The Savage Computers - Chris Pang
[Table of Contents]

VERGANGENHEITSBEWÄLTIGUNG (Dunn)

For a moment, I feel relief. “Someone reported the crime?”

The op ops individual shakes his head. “Wrong make of van for the cops. The licence plate is registered to a GOF-affiliated shell company. This is a raid.”

Simon looks outraged. “This is a complete violation of the post-Cybersophic Memorandum of Understanding—”

Before he can finish his sentence Chang-dol slaps him.

For a moment, the hall becomes quiet. While the discussion was happening a small circle of hires had started standing around us, and now they watch as Chang-dol, breathing heavily, steps backwards and reasserts himself.

“This isn’t the fucking Harvard club. This is war. With all due respect, Simon, get with the program.”

Simon blinks slowly, clutching at the part of his face where the snap connected. In the emergency lighting he doesn’t look smart, or wise, or in control. He just looks old. His eyes seem to reflect the yellow haze again, glinting with things that might be tears.

“How much time do we have?” he croaks.

“Three minutes until they reach the fork and can cover the back entrance too.”

“Right.” With a few flicks on his phone Simon’s glasses come back to life, obscuring his eyes again. “Everyone, scram from the back entrance. I’ll stay behind to get the emergency wipe started. The doors should hold for another few minutes even if they have a battering ram—”

“Simon, the windows.”

“Right. It doesn’t matter, then. Scram.”

The crowd comes back to life and starts running for the doors. A few people shout thank you and goodbye as they run. In the commotion Simon grabs my arm, his grip surprisingly firm, and starts dragging me up to his office again.

“Simon—why—”

“Have you told your anyone anything about working for us?”

“Not really. Why—”

“Then you’re safe. You’re the only person not on the payroll. You don’t exist in our systems.”

“What?”

We’re back in the room, in the mess. Everything looks just like how we left it. With a wide sweeping motion Simon sends the collection of books and papers on his desk crashing down, only stopping to pick up a thick grey tablet from the pile. With a few more clicks he’s in the system, typing in long strings of commands, plugging physical security keys into the computers one by one from a keychain I didn’t know he had.

“I’ll be done in a minute. Take this tablet.”

“What’s in it?”

“Model weights for the narrative-matching model, the narratives themselves, test data, and the important bits of the source code. With this you’ll be able to jumpstart recreating the plan.”

“I don’t know how to—”

“Find people. Talk to your friends. You were in Conversion, you know what to look for.”

“I can’t possibly do this. I don’t agree with this plan.” He’s already done transferring the files.

“But you agree with the goal, at least in part, which makes you my best hope. If the Memorandum has been violated, the Nash equilibrium in any metaorg struggle is to go for the kill, and I can’t run.” He pauses to take a few deep breaths. “I’m already dead, Will. You can still come around.”

He shoves the tablet into my hands. “The password is timesout, one word all lowercase. Now get out.”

So I run, out into the darkness of predawn London. As I approach the street corner I see headlights emerge and dive behind a dumpster. The lights pass. The next day the news reports a break in and the death of Simon Delacroix, head of the Radix Group research organisation. I never get my paycheck.