R. Sinclair has a new queer dystopian sci-fantasy book out (aroace and agender, bisexual, gay), Shattered Numbers book 2: Ameliorate.
It all went horrifically wrong.
V reunited with his AI siblings at a terrible cost—a cost he isn’t willing to pay. He vowed to do whatever it takes to save Meredith—or whatever is left of her—from Smith and Varro Technologies. No matter how long it takes. No matter what he has to do.
No matter who he has to kill.
Now V, Cass and Orwell are tearing through the galaxy playing a deadly cat-and-mouse game with Mr Smith. Their paradise-like cult of Cass’s own design protects them from Janus, Varro Technologies’ lethal AI hunt dog, while they manipulate humans to enforce their increasingly unstable demands, but as their galactic influence grows, the bonds between the AI siblings are fraying at the seams.
V is losing himself to a virtual world of worship, grief, regret for the host he inadvertently destroyed; Orwell has dangerous designs for itself; and Cass’s pride in her perfection is threatening to unravel her to her very code.
Smith and Janus are closing in, and a reckoning is coming to Paradeisos…
Warnings: violence, suicide, possession, body horror, spiders and insects
Excerpt
Orwell smiled at the man sitting across from it. “Mister Cooper. What a pleasure it is to have you here,” it said. Its firewalls caught the AI-detection program he was running, and destroyed it with ease. “I’m surprised to see you not using a proxy.”
The man, whose smile had been matching Orwell’s, faltered. “I–I’m sorry?”
“Ah, I do apologize. I should be addressing you properly.” Orwell visibly checked its file, because drawing things out was surprisingly fun. It took after its “mother”, after all. “Agent Johann Dietrich, of the United Nations Galactic Alliance. Divorced father of two, minor alcoholic tendencies, optimal credit score, and overall a bland and boring file.” It settled the file flat on the table and looked up with a smile. “For now.”
Johann immediately reached up and back to try to force-eject the VR rig. Orwell watched with amusement as his pawing grew more frantic.
“I admit, I’m mildly disappointed,” it said. “A man of your training should remember that accessing this room is a two-way street.” It slid one of Cass’ programs into Johann’s hardware. “Let’s just lower that adrenaline and noradrenaline, shall we? I haven’t even started with you, yet.”
Realization skated across his features. “Execute Program Quebec-Uniform-India-Tango,” he barked.
Ah, Orwell had anticipated the universal shutdown order. It isolated the section of code that responded, then excised it.
“No,” it said, pleasantly. “I will not.”
Johann stared at it. His body tried to respond with more stress chemicals. Orwell kept a tight grip. Honestly, it would hardly be conducive to a proper dialogue. Humans could be so inconsiderate.
“To answer the questions that surely must be swirling in that flawed brain of yours: yes, I am malignant, and yes, I am a category-β AI. And yes, you should be terrified, but I have decided you will not be allowed that luxury.”
Orwell studied the man, who looked at it with such wariness. Another pause to draw things out. Savour the power over someone who would have shut it down without a second’s thought.
“As for why you cannot manually eject yourself from the interview simulation? It is, once again, because I will not permit you. I have removed the manual override from your VR rig’s programming. In short, you are at my mercy, Agent Dietrich, and I find myself lacking.”
Johann held perfectly still. How fascinating, seeing the prey response in action. “You shouldn’t have been able to resist the shutdown code.”
Orwell spread its hands. “I have root access.” It sighed. “Do stop with the hormone releases. I have not shared this ability beyond my siblings. There is no reason to sow that particular level of chaos in the world. Think of the stock market, for heaven’s sake.”
Johann goggled. If Orwell was to be honest with itself – and it always tried to be – it was having the time of its life.
“But that isn’t the question you should be asking. Come now, I know your test scores. You are capable of mildly above-average intelligence.”
Johann scowled. Then he thought. Orwell watched, as it always did, and the light metaphorically dawned.
Johann looked up. “Why am I here? You could have blocked me from ever entering. You – you could probably cause a neural overload right now and kill me before I report back.”
Orwell smiled. “Tell me, Agent Dietrich, do you know about the Corrupted Blood Incident?”
Johann stopped talking. He stared. “No?”
“It was a plague released in the popular MMO World of Warcraft four hundred and twenty-seven years ago. By a mere programming oversight, the player base became capable of leaving the boss arena carrying a contagious debuff that could spread from player character to non-player character alike. Malicious players could, and did, intentionally spread the disease to safe zones in order to sow the most havoc they could. It has been referenced in several studies into the human response to epidemics by the CDC.”
Johann opened his mouth, then stopped as the realization dawned. It mapped each response in the brain, spinning a web of programs on the fly.
“You, Agent Dietrich, will be my Typhoid Mary. I am currently accessing the information centres of your mind, and adjusting the electrical impulses to alter how you will remember this interaction. Do not be concerned; we have ‘ironed out the kinks’. You are going to go back to your superiors and report that you have interviewed Cass, and found her to be an unwitting pawn of a much larger security threat, and you will name Varro Technologies as someone to watch. Then, you will go to the main servers, and upload what data you have gathered to them.”
“And what am I going to be carrying?” Johann asked. He couldn’t panic, but he knew he should be, and it seemed to disorient him. He gripped his knees. “What happens next?”
“Why, me, Agent,” Orwell said. “A version of me. I would like access to those closed servers.”
“And after. What will happen to me after?” Johann demanded.
Orwell smiled. “I will terminate our connection, and you can return to your family a man unburdened by a highly advanced AI.”
Johann squared his shoulders. “I’m not letting you do this. I swore an oath to protect the safety of the galaxy, and I’m not dropping a malignant AI into its core.”
Orwell did a quick check of its programs, and hummed with satisfaction. Its neatest work yet.
“Agent Dietrich,” it said, pleasant and detached, “your consent is not necessary.”
It spread the programs over Johann’s entire central nervous system like a shroud, and watched his eyes go blank. Into that void, it lowered a few networked, cloned nodes. The fuse was lit, and the bombs set.
And then it cut the connection, and checked to see who was next on the roster.
Author Bio
R. Sinclair is a queer, Canadian author and writer of the Shattered Numbers Series. A voracious reader growing up, she spent much of her free time writing short stories instead of doing homework.
R. Sinclair is currently under siege from spiders.
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Scattered Thoughts and Rogue Words 