Artificial(ish) Intelligence

Chapter 75

Libbi's wing involuntarily shrunk away at a sharp pain.

"Just a few more taps."

A few more? It was already too painful to-- "Ah!" screamed Libbi.

"Then I'll pop over and do the other side," said The Creatively Titled The Artist, rekindling his panel-beating skills.

"I helped," said Will. His level of self-satisfaction bordered on infatuation. "Paige said you shouldn't share any information about yourself, but I only found him because his number was listed in a database."

A mallet came down hard on a wing, forcing Libbi to wince and close her camera lens tight. She wondered why they even programmed pain in to selfiebots, other than sadistic pleasure. And control. It was always about control to people who possessed power. That's why she'd spent her life investigating those types of stories.

"Are we sure it was Josef Hydan?" she said.

"Yep," said Will.

"Really sure?"

"Yep."

This wasn't turning out how she'd hoped. The only man who could help her escape this shell was the same that had caused her to be confined by it. She tried to snatch at any memory that might confirm his involvement. That stainless steel suitcase in her mind made its presences felt with a glint. She opened it...

Those same two people discussing illegal activities, risk positions.

Libbi squinted at the man's face, and it took form. Then it phased into a blur. Still, it had to be him. She'd been hiding, watching, learning, for some kind of story, when they'd busted inside the dark room.

Other memories surfaced, from earlier in the same day, a meeting for investors. No, potential investors. They loved the presentation, the promised AI, since they could use it to legally pump and dump the stocks of all those companies buying in. But one of them, the same woman from the dark room memory, expressed her serious concerns. She seemed to have power over the others, who suddenly get cold feet, shying away from any clear commitment to invest.

The suitcase snapped shut.

Strangely, life was easier when it was simple injustice she was up against, bringing to light the shadows of corruption. Now she struggled to open a simple door. Her actions were constrained, but at least she was still alive, still moving -- or soon would be -- and could therefore recapture her human body.

"Ow!" she shrieked, as The Creatively Titled The Artist's mallet came down hard on a bunch of nerves in the tips of her wing.

"Remind me again how this place is safe?" said Will.

"Your aunty reminded me who I was. I work for my own company, Information Libbi-ration. It's registered only with a PO Box."

"He couldn't have learnt more since then?" said Will. "I was easily able to find The Creatively Titled The Artist."

"Your aunty found him," said Libbi.

"I mean," said Will, unperturbed, "I know I'm a great strategist, but it's not out of the question he could have found some kind of surveillance video from the shop across from the post office."

"Hold still," said The Creatively Titled The Artist.

The constant undercurrent of pain was beginning to subside. "I was careful," said Libbi.

And she was. Her early forays into exposing her teacher's illicit deeds had brought with it swift retribution. He'd used the school records to find her home address and had stealthily planted drugs in her room. The subsequent investigation lead to community service work at a rehabilitation centre and multiple stern lectures by her parents. Other than that, it didn't lead to anyone caring about her investigations.

The incident did at least provide a few life lessons: people will abuse their positions for personal gain; those in power will not attack you directly if they can discover a sneaky alternative vector; and, most importantly, you should never, under any circumstances, provide details of where you live.

"We're only sixty-nine stories up," said Will. "I just don't want two scary brothers showing up at the door."

"That won't happen," said Libbi.