It wasn’t that he was anti. He simply didn’t believe in Artificial Intelligence, the clue was in the name. Artificial meant unnatural, false, pretend, phony. The Wild in general distrusted the breakneck speed at which the city states were developing ever more complex technology derived from trading with aliens. Not that the Wild ever refused a trade. They were just far more careful about using technology they didn’t understand. Years later Anson would remember the Wild as it had been: innocent, altruistic. Until circumstances had made it adapt and change, become even more high tech than the city states, although careful to hide it. The thing about AIs was that they mimicked human intelligence. If that was all they had, then they were nothing more than copies. If they had another life... if their real personas were very, very different, then they were suspect. It was an attitude that he would never lose.
“We’ll be leaving in five minutes. Our average speed will be three hundred kilometres an hour and with eleven stops to make we’ll reach Central in one hour ten minutes. At the end of the car is a vending machine dispensing a select variety of exciting hot and cold drinks, plus delicious and nutritious snacks. Just before departure the front of this car will reconfigure into what I like to think of as a compressed-air cow catcher. Enjoy your journey and the conductor will soon be round to take your fares. Any questions?”
He couldn’t resist it. “What if we crash?”
“We never do.”
“You mean you never have. Doesn’t mean...”
“Here’s the conductor,” the AI interrupted. “Ask him.”
It was the conductor who asked the questions, as he was taking Anson’s money. Specifically, had Sir seen a well-built, middle-aged man near the station? Could have been dressed like a farmer. Luckily the conductor was searching for change, so never saw Sir’s worried expression. By the time he looked up, Sir had composed himself and said that no, he hadn’t seen anyone – and why?
The conductor tapped a booze-reddened nose – pores like tiny bomb craters – and said the Protected Territory Police were looking for the middle-aged man. Apparently he was considered very dangerous, had been spotted in the local area.
The conductor lowered his voice and bent closer. He had recently been eating onions. The fugitive was insane. Homicidal. Escaped from a secure asylum. Except it obviously wasn’t. Secure.
Anson said he’d keep a lookout, aware of the dead man’s effects in his pocket.
The conductor smiled reassuringly. Not to worry, the train AI would take care of everything.
Anson didn’t ask how. He wouldn’t believe the answer.
Left alone he wondered if the AI was watching. AIs were said to be obsessed with preventing harm to a human being. How could the train AI do that unless it watched him all the time? So it had seen him wash his face, would know the graze was recent. But it didn’t mean he’d been in a fight, did it? But could the AI have seen Barnes’ death? Some sort of enhanced electronic vision extending far in front of the train? Then why hadn’t it said anything? Because he’d been attacked, only shot back in self-defence? Did AIs make judgements like that? Anson shrugged. A man could grow old wondering pointlessly about artificial intelligence. And why shouldn’t the same man check his wallet in the safety of an AI-protected train?
There wasn’t much. The 3D visor. A pack of the joss-sticks that had replaced cigarettes, guaranteed to prevent cancer and clear your lungs. Barnes’ choice had been crystal meth (NO SIDE EFFECTS! REFRESHES YOUR LUNGS!! SMOKE EASY, SMOKE FUN!!!). A few coins. An old, well-worn, twin-bladed pocket knife with the smaller blade snapped off halfway. Had to have sentimental value, which awkwardly made Barnes more human. A pack of mouth fresheners, and Anson thought of the onion-loving conductor. Raw onions, at that. In the wallet an old photo of a young Doug Barnes together with a man and a woman in front of what could be an early n-space drive ship – back when spacecraft were still streamlined with curves. A couple of used maglev tickets. Two receipts from local inns. A thickish wad of bank notes that Anson didn’t check in case the AI got curious. A single phone number scrawled onto a scrap of paper. And one other photo of a man in his early thirties, smiling into the camera.
Everything changed again.
Anson knew the face very well. Most days he shaved it.
He took out the alien’s trade. A box made of dull silver metal. For all he knew, lethal to the possessor in some weird way. Although most alien trades didn’t actually kill anyone, not directly. Some did nothing, some were the key to a new technology and a few had a curious effect on humans.
As with the five-metre-high and two wide, sort-of-yellow-metal arch traded by something like a very large butterfly, in exchange for a bag of groceries from a Tesco in Yeovil, part of the Frome Free State in England. An arch that hummed and turned blue when you walked through it. True there was a mild tingling throughout your body, but doctors and scientists could find no ill effects. In fact, the reverse was true. That arch made humans healthier. Cancers vanished. Asthma was forgotten. People looked and felt younger. The couple who’d made the trade – this was before GalDiv took over human/alien business on Earth – got very rich very quickly, which was good because six months later they began to change sex. So did everyone else who’d Walked the Arch. Not unknown, scientists said, clownfish and a few other animals do the same. This was of little comfort to men whose bodies and minds began to change as if nature was correcting an original mistake. Although after the first few months – it took around a year
