glaring, and engine roaring.
The window swept down, and Andrew thrust his wildly tangled blonde head out. “Hoy!” he shouted, ignoring the electronic device almost at his cheek. “It’s me!”
“Idiot,” Ryan said, grinning. He lifted his head and called into the open air, “Fiona, would you please open the front gate for our guests?”
“Yes, Mr. Ryan,” replied the housekeeper AI. There was a distant grumbling as the iron wings spread wide; a moment later the Range Rover was racing toward the oval driveway. It lurched to a stop right in front of the entrance.
Like many of his closest friends, Ryan was very good—brilliant, in fact—with cybernetics. In his case, he was a near-genius when it came to a nasty little sub-branch of the discipline known as Remote Access Intervention, an almost entirely theoretical field that postulated methods of exerting control over artificial intelligences at a distance—robot mind control, to put it bluntly. Ryan also happened to be the scion of one of the country’s oldest and richest families, and with the recent death of his mother, he now found himself the beneficiary and prisoner to one of England’s larger fortunes.
What he loved most about his friends from university is how they really, truly, didn’t give a shit about his elevated class or his mountain of money. Sometimes, though, they could be a bit much.
Sabrina—neat, quiet, steely Sabrina—hovered in the doorway. “All of them?” she said quite seriously. “At once?”
He smiled apologetically. “I’m afraid so.”
The front door burst open, and Andrew flew in, a skittering mass of beer-fueled energy. Simon came in after him, far more calmly. He had his fists thrust into the pockets of his raincoat, and there was a weight, a grimness, about him
Simon didn’t know what to say. He looked at the roof, at the water valves, at the Spectors themselves hanging mutely in the air like massive steel thunderclouds. “Do you mean to tell me,” he said, “you can finish this ship in less than a day, then just open up the room and float it into the Thames, with no one the wiser?”
Hayden beamed like a schoolboy. “That is exactly what I’m saying. With the help of my friendly and obedient AIs and the technology you and I and others like us built unawares…that is exactly what we can do.” He was looking up at the massive submersible as it slowly came together. “Hey!” he called, his Scottish brogue growing thicker the more he drank. “What’s the estimated time of completion?”
A harsh mechanical voice spoke from the empty air: “Sixteen hours, thirteen minutes.”
“That’s it then,” he said, turning back to Simon with a mischievous grin. “And when it’s done, we’re goin’ t’ steal this bastard and float it roit outta here.”
Simon couldn’t stop looking at Spector III.
This changes everything, he thought.
OXFORD, ENGLAND
Green Meadows
A car horn blared at the front gate, and Ryan nearly jumped out of his skin.
“What the devil?” he said. He pushed himself away from the most succulent pork roast he had enjoyed in a month. “Already?” he said to his soon-to-be wife, Sabrina, and the cook, who hovered worriedly at the dining room door. “I thought they said eight o’clock.”
“Well,” Sabrina said with fragile good cheer, “your friends always have been rather…exuberant.”
He smiled in spite of himself and put his linen napkin to the side. “Exuberant,” he repeated. “Spot on.”
The car horn honked a second time. “Why doesn’t he use the bloody intercom? My god, you’d think he was raised in a tube.” He stalked to the mullioned window and looked out over the spacious front lawn of the estate. A massive black car, Andrew’s Range Rover, was hunched just outside the wrought iron gate, lights glaring, and engine roaring.
The window swept down, and Andrew thrust his wildly tangled blonde head out. “Hoy!” he shouted, ignoring the electronic device almost at his cheek. “It’s me!”
“Idiot,” Ryan said, grinning. He lifted his head and called into the open air, “Fiona, would you please open the front gate for our guests?”
“Yes, Mr. Ryan,” replied the housekeeper AI. There was a distant grumbling as the iron wings spread wide; a moment later the Range Rover was racing toward the oval driveway. It lurched to a stop right in front of the entrance.
Like many of his closest friends, Ryan was very good—brilliant, in fact—with cybernetics. In his case, he was a near-genius when it came to a nasty little sub-branch of the discipline known as Remote Access Intervention, an almost entirely theoretical field that postulated methods of exerting control over artificial intelligences at a distance—robot mind control, to put it bluntly. Ryan also happened to be the scion of one of the country’s oldest and richest families, and with the recent death of his mother, he now found himself the beneficiary and prisoner to one of England’s larger fortunes.
What he loved most about his friends from university is how they really, truly, didn’t give a shit about his elevated class or his mountain of money. Sometimes, though, they could be a bit much.
Sabrina—neat, quiet, steely Sabrina—hovered in the doorway. “All of them?” she said quite seriously. “At once?”
He smiled apologetically. “I’m afraid so.”
The front door burst open, and Andrew flew in, a skittering mass of beer-fueled energy. Simon came in after him, far more calmly. He had his fists thrust into the pockets of his raincoat, and there was a weight, a grimness, about him
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