Emissaries from the Dead

“Bullshit,” I said, surprised by the heat in my own voice.

We are well aware of human conversational conventions associating feces, especially animal feces, with dishonesty. But we still require your reasoning.

“I don’t believe you capable of the sloppiness it would take to engineer life for an environment this unusual without first establishing exactly what you wanted that life to be like. You wanted the Brachiators to think, and you wanted them to communicate with visiting species like my own. You designed them with that in mind. You even taught them the Mercantile tongue. Then you orchestrated this diplomatic wrangle over their legal status by making sure we knew about them, when it would have been just as easy to keep their very existence—this very station’s existence—a secret. So I ask you again: Why did you create the Brachiators? And why did you want us to react to their existence the way we have?”

The chamber was silent for a long time. We reserve the right to treat these issues as state secrets, and consider the answers classified at this time.

I pressed on. “What about their beliefs? This thing they have about considering human beings dead? Their characterization of you, their creators, as the ‘Hands-in-Ghosts’? Do you understand what they mean by that?”

We have always found the belief systems sentient creatures concoct to explain their place in their universe to be, by far, the most fascinating and potentially enlightening by-product of intelligent life.

Which wasn’t an answer. “How do you respond to charges that engineering the Brachiators breaks interspecies covenant prohibiting slavery?”

By pointing out that the Brachiators perform no labor on our behalf, that they live in their own natural state, that we voluntarily revealed their existence to the diplomatic community, and that if “freed” from their Habitat by forces intent on helping them against their will, they would no doubt perish for lack of any other suitable environment. We could also point out that the society responsible for your Christina Santiago, and the special relationship between yourself and the Confederate Diplomatic Corps, both fit the standard definition of slavery more than our protective relationship with the Brachiators. But we can assure you that none of these issues have any direct bearing on the issue of the crimes committed aboard this station.

Direct bearing. Did that indicate an indirect connection? I hesitated, had the ghost of a thought, lost it, and conceded defeat for the time being. “I agree it’s unlikely.”

What are these questions, then? Idle curiosity?

“Something like that.” Something was missing, but it took me a second to realize what it was. In most interrogations, an abrupt segue to a new line of questioning almost always left subjects confused and intimidated. But the AIsource didn’t care where I went next. Their computing speed was infinitely faster than mine; they knew they could outthink me, and probably already had. In context, the human speed of my own thought made my every hesitation, every “uh,” feel like the conversational spasm of an idiot. “The Hom. Sap Ambass—I mean, Hom. Sap observer, Mr. Gibb, tells me that he believes the circumstances of Christina Santiago’s death indicate AIsource involvement.”

It is of course true that the sabotage of Santiago’s hammock required a level of technology that only we’re supposed to possess inside the Habitat.

“How would you explain that?”

There are only two possibilities, Counselor. Either we’re responsible for these incidents, or somebody other than us arranged access to the tools.

“Do you deny your own involvement?”

A moment’s logical consideration should be enough to establish our innocence of that crime. After all, we built this station. We maintain it. We agreed to your presence here. We even provide your life support. If we wished to kill every human being on board, we could do so in a matter of moments, by means far subtler than those employed by your supposed murderer. If we wished to kill individuals, the mechanisms that support your lives here are sufficiently precarious that, were we of the proper bent, we could have no trouble arranging a series of accidents that would never be suspected as the product of deliberate intent.

Thoughts like that had occupied my mind since my own arrival on this station. “And Warmuth?”

We did not murder either Christina Santiago or Cynthia Warmuth.

That last statement delivered emphatically.

It is of course possible, even probable, that even if innocent we still know more than we’re saying about these events, but in that case any explanation of our involvement would have to include the reason we’ve elected to keep such secrets.

“I agree with that too.” Sheer perversity would not work as an explanation.

There is another point. If your culprit used sophisticated tools to sabotage Santiago’s tent, why was the murder of Cynthia Warmuth so primitive by comparison? Why use high technology for one crime and messy savagery for the other?

The AIsource had hit upon the one aspect of this double crime that bothered me the most. “The circumstances weren’t all that different.”

How were they alike, in your view?

“They were both theater. They were both designed to be recognized as murders.”

Meaning?

“As you point out, life on this station is precarious by design. A murder designed to look like an accident could pass without suspicion, leaving no body and no forensic evidence. But both of these incidents raised immediate suspicions. They seem downright stage-managed. Is that what’s happening here?”

When the AIsource finally spoke again, I could only read the delay as a dramatic pause. Theatrics. Or diplomacy; wise men throughout history had already noticed that sometimes there wasn’t much of a difference between the two.

You are a very intelligent human being, Counselor. We have been more impressed by your capabilities than you could ever know, for a longer time than you could ever know. Indeed: you would be surprised indeed to discover some of the attributes we have in common.

Empty flattery was not AIsource style. “But?”

But you still need to rethink your starting assumptions in this case. Some are flawed.

“Which ones?”

Continue your investigation.

The blue glow faded to a gray nothingness. I knew, without asking another question, that the audience was over; that they would not tease me with further discussion until I was able to bring more to the table.

They were playing games with me. I had no idea why; until this moment, I never would have guessed that they played games at all. But their refusal to specify just which of my starting assumptions were flawed was a de facto admission that this was exactly what they were doing.

Why?

A gentle blast of cool air came out of nowhere and propelled me toward a grayer blur that might have been a portal opening in the chamber wall. Aware that there was nothing I could do to continue the interview if the masters of this station wanted it over, I said nothing and allowed the winds to usher me out.

But it seemed that the AIsource still had a parting shot.

Andrea Cort? Two other points of interest.

“Yes?”

Your false assumptions extend to your professional history. You have completely misjudged Artis Bringen.

I think my jaw dropped open. “What?”

Second, we are aware that you have received certain threatening messages. We are not, ourselves, responsible. But we do know that the responsible party is on One One One and does intend you harm. Whatever actions you take from this moment should include extreme vigilance to ward off imminent attempts on your life.

I didn’t bother asking for the assassin’s name, even though I was pretty sure they knew it. We wouldn’t have