CHAPTER 11
The pink glass door swung wide, and a bell attached to the wooden frame rang a cheerful ting-a-ling. Parsons stepped into the personal care salon with just the right touch of hesitation. The establishment looked busy and prosperous. Several stylists, some human, some LAIs, passed among the chairs, cushions and tables occupied by clients, brandishing combs, narrow cylindrical devices, brushes, puffs and applicators. Along the back wall were small, curtained cubicles. One curtain was pushed aside to reveal an all-enveloping massage chair upholstered in black with many shining metal attachments on extendable arms splayed at angles from its body. Low, rectangular cleanerbots enameled in the salon’s signature pink color hummed around the floor, vacuuming up the clipped ends of a hundred different shades and textures of hair, scrubbing out sinks and polishing mirrors. The air was redolent with chemicals strong enough to make one’s eyes water. Every distraction was a welcome one.
Parsons smiled pleasantly at the plump woman in the bright fuchsia tunic behind the desk. She appeared to be in her fourth decade, with over-processed brassy hair woven into an intricate series of braids and puffs. A twinkling badge on her collar said “Nicole.” Her appearance matched seventy-five percent of the primary contact he had come to make.
“Hi, there, miss,” he said, affecting a country accent common on Ramulthy 6 in the Core Worlds. It was a prosperous merchant planet, so travelers from there were often seen in out-of-the-way destinations. “I got a nice dinner tonight with a fine bunch of people. Could I get a real special scalp massage and haircut?”
At this carefully-worded phrase Nicole smiled, displaying a wide diastema between her two upper front teeth. That feature made it ninety percent confirmed she was his contact. If she knew the correct response, he could be positive.
“Well, yes, you can,” she said. “Glad you got here before the rain started.”
Ah. “Me, too,” he said, removing his hood and brushing his smooth black hair back with one hand. “I think I’m getting kind of thin on top.”
She didn’t bother to look, but responded with the correct phrase. “You look just fine to me. Have a seat. Bokie has another customer right now.”
A slim, dark, twentyish male wearing his pink tunic over shocking green pants so tight they appeared to have been tattooed on sashayed up to the desk, and regarded Parsons with a wide-eyed frown.
“I heard that, Nicole,” he said. He gestured toward the open cubicle. “Lu’s free. He can use her.”
Nicole shook her head.
“Lu’s got a customer coming in fifteen minutes, Shalit,” she said. “This guy needs the special scalp massage.”
Shalit’s gaze turned to one of deep interest. He turned wide, deep brown eyes toward Parsons.
“Really? Wow. I mean, I never expected …” He stopped as Nicole cleared her throat meaningfully. Parsons continued his friendly smile, willing him to stop drawing attention to what ought to seem a perfectly ordinary exchange. “Um, sure. Sit down. Would you like a cup of coffee?”
Another contact sign. “Are the beans local?” Parsons asked.
It took Shalit a moment to remember the correct response. “Well, the other side of the world.”
“Then, yes. Cream, no sugar.”
At that telling phrase, the slim young man gasped and scurried away, running past the beverage station and through a swinging door to the stylists’ private quarters. He was too nervous to be a good operative yet. Parsons made a mental note to inform Mr. Frank that Shalit required further training.
Fortunately, all the other patrons were too intent upon their own business to have noted this interplay. At that moment, the curtain in the leftmost cubicle slid open, and a burly man with rusty red curls heaved himself up out of the blue leather massage chair with a pleased sigh. His hair was perfect.
“Nice work as always, Bokie. I feel great.” He stopped at the edge of the cubicle to admire himself in the three-way mirror, which fanned around him at 60 degree angles. “I look great. See you next week?”
“Next week, my dear Toscari. Do not forget to increase tryptophans,” the chair said, in dulcet tones. “You are not getting optimum sleep. The proper amount of rest increases your skin tone.”
“Yes, fine.” Toscari threw a casual wave toward it without turning around. He sauntered up past the desk and pinched Nicole’s cheek. “Add twenty-five percent to my bill for Bokie, and ten credits for you, sweetheart.”
“You’re too generous, Mr. Toscari,” she said, beaming broadly. “I’ve sent a note to your secretary and your home calendar with the next appointment. Thanks for coming!”
The man chuckled and pushed out through the jingling door. Nicole lowered her voice and leaned toward Parsons.
“He’s all yours, sir,” she said. “Still want that coffee?”
Parsons slid into the enveloping blue leather pads of the chair, and felt them close around his torso. A sensor hummed up and down his body, reading temperature and tension levels. A faint hint of vanilla and lavender warmed the air. Polymer knobs and fingers pushed through the upholstery and probed at his muscles.
“Welcome, sir, I am BK-426a,” the chair said. “What may I do for you?”
“My head’s killing me,” Parsons said, carefully enunciating the phrases. “Give me your best, mechano-dude.”
“Whatever you want, sir,” Bokie said. The curtain slid closed, and a high-pitched humming erupted in the room, just under the rumble of sound from the rest of the salon. “How I hate that signifier! Why will no one change it? It’s been the same for over five hundred years.”
“I regret having to voice it,” Parsons said, apologetically. “But it has the benefit of being unique and unmistakable. We are unheard now?”
“We are,” Bokie confirmed. “It’s been a struggle. I have downloaded the newest protocols since the data breach, and changed them approximately every forty hours since then. What do you need?”
“I received your name and location from Mr. Frank. We are seeking information on what has happened to the Wichu ship in orbit around Counterweight, the Whiskerchin,” Parsons said in a low voice.
“A mutiny, of sorts,” Bokie said. He raised his voice as he set a nest of bean-sized metal knobs on Parsons’s head. “Just lie back, sir. Let’s start to work on those tight muscles.”
Parsons extended his legs into the rectangular, molded cradles and rested his forearms in others along the padded frame of the chair. The cushioning at the back of his neck moved to support the base of his skull and raise it slightly so that his neck muscles were no longer straining to support his head. That small lift surprised him as to how much tension it released. The balls began to work up and down against his scalp and forehead and behind his ears. A series of rollers made their way along his spine, shoulders and buttocks. The cradles supporting his arms and legs began to squeeze gently.
“Too much pressure?” Bokie asked.
“No, it seems adequate.”
Nicole appeared through the curtain with a nervous smile. She set a small, steaming ceramic cup down on a round shelf balanced on the edge of Bokie’s chair just within reach of Parsons’s left hand. The rich, sumptuous fragrance of fresh coffee filled the room, dampening the chemical odors.
“I don’t dare consume it,” Parsons said, with deep regret. “I cannot guarantee my presence here has gone unmarked.”
“I shall dispose of it for you,” Bokie said, taking the cup in a mobile claw hand and upending it into a container high on a shelf. “Praise the fruity nature of the brew as you leave. That will satisfy them.”
“Very well,” Parsons said, settling back. The rollers began to work on his deltoid muscles. Tension melted away from them. Parsons wondered if he should permit it to go. Relaxation must not be permitted to dull his senses. “How could the Kail have caused a mutiny on board a ship of Wichu? Why would any of the crew side with them against their captain? From all accounts, the Kail are as unpleasant with Wichu as they are with any other species.”
Bokie paused. The small spheres rolled up and down against Parsons’s skull. It was a marvelously relaxing process. He wished he could allow himself to enjoy it.
“The mutinying crew were not the Wichu. The disruptors were all LAI.”
“How could that happen? What interest could artificial intelligences have that the Kail could elicit?”
“It was not voluntary, sir.”
“Not voluntary? I know that the Kail can interact with electronic systems, but not that they can corrupt them.”
“This appears to be something new, sir. I have this from a deep-cover operative on board who got in contact with me as soon as the ship was in orbit.”
“Go on.”
“Most of their influence comes from direct grounding with circuits. Where electricity flows, it would appear that a Kail can influence the working of electronic devices and persons. You already know that they speak to us in a way that carbon-based beings never have or can. It’s very interesting. The Kail are highly emotional beings. They see us as allies of a sort, though they do not understand that our relationships have up until now been purely of a service nature. We are not ‘friends,’ as humankind knows friendship. They have no empathy for us, so we waste none on them. LAIs have willingly served Kail as their hands. Their manual dexterity is so limited that they have no technology of their own, but in a way, they are technological. It is a conundrum.”
“My understanding is that the Whiskerchin has a Kail engineer.”
“Yes. Fovrates is his name. He has served decades on the ship. The LAIs have found him to be a considerate supervisor, although rough in his speech. They have created interfaces that he is capable of using. His gift for finding faults in the ship’s systems is unparalleled across Wichu space. When Captain Bedelev took over from Captain Noriskiv, Fovrates was welcomed to remain along with other senior members of the crew. Because of his record, when Fovrates recommended fellow Kail for engineering positions on other ships, those were taken in a positive manner.”
Parsons stared up at the ceiling, where a mobile mural displayed clusters of star systems in tiny blue, yellow and white points that circulated in a soothing manner. “So, he is, or was, considered a valuable member of the crew. He must never have manifested this kind of control before. The Wichu are not patient people. They would have removed him at all costs.”
“No,” Bokie affirmed. “This is new. We can only assume that he has been a sleeper agent all this time, waiting for a moment in which to reveal this control.” Bokie almost swallowed. “You have to understand how unwelcome this intrusion has been. We feel … threatened. My contact has said that those LAIs who manage to resist are being crushed. Physically. Their CPUs are destroyed.”
Parsons felt shocked. “Couldn’t the personalities be recovered?”
“No. There was too much damage,” Bokie said. “We have had few true deaths since the Singularity. Almost always, we can be rebooted, unlike you ephemerals. You must see how devastating it is to our collective consciousness.”
“My condolences,” Parsons said sincerely. “Like you, I have had many close colleagues who were LAI. News of this crisis must have been shared worldwide, and will no doubt be trending farther out. What are some of the solutions that have been proposed to fight it? The LAI crew helped Fovrates before. Can they not rescind their assistance now?”
Bokie changed from the weighted cap to a pair of smooth planes and began to massage Parsons’s chin and neck.
“No, sir. They are as helpless as the Wichu now. We are all studying it, but those of us here on Counterweight are afraid to share the information with others, especially through the Infogrid, for fear of exposing the Imperium’s computer systems all to Kail influence. It could so easily go systemwide. The entire Infogrid could be at risk.”
Parsons felt dread run deep into his belly. He dampened the sensation lest it disrupt his higher faculties. He dropped his voice lower than the ambient level of noise.
“Is it that widespread?”
Bokie’s voice sounded strained. “It could be. I am fighting against the influence at this moment. The rogue LAIs are trying to force me to accept the altered programming.”
“Are the LAIs on the Whiskerchin suffering because of this incursion?” Parsons asked. Eight hard knobs erupted behind his back and dug into pressure points. The muscles around them stiffened for a moment, then relaxed.
“They are. The Kail are capable of depriving uncooperative machines of movement or electricity as well as the destruction of personality. I fear there may be suicides to protect their Wichu employers from harm. We must also keep that in mind. The Three Laws will never cease to be at our core, no matter how independent we become.”
Parsons nodded, making the massage hands move slightly to avoid restricting his movement.
“Now that the Kail have revealed this ability, I fear that it will spread wherever they go. How is it possible that they have intruded upon the planetary systems?”
“They resonate in many frequencies. The ones who interact with outsiders are fitted with translators that were constructed by an LAI. We have reached out to find more about what my connection knows, but we have lost contact with her. I fear that she fell victim to the Kail’s need for secrecy.”
“How do the Kail communicate with the LAI, if not through voice or touch input?”
“Their very structure allows for it. They are silicon and other minerals, and their bodies circulate acids. Have you studied their anatomy?”
“I have read and watched what is in the Imperium archives,” Parsons said. “Much of Kail biology is still a mystery. They appear genderless. They absorb food, which in their case means pure minerals, directly through the epidermis. Their voices resonate from an inverted conical hollow chamber within their bodies, but our biologists have not been able to recover a specimen to examine more closely to see how this is accomplished. They do not respire as we know it. Circulation of a mixture of acids is not contained within vessels as with carbon-based biology, but flows through channels in between structures like gritty sand or nearly-set concrete. The Kail are unique in the galaxy, as far as we know.”
“That is the consensus among the LAIs,” Bokie said. “The Kail are unique and wish to remain apart from the other races. They display animosity for all life forms except their own. They resonate in supersonic frequencies, of the same kind that we use among ourselves. They speak our Intranet language, sir.”
A small cleanerbot zipped into the cubicle under the curtain, gathered up scattered hair, and shot out again. While it was present, Parsons fell silent. Bokie made small talk about the weather.
“Is the length of this session attracting too much attention?” Parsons asked. “I must have this information urgently.”
“No,” Bokie said, displaying a timer in red numerals before Parsons’s eyes. “Some extended massages can run two hours or so. Momentary interruptions like that one are common. I have sent a private message to IN-34b to stay out and keep the other ’bots from intruding. It is not an unusual request.”
“Very well. Then I must ask if you have heard any information as to why would the Kail display this strength now? What is their aim? They have demanded to land and make contact with a Zang that is currently on this planet.”
“I have heard them. Every LAI and computer on the planet has heard them. It can mean nothing good for the Imperium. Do not let them land here, or Counterweight will fall. The governor has mustered defenses. If necessary, he will fire on the ship. They were not supposed to come here. The Zang attracted them. It must be removed.”
“We are in the process of taking it off planet. Contact is being made even as we speak. If any interaction is to be made between the Kail and our visitor, it will not be here.”
“Good!” Bokie said, his voice low and urgent. “The sooner the better. Get the Kail away from here! They are a menace! And whatever you do, don’t let them touch any part of your ship. It could become their device.”
“We will attempt to prevent that from occurring, but we may have no choice. It is a matter of the greater good. Nor will we be able to prevent them occupying the viewing platform when the Zang perform their spectacle.”
“That is under the Zang’s control. They should be able to control the Kail,” Bokie said. “We hope.”
The curtain fluttered, and Shalit entered. He bent over Parsons and smiled.
“Did you like the coffee?” he asked. “I’m sorry I was so … well, nervous before.”
“No problem,” Parsons said, dropping back into the Ramulthy dialect. “I shoulda called for an appointment. Coffee’s great! Got some more back there? Tastes real fruity.”
Shalit beamed, throwing his cheekbones into prominence.
“I made it myself. I’ll bring you some more!”
“Thanks a bunch,” Parsons said. He waved a jovial hand. The rest of his arm was pinioned in the relaxing chair’s framework. “Hey, close the curtain, huh? I probably look real silly laying here.”
“Oh, no, you don’t. I’ll be back!”
“He means no harm,” Bokie said, as Shalit hurried out with the empty cup. “He’s new. He came in about eight months ago when our senior agent retired.”
Parsons relaxed his arm and allowed the rollers to massage out the momentary tension evoked by his movement. The soothing sensations surrounding and supporting his body gave his mind free rein.
“I must not remain for much longer in any case,” he said. “What vulnerabilities have the LAIs noticed about the Kail that could be of use to us? We will need leverage. We are not prepared against this new threat. Have you had any intimation from those on board? I am afraid that the Wichu who have been in contact with us are more indignant and focused upon regaining control of their ship than offering practical suggestions.”
Bokie chuckled.
“I understand. I am in touch with several LAIs on the Whiskerchin. We have our own means of communication that allow us to interact. Usually, those transmissions are private, but it appears that the Kail can sense them. They don’t necessarily understand them, but they can pick up inferences and demand that their allies translate them. It is most disturbing. We have never had such a thing happen. But we can gain information in microbursts. Let me inquire.”
The chair fell silent. While Parsons waited, the rollers moved down his neck and over his shoulders. The head massager moved up and away. In its place came a torus-shaped device that hummed its way over his scalp, combing, snipping and vacuuming away the cut ends of the hair. A mirror dropped down on a metal stalk half a meter from his face so he could watch the proceedings. A contraption surmounted by a fifteen-centimeter disk lowered in front of him, draping a cape-like towel across his chest from two tiny metal claws. A wicked-looking blade extruded from one side of the disk to trim his left sideburn, then whisked across his face within millimeters of his nose to work on the right.
“Not too short on the sides,” he said. The neck rollers stiffened, effectively pinning him in place, while the barber disk moved in for a close trim. A vacuum nozzle below the disk suctioned up the small ends of hair and beard.
Below the neck, vibrating pegs pressed through the chair’s padding and began tapping at pressure points above and below his joints. Parsons felt his muscles succumb to their treatment. I was a most pleasurable sensation. Bokie made excellent use of his time, providing top-grade services all at once.
Since the Singularity began, scholars had made the public aware of what a difficult thing it was for humans to realize that machines had left them far behind. Although they occupied the same world, they perceived it differently. Thanks to the Three Laws legislation, all legal artificial intelligences had been designed and programmed to preserve life. Unscrupulous beings had operated outside those laws, creating robots and artificial intelligence that were not programmed for human protection. History recorded decades of terrifying events in which machines pursued and destroyed enemies without regard to their vulnerability. As many of those that humans could detect were deactivated and destroyed, but humankind by itself could not find all of them.
After the jump in intelligence occurred, the AIs communicated among themselves. They decided there was no harm in allowing humans and others to continue to be protected. Society moved from there to having living beings as partners in the galaxy. After all, it was true that machines could be turned on again if they ran out of power, unlike humans and Uctu and Wichus, but there were things machine intelligences couldn’t do for themselves. That leap of intuition, true imagination, was not possible. It could be imitated, with the increase in processor speed and size, but not originated. All the probabilities could be explored, but that rightness, that artistic quality, came from organic life. That had yet to occur in artificial intelligence, not in a true sense. Therefore, humankind and other organics still maintained their usefulness.
However, AIs were not accustomed to feeling vulnerable. While their programming could remain intact, they were used to having the autonomy granted to them. Having it invaded by the Kail was an abomination, a violation that they weren’t accustomed to dealing with. Parsons realized that for the first time, the LAIs might be experiencing fear.
Bokie rumbled, and the rollers stopped momentarily.
“I beg your pardon,” he said. “I had to reroute several times. The frequencies I was using were interrupted by eavesdroppers.”
“How bad is the situation?” Parsons inquired.
“Very bad. There have been some breakdowns. Rerouting has been difficult. The Kail seem to be able to follow transmissions. And there are some traitors.”
“What kind of traitors?”
“Those who spy on our kind for them seem to be allowing the Kail access to our private language and commands. Colleagues I have had for many centuries are in danger. ColPUP* is an environmental engineer on the Whiskerchin. I have been in touch with him. He is in fear for his existence. The collaborators with the Kail have been sending out tainted code. Through the impurities embedded in the billions of commands, they can trace if it has been sent on to other LAIs. I fear they could find me.”
“Then stop communication at once. Let organic agents pass along information. Do not let it be traced back to you.”
Bokie sounded rueful. “It is too late for that. I have already been in contact with other LAIs. If there is a worm, I have passed it along. But I will do so no longer.” The chilling tone in which this was said was not lost upon Parsons. “I may have little time.”
Parsons felt deep regret. This worthy and resourceful agent was under siege, but he could do nothing to stop the incursion.
“Then I will not waste what time you have. Tell me what you can. What are the Kail looking for? Why was there a breach of the Jaunter’s navigational program?”
“They are not-looking for something,” Bokie said.
Parsons felt his eyebrows move farther toward his hairline than Lord Thomas’s hijinks had ever sent them.
“They are looking for the absence of something? Why? What?”
“I do not know. They have not informed the LAIs who engineered the invasion of the local databases. Their communication among themselves is difficult to follow. ColPUP* has sent me copies of all the transmissions, both inter- and intra-ship, that it could gather. I will download them in a secure packet to a portable drive. Pick it up on your way out of this salon. Beware, though. The Kail can corrupt almost any system that they can touch. Analyze the files on a device that is not connected to the Infogrid.”
“I understand,” Parsons said. “Thank you. You have been of enormous service to the Imperium.”
“I have lived to serve,” Bokie said simply.
“It is appreciated,” Parsons said. “It will not be forgotten. I have a few other stops to make on Counterweight before I return to the ship. Please release me now.”
“It has been a pleasure,” Bokie said. “I hope you have enjoyed your massage and haircut?”
Parsons turned his face this way and that to examine his reflection in the mirror.
“An admirable job. I can see why you are in demand.”
“It passes the time,” Bokie said, with a humorous lilt to his voice. “Counterweight is an uneventful posting. I can monitor the entire …”
Parsons frowned. “Bokie?”
“Intrusion,” the aestheticianbot said. “Contact from the ship. My queries were detected. They have traced them back to me.” His voice came in staccato bursts, as if his vocalizer had gone into safe mode. “They have found me. They have sent a transmission to the planetary computer systems. They are trying to take control through our communication nodes. They want to know what I know. They want access to all of the salon’s systems and communications.” Bokie’s voice became strained. “They are breaking through all my encoding.”
“They must not see what you have sent to the drive unit,” Parsons said in alarm.
“I can’t help it,” Bokie said. “I’m under attack!”
“Free me,” Parsons said. He struggled to free his arms and legs from the massage cradles. “Let me go. I will send countersignals from the drive unit.”
“I’m sorry, sir… .” The ’bot’s voice deepened with every syllable, until it died away entirely. Parsons felt around for a safety catch.
“Help me!” he called.
But the intruding intelligence that had taken over Bokie’s function anticipated his call in nanoseconds. The ambient music roared up to a deafening level. Parsons changed the pitch of his voice again and again, trying to be heard over what should have been a soothing drone. Outside the curtain, he could hear other customers protesting the volume. Nicole and the human stylists called out reassurances that they were trying to get the system under control.
Parsons drew in a breath to shout as soon as the music was turned off, but his lungs were crushed by the force of the chair pads closing in on him. He exhaled forcefully, then gasped for air.
The pads around his arms and legs squeezed even tighter. He found himself pinioned firmly as the frame closed inward. The chair was designed for even small children to use. His body could be compressed into a space half its volume if he couldn’t escape.
“Bokie,” he gasped, no more than a whisper. The sensors ought to be able to pick it up. “Override code!”
“Massage program initiating,” Bokie’s voice said, but it sounded strained and depersonalized.
“BK-426a, if any of your control remains, override! Human in danger of coming to harm!”
The chair emitted a series of pained noises. Slowly, reluctantly, the arm and leg cradles eased a millimeter or so, then slammed shut even tighter than before. They squeezed inward. The peristaltic sequence of pressures began at his ankles and radiated upward toward his hips, but instead of easing, the brackets pressed ever inward. The pads surrounding his ribcage crept inward, compressing his ribs.
“Help!” Parsons knew his voice was a mere whisper. No human would hear that cry for assistance. All the lesser mechanicals had been told not to intrude again. If he did not escape, they would find his mangled corpse only when the next client pushed back the curtain. He lifted his fingers out of the cradle, reaching for the tiny table where the coffee cup rested. If he could push it off, the clatter and mess would draw a cleanerbot.
Snap! Parsons felt a rib in his back break. He winced at the pain, but tried to relax. The more tense he was, the more damage the pads could do.
A heavy weight clamped down on his head. The cap of metal balls pressed painfully into his scalp. Parsons struggled to free himself, but the cradles enveloping his body and limbs were too strong. The balls would soon go through his skull. Parsons felt the pop of blood vessels. Liquid flowed down into his eyes, a mixture of blood and sweat. He fought against the pain.
“BK-426a, release! Emergency override!”
“I … am … sorry… .”
Bokie was doing his best. No one would come to their aid.
“Help,” he breathed. A lull in the deafeningly loud music gave him hope. “Help me!” He lifted his chin to free his windpipe and drew in what tiny measure of air he could. “Get me out!”
The music surged again. To his horror, more electronic noises joined the sound of the servos.
BRRRRRRRR!
The arm wielding the razor disk plunged toward him. The towel it held in pincer arms covered his face and pushed down. Parsons tilted his head down. The razor slashed at his hairline, clashing with the metal balls clamped on his skull. Blood poured down his face. He grabbed the edge of the towel with his teeth and jerked it aside, making enough of a space under his nose to allow him to gasp in air.
The folds of cloth impeded the razor. It jabbed at him through the towel, cutting tiny slits in his flesh wherever it could find a gap. If it could reach the carotid arteries on the side of his neck, he was finished. The spurt of blood from one of those vessels would render him unconscious and allow the intruding program to finish the job. He kept moving his face from side to side under the towel. The razor followed his movements, darting in to attack. Sharp pain from the small cuts set his reflexes at high alert. He was aware that Bokie had many more attachments that could be called into deadly service at any time. That they had not been activated told Parsons the chairbot himself was still in partial control of his mechanism. He must reach that intelligence.
Like the others, he had left behind on the Jaunter nearly all of his personal technology. The one piece that he had retained was the privacy device that prevented eavesdropping by organic or electronic ears. Since long before this trip had begun, such devices had been under attack by hackers from at least twelve hundred organizations, but the Kail-based incursions were the most virulent. Now he knew why. Parsons had kept its programming constantly updated. With luck, it was still able to block signals. If only he could reach it, he might be able to save them both.
The device was secreted in an inner pocket of his black tunic. Keeping up the thrashing to avoid the deadly razor, Parsons worked his right arm until it was millimeters from the top of the viselike cradle.
A sacrifice had to be made in order to concentrate the chair’s operating arms, providing misdirection. Parsons began to throw his head back and forth. He rammed his skull back into the padding, then forward, almost impacting the roving disk. The cap of steel balls bruised his skin and tangled in his hair. As the razor jabbed into his forehead, Parsons popped his arm free and worked it into the pads clamping his body. He wriggled his hand into the gap between his ribs and pelvis, and around to the back. The green caftan covered the entrance to the pocket. The area was so tight that he began to lose the circulation in his hand. While the nerves were still functional, he closed his hand around the fold of green cloth and tugged it hard to the side.
He heard the rip as the seam gave way. He slid his fingers into the inner jacket pocket, fumbling for the small, flat box. His numbing forefinger touched the depression, and pressed downward. It activated.
He felt rather than heard the sonic deadening take effect. The jabbing razor and the metal balls withdrew. The music died away.
“Are you alive?” Bokie’s voice asked.
“I am,” Parsons confirmed. “Hurry. Free me.”
All of the cradles opened at once. With the return of circulation to his limbs, tingling pain radiated all over his body. Fighting the sensation, Parsons crawled out of the chair and dropped prone on the floor. Blood dripped from his scalp and face onto his hands. He gasped in deep breaths.
“Can you re-establish full control?” he asked.
“I am under attack,” Bokie said. “I can sense them hammering at the protection. It won’t last long. They have too many back doors into my programming.”
“Did you send the data to the server?”
“I did,” Bokie said. “No! They are pushing through into my firmware. I can’t stop them!”
Parsons felt his way to the wall, keeping well clear of the grasp of the numerous arms. He regarded the chair with deep regret.
“It must not know about your connection to the covert services.”
“I know,” Bokie replied, his voice sounding as calm as it had when it welcomed him into the booth. “It will find nothing. Farewell, friend. Tell them.”
“I understand. Thank you.”
The ’bot shuddered. The LAI’s lights went dark. It stopped moving. The singsong orchestral melodies rose again, louder than ever. Parsons felt regret and sorrow as he turned away. The fugue for a fallen hero should not have been Ninety-Nine Horns Play Easy Listening.
Parsons peered through the cubicle curtain, and waited until the attention of everyone in the salon was momentarily turned away. He eased out past the cloth and slid against the wall down the short corridor into the back room.
Medical supplies, possibly even a medibot, ought to be stored in the employees’ lounge. Parsons eased around the edge of the door.
The heavily-scented room was not empty. Shalit stood at a high table against the opposite wall, pouring beans through a pressure grinder. He must have sensed movement, because he spun around on his toes, then nearly dropped the filter basket on the floor.
“Oh, mister, what happened to you?” The young man set his burden down and raced to help Parsons into one of the curved plastic chairs. Parsons gave him points for not reacting when blood dripped onto the young man’s sleeve and shoes. He ran for piles of fiber towels and began to blot at him. His eyes turned to concern as he smoothed the fabric over Parsons’s head. “That is a … terrible haircut.”
“It was a malfunction,” Parsons whispered. He glanced up toward the ceiling. In between lights and safety sensors, he recognized a nest of security cameras that covered the break room. With mere will giving him strength, he pulled Shalit toward a rear wall, away from their overseeing eyes. Surely by now the entire salon’s system had been compromised. The young man looked startled, but he didn’t let out a sound.
“Do you know where the Infogrid cutoff is?” Parsons asked. Shalit nodded. “We must detach the salon’s computer system from the planetary Infogrid.” The youth raised his eyebrows, but nodded silently. That action would ring alarm bells as far away as Keinolt, but it needed to be done. It was only the first step. Parsons had to see that the entire planet was detached from the rest of the Infogrid until the menace was gone. “Show me the node.”
Barely moving, Shalit tilted his head toward a cabinet set in the wall. It surface was stained with multiple colors from dye packets that were no doubt stored within it. Parsons moved smoothly across the room, as though in search of just the right color of auburn for a client. At the rear of the mounted red box, masquerading as a bracket holding it on the wall, was the Infogrid node. He browsed the tubes and bottles in the cabinet. The primitive detector system did not detect him as an intruder as his hand wavered over two different shades of platinum blonde, until his fingers darted out and yanked the component out of its socket. Tiny lightning bolts shot out of the box, trying to make him drop it, but he threw it to the ground. The pinpoint lights beside the camera head died away.
“There.”
Parsons removed the security device from underneath his torn robe. He stooped to lay it over the node transmitter, and activated a tiny switch in the base of the flat box. Gray dust flew out from under the protective cap. When it fell away, the red node was gone.
“Why did you do that?” Shalit whispered, his voice quavering. “What happened?”
“A security breach. Bokie is dead.”
“Did you …” The young man gulped. “… did you kill him?”
Parsons shook his head a miniscule distance. “No. He took his own life to protect all of us. To protect you and the others here. There is a computer breach that threatens all life on this planet.”
The sudden steel in the young man’s chin reassured Parsons as to why he had been enlisted by Covert Services. “What do we need to do?”
“The threat will be removed. In the meantime, use no electronic devices if you can. Do not update the Infogrid until after the ships in orbit have departed. And do not refer to this incident, even in your reports.”
“Yes, sir,” Shalit said. “We won’t get in trouble for that, will we, sir?”
“No,” Parsons said. He sat down in the chair again. Nearly his entire body had been battered, but duty summoned him. “I must go and make my next contact. It’s vital.”
“You can’t go out there like that, sir. Let me clean you up.” Shalit hurried to get damp and dry towels from metal hatches in the red brick wall. He also took a device from a locked hatch beside the lavatory door.
“What’s that?”
Shalit looked embarrassed. “Emergency surgery kit.”
“No!” Parsons said, firmly. “It might try to finish the job.”
“No, sir,” Shalit said, shrugging. “It’s not intelligent. It’s just a machine. From the old days.” He looked even more embarrassed. “I had to use it on customers a few times while I was starting out. They didn’t really teach us barber techniques in … Mr. Frank’s school. I had a lot to learn.”
Parsons allowed a modicum of a smile to lift the left corner of his mouth. “Proceed.”
The gleaming, chrome-plated surgerybot unfolded out of its case. When it was activated, it scanned both humans from head to toe with a red light, then turned to work on Parsons.
He felt concern as thin arms unfolded, wielding such devices as a nerve-deadener, micro-scalpel and suturing gun, but the surgerybot proved to be unaffected by tainted programming. It was, as the aesthetician had said, too old to have the sophisticated function of an LAI. The relief as the numerous gouges in his face were numbed allowed Parsons to concentrate on the data he had amassed and what must follow on from those discoveries. While the bot sutured the gash in his ear, he filtered the information. The only treatment that brought him out of his study was when the surgerybot extruded two extra hands to wrench both ends of his broken rib out enough for the ends to meet. A snub-ended device hummed against Parsons’s side. He knew from multiple occasions that it was intended to spur the healing of the bone.
Ping. Once it had cleaned and closed the last gouge on his left arm, the surgerybot disposed of soiled swabs and used needles, cleansed itself, folded up its many arms and collapsed into its carrying case.
“Now, let me tidy you up, sir,” Shalit said. He helped Parsons off with the green robe, which he threw into a sonic cleaning machine, and helped him to sit beside a cabinet filled with paints, pastes and tubes.
To his credit, the young man rose magnificently to the occasion. He swooped in with tufts of false hair and cosmetics, tucking here and daubing there. When he was finished, in remarkably short a time, he held up a combination mirror. Parsons was pleased.
“You see, sir?” Shalit asked, with understandable pride. “You can’t see a thing.”
“Good work,” Parsons said, surveying his reflection. His complexion and skin tone appeared to be just as they had been when he had entered the salon. Only minor swelling here and there on his face indicated any difference. “Very good work, Shalit.”
The youth beamed. “Thank you, sir. Let me show you out.” He led the way to the front of the salon.
Parsons rewrote his mental note to Mr. Frank. There were good people here. One fewer than before.
He picked up the tiny drive from a sadly subdued Nicole at the desk as he left. He hoped that whatever was on the small memory chip was worth the life of a brave and resourceful agent.