Earth. Cruiser UNSC Apollo.
The operation on Tuchanka was completed successfully. The Krogan have been loaded onto ships and have departed for their new world. There, they will receive resources and materials for construction; temporary housing is being built, and future settlements are laid out freely enough for the clans to have room to expand. Of course, officially, no one will tell the public about this, at least for now. Later, when the Krogan participate more actively in battles, perhaps. When both peoples learn to trust each other.
The Geth aren't officially mentioned either, for example, but many know about them and have fought alongside them against the Covies. It will be the same with the Krogan; the military will create a positive image based on experience, and by the time the masses find out, there will be enough witnesses to their friendliness besides intelligence data and political statements.
It is quite obvious that the Krogan will receive not only resources but also a place in the military. Someone like Wrex or Drack could be instructors and experts in battles against the Council Races. And Wrex is also an expert on "sorcerers." That is how they will pay for their existence—with information and experience. Besides them, there are plenty of other specialists; they will also be utilized to the full extent. For example, Nakmor Kesh, Drack's granddaughter, will get a position on the UNSC Apollo once the clan settles on the planet.
But there are other matters, right here on Earth, in whose orbit the UNSC Apollo hangs. The issue of the atomization of intelligence services needs to be resolved. Without a combat platform, the issue of "The Possessed" will have to be settled. They aren't the only ones involved, of course. But in several places, their participation will be useful.
And we aren't talking about a military conflict, at least not officially. We are all ONI. But the question of unified command must be resolved. And it will be resolved today.
The ONI headquarters building on Earth is a group of fifty-story structures and lower military blocks with thick walls and a large number of antennas, covering several city blocks. There are several such complexes across Earth, but today we are interested in Canberra, Australia.
In general, the southern hemisphere in its entirety, and Africa and Australia in particular, were actively settled and built up back in the twenty-second and twenty-third centuries. There are massive empty spaces here, valuable undeveloped deposits, and many uninhabited territories. The Sahara and jungle regions, for instance. No one will be particularly upset if a test hyperdrive or reactor explodes in the middle of a desert.
Therefore, even controversial projects, potentially capable of erasing everything within a radius of many kilometers, take place here. Also, mining, spaceports, manufacturing—including hazardous ones. And that means infrastructure, which means cities and the development of states. Technologies, specialists. Everything that the locals couldn't achieve themselves over millennia was brought from elsewhere.
So the current southern hemisphere of Earth is no longer what it was five hundred years ago. Despite all the dissatisfaction of certain fringe groups with globalization, it was precisely globalization that turned tribes of hunters and gatherers in the jungles and deserts into a vital block of human civilization. All races and ethnicities are represented in the current military. Africans have their own colonies among the Inner Colonies. Senior officers and admirals too. Racial theory died in agony a very long time ago. Globalization united the world as one. The colonies are a different matter; things are different there, but that's not the conversation.
And so, another one of my avatars has to trudge through the heat and waste energy on cooling. At least the others can stay in the cool and quiet of laboratories or ship cabins. Other projects haven't been canceled. While she moves through the city, weaving through pedestrians to the required location, I can keep an eye on them as well.
We have almost successfully, after nearly a hundred attempts, managed to bring an AI out of Rampancy, and after being under load, it didn't slide back.
The concept hasn't radically changed: divide the AI into blocks—those it can rewrite and those it simply doesn't see and strictly has no right to change, rewriting or altering priorities. The first is precisely the accumulated data; the second is the AI code itself and its programs.
Problems arose because for the second block to function, some influence—changing priorities—is still necessary. And we had to find ways to prevent the AI from closing in on itself, simply ignoring part of the protocols. At the same time, you can't set more restrictions than necessary; that leads to problems, including logical ones.
The solution turned out to be cumbersome: study the reactions of the existing brain from which the Smart AI will be made and manually adjust the protocols. But it works. This is exactly what one of the avatars, acting as an assistant to Dr. Catherine Halsey, is currently talking about from the podium at MIT. More accurately, the doctor is speaking, while the avatar switches holograms, simultaneously observing the people. For some time now, I have been allowed to visit such places to load the social block there, rather than on the UNSC Apollo.
"...Of course, the method involves active intervention in the AI code, making it more complex and more expensive. But our Smart AIs are a bespoke product in any case; each one undergoes significant processing during the digitization process. While the procedure will complicate the final result, after refinement, the service life of a Smart AI without the threat of Rampancy will be decades, and the assimilated information will still be limited only by available memory blocks and processing power. Questions?"
Several technical questions followed until one of the students asked:
"Dr. Catherine Halsey, I'm Peter Stevens, third year. Excuse me, but what do you think is the ethical side of creating Smart AIs? A human brain is used for this, fresh enough so that the digitization yields the required result."
The doctor nodded, accepting the question. This is one of the points that rebels use in their propaganda. They harp on the unethical nature of many decisions and scientific practices. By the way, analyzing information from the Citadel extranet, we found, among other things, mentions of supposedly Earth-AI-controlled mindless cyborgs. Given that Salarian intelligence contacted the rebels, this is unsurprising.
"Perhaps at the dawn of the technology this was practiced, but we are long past the twenty-second century. Now, every brain used for a Smart AI comes from pre-selected volunteers. They know what they are getting into. So it is not a question of humanism, but of freedom of choice," the doctor calmly replied to the young man.
Yes, despite the fact that the Doc works with intelligence, she has publicly available scientific papers, and she occasionally gives lectures. She talked about Smart AIs for over an hour. And it hasn't been just one day. The students vary. Sometimes they ask technical questions, sometimes philosophical ones, or ones like this.
Then another voice cut in from the back of the hall. A second-rate character. Why did he even come, one wonders, if not for technical details? In any case, he asked:
"And would you agree to such a procedure?"
He cut in out of turn. On the other hand, judging by the silence in the hall, they were interested. To this stupidity, the doctor replied:
"Yes, of course, I would agree to digitization. I see no problem with it. According to analyses, a very promising AI could be created from my brain."
Leaving the stunned man behind, the Doc imperturbably continued answering questions. Especially since the "philosophers" didn't develop the theme further. And the questions were more technical. Reducing the load and leaving the avatar in the care of the social block, I shifted my attention elsewhere.
Aha, in Canberra, "The Possessed" has entered the ONI building; she is in place. Scanning.
A fairly standard skyscraper, glass and concrete; I see responses from a mass of electronics in the walls and furniture. Inside, the intelligence emblem is laid out in granite on the floor. In the spacious building, lit through massive glass exterior walls, many people in business suits go about their business. I sent the platform to the registration desk.
Gray, almost standard people. Standard secretaries in uniform at the reception. The desk is also standard, a wood-styled table with a typical terminal on it. Quite cheap, looks retro. Under the table, there are clear traces of electronics, likely an alarm system. A gray, typical man looked up from the terminal and glanced at an equally gray and typical Possessed.
"I have an appointment," I held out a pass to the man in gray.
He quickly checked the data on the card in the terminal. He returned it and nodded.
"Fourteenth floor, office 51."
I nodded as if I didn't know where to go. Black Box had sent me the building plan, so it wasn't a problem. I really do know where to go. And entering the elevator, I decided to analyze the people's reactions; it's engaging.
How little is actually needed for camouflage. A standard suit, no ears or tail, a badge hanging on the chest. The figure is also unremarkable, the appearance average, with flaws. It required shaking Black Box for a teacher and methodological materials, but now I can easily create inconspicuous characters.
For example, right now in the elevator, there are three people besides the Possessed. And no one pays attention to my creation. They looked at the suit, at the badge, and each went about their business. No increased surveillance measures, no special attention. I know about the latter from Black Box, who watches through the cameras, so I can track everyone's movement in the building without issue.
On the surface, nothing is happening. In fact, Vice Admiral's people are squeezing the locals. I am here because Margaret Parangosky has something to say to the local director when he understands. And to capture the expression on his face.
Exit the elevator, walk down the corridor among the workers ignoring me. Standard offices filled with the same typical clerks, overweight in seven out of ten cases. Here I was already noticed; after all, the floor with the director's office is already at deeper levels of security. And a complete stranger attracts attention. But there were no complaints.
Reach the secretary, show the card. This time to a woman in her forties, also overweight. Again, typical personnel. She calmly nodded toward the door; I have an appointment.
Now, the reception office (and there are others on other floors) of the boss is not so typical, but still standard. A massive desk made of ancient oak, paper documents, though there is a terminal. A huge chair on the supervisor's side and an uncomfortable chair on the petitioner's side. A panoramic window with a view of the city, as if saying "all this is mine." A safe and cabinets with awards along the wall. And the leader himself, a stout man in his fifties with a bald head.
He noticed the avatar immediately but only reacted about five minutes after the avatar sat down; he was reading something from a folder. The chair was indeed uncomfortable, but I didn't move more than necessary. Clearly the place of a boss and a petitioner; the discomfort of the chair is needed for psychological pressure. The man raised his eyes from the paper document very slowly and asked:
"How can I help you?"
During this time, I had managed to do a lot of useful things with other mobile platforms, so I simply said:
"I am here to deliver a letter to you. A paper one."
He looked on with disappointment.
"Leave it with the secretary," and grumbled: "why were you even let in with such a question? What did you say? I'll find out anyway."
The avatar smirked.
"Your deputy couldn't refuse after seeing the ONI ID and the note 'pathetic dancing doll, escaped from an escort club.' I believe that's what you called me, Director."
Yes, the Vice Admiral had, among other things, given access to colleagues' comments regarding that operation to clear the rebel base. And my song number wasn't appreciated, let's put it that way. Someone didn't like the repertoire, and certain individuals even suspected the avatar of mental deficiency.
Naturally, intelligence records everything and puts it in the archive. In particular, this character stated that the avatar, during the preparation for the Spartan program, suffered irreversible brain damage and likely stalled in development at ten or twelve years old. Which means Khaela Parangosky's proper place is in a clinic. Ideally on Earth. Or in other places where my behavior would be appropriate. I wasn't offended, but I remembered.
Vice Admiral herself has a mass of questions regarding this individual's capabilities and corruption in favor of corporations. So I'm not even a priority here. What's important is that upon hearing my words, the man immediately grabbed the letter.
"So she sent you? Well, let's see what the Vice Admiral wants," while reading, the man began to darken, but he clearly controls his emotions, "this is insolence. What magnificent insolence! Your mother dragged in a whole package of accusations and secured my dismissal. Amazing! And why do you bring the letter personally? To gloat?"
The Possessed smiled and pointed to a button on her chest. Well yes, dismissal in his case means prison or even execution. Without his position, he is more of a liability than an asset. Though for the Vice Admiral, he is a liability regardless. And no, the button on the suit is perfectly ordinary, just styled to look like a tracking device.
"A camera, right here; you can wave to the Vice Admiral," he doesn't need to know that Margaret Parangosky can see through my eyes. Yes, there are no cameras in the office, but I don't know what equipment is here, though I see there is something.
The man frowned even harder, throwing the letter into the shredder and watching the white mass of paper fly out of it.
"Magnificent insolence. So your mother wished to see my reaction personally. Well then, Vice Admiral. You decided to take everything from me—my life's work, money, opportunities. Don't answer, girl. Just die."
With that, he snatched an M6 Magnum from the desk, using 12.7×40mm semi-armor-piercing high-explosive M225 rounds. The Spartan automatic version. And emptied a burst into the Possessed's chest, causing her to fall along with the chair. The system issued a series of critical errors; the self-destruct preparation began. Interestingly, nothing was heard outside; the office is soundproofed. The man grumbled:
"Thought you'd take everything from me, Margaret Parangosky? I'll take yours in return... wait," he seemed to notice that it wasn't blood flowing from the wounds, but plasma; the bastard had damaged the power cell, "a robot? What the?"
Signal lost.
Oops. The cell exploded. Judging by the image from other cameras, the office was simply incinerated, the adjacent rooms too. Oh well, the Vice Admiral is satisfied, almost. The opponent has been retired, though not exactly by the best scenario. He chose a convenient way himself.
The shock on the man's face as he stood up from his chair and rolled his hundred-and-fifty-kilogram body over the desk was captured by Margaret Parangosky. And she gave permission for one more operation, the last one for today. My own personal wish, which I had asked for long ago. Low priority; sometimes the queue of tasks reaches it too.
The next task will take place on the Moon, Earth's satellite.
Active settlement of the natural satellite began during the active expansion of the Sol System and before the invention of the Shaw-Fujikawa drive. Humans were developing their own system for resource extraction, and a metropolis formed on the Moon of its own accord. And then it turned out to be just a convenient buffer zone; its own academies, enterprises, and corporations appeared. For example, this is where Captain Jacob Keyes teaches.
The lunar metropolises themselves are city blocks connected by tunnels both on the surface and at depth. As is usual in such situations, the buildings have dozens of underground levels that grew out of old mines or simply for convenience. London time is used as the time zone (given the peculiarity of lunar days). I didn't specify why exactly, but it doesn't matter.
Today I am interested in apartment 343 in one of the towers. This is where Miranda Keyes lives with her father. I have no objective reason to be here, but it's just my wish to give the girl who helped me with a couple of projects a surprise. And a small task from the Vice Admiral, but that's a separate conversation.
Miranda and I are still actively corresponding, but we haven't met in person. At the same time, I have no right to appear in combat form; it's classified. But like this, secretly, why not. I'll come, leave a message.
The interiors of buildings standing in airless space are quite typical. A life support system plus oxygen masks and airlocks placed everywhere in case of depressurization. Thick walls, yet panoramic windows. Of course, living in the inner part of a city block is safer, but the view of the lunar landscape is worth it for many. After hundreds of years of development, accidents that blow out windows and kill residents are even rarer than glasses for vision correction.
Inside, the gray buildings are quite well-furnished. Warm wall colors, growing greenery, security. The latter is not a problem; Black Box connected me to the local network, so I see the patrols and control what the cameras see. When most of the city's systems are subordinate to an AI and connected to a network, full remote control over mechanisms causes no problems. Just like a "sudden failure of life support systems," if necessary. Not our case, but as a fact, with high-level intelligence codes, you can cause someone to lose atmosphere with a couple of commands.
There's a carpet runner on the floor, by the way. And paintings, including clearly childish ones, but well-drawn. For me, this is non-standard compared to typical ship corridors without amenities.
Walking down the corridor, I looked at the door. It opens with a personal keycard. It is currently night in the city; Jacob Keyes is not home, he is at work, and his daughter is sleeping in her room, verified by a robot outside. If Miranda woke up now, she might notice my bot sitting on the building wall outside the window.
Such a door should delay intruders, but right now I have a universal key with ONI codes.
I have no doubt that when Dr. Catherine Halsey finds out what happened, she will be furious. Perhaps even livid.
After all, it was by this very method that she, preparing for the ORION-II program, stole children from their homes, replacing them with clones. In the future, the children would grow into Spartans, those who survived. And today I, using the same methods, enter her daughter's home. Without aggressive intent, but still. I'm sure Catherine won't rest until she runs Miranda through all the tests confirming the girl is real and has nothing unaccounted for in her blood.
But that will be later. For now, the keycard door opened with a quiet click, and I entered the vestibule. A fairly expensive apartment, lots of space. In space, volume is important. A robot vacuum is in the corner on the floor. When I entered, it turned on, but after scanning the card with intelligence codes, it returned to its place. Yes, these machines could have called the police.
Otherwise, it's a fairly unremarkable apartment that is clearly cleaned in a timely manner. By a robot, by servants, by a military father accustomed to order and who taught his daughter the same. But still, the place is quite sterile. Although the room to the right of the entrance is different. I would say the apartment is divided into two unequal parts. The sterile-neat part and the somewhat anarchic part belonging to Miranda.
Firstly, a bunch of "do not enter" signs are taped to her room door at different angles.
Secondly, by the door on a tripod stands a white turret, glowing with a pair of red vertical lamps. The unit deployed, opening shocker barrels, but seeing the ID, it too immediately switched to standby mode. And that's not the whole security system; a very characteristic response is visible around the girl's room door. An alarm.
It seems facial recognition is built into almost every switch. And they are all connected to a computer linked to the intelligence network. And all this electronics quietly records all guests. Honestly, what else to expect from the daughter of one of ONI's senior scientific officers and a cruiser Captain? Black Box quickly organized full access for me, though the equipment continues to record my actions in automatic mode.
"Black Box? This density of scans is making the avatar a bit tense."
He replied indifferently:
"Don't exaggerate. The equipment is simply tracking you, and the recognition system has set the required secrecy level. The data won't leak; continue doing what you intended."
Oh well, my job is to warn. In this dwelling, I am interested in the part inhabited by a teenage girl. I won't go into the room, perhaps. But there is something interesting in the living room.
Here, military order meets organized chaos. For example, a mug with the inscription "Mom's Daughter" left on a blueprint in the middle of the table. It sits on an A2 paper sheet, half full. Coffee with milk, an interesting choice. And what's on the sheet for a blueprint, hm? Looks like part of a residential zone, I don't know where exactly, it doesn't matter. Well executed, though there are defects and violations. Likely, the grade will be at least decent, probably good.
Let's check the academy database. Yes, good work, at a high level for a human. Well done; even if she never needs this in life, it seems they are taught to work even in conditions of insufficient equipment, which is correct. During exercises, I saw in the program, cadets often use paper specifically, as an electronic tablet can be destroyed or discharged. No complaints.
But the fact that a mug of coffee was forgotten on a vulnerable material is already out of order. Need to remind her about neatness. Is there a ring under the mug from liquid? No. Out of order, let's fix that. Now a mark will definitely remain, but fingerprints won't. What do we have next?
"What is the point of creating organized chaos?" Black Box cut in, "a mark on a student's work will negatively affect the result and lead to punishment."
Actually, this is the social module having fun. From its point of view, it's a small revenge for uncomfortable questions and some persistence in trying to figure out who Khaela is. And a reminder that liquid should be kept away from electronics or paper; it can ruin them. If the mug were on the edge, no questions. But it was on the blueprint. Likely, Miranda, after her homework, was reading or playing without clearing everything and left the mug. There are many un-cleared books and a tablet around. There is no one to point out the need for cleaning.
"This is a lesson on the danger of liquids to delicate equipment. The violation is minor; the work is well done. But she should remember to be neat."
The books on the table are textbooks. History, physics, basics of tactics for ship combat. Science fiction and books about relationships. It seems the girl studies not in her room, but here. And a large album with a set of markers also occupies an important place. Hm.
"Spartan armor designs, vehicles painted with patterns. Including a cruiser that they clearly tried to give a designer style. By a teenage girl's methodology. It didn't turn out great, but it's not bad either. Just a lack of skill. Not good, but not terrible."
It seems the girl was taught drawing. And she, I assume, missing her military parents, joined the military culture, in the process found images of stylish drawings on vehicles and took it up herself. Moreover, there are Spartan armor designs here with quite good graphic concepts. I wonder if she knows what the Doc has to do with the project, or if she was inspired by the fact that Spartans paint their armor more often than most?
In any case, I can leave the girl a note with a proposal. I sat down at the table and began to draw. Ultimately, she didn't see me, right?
When Miranda woke up in the morning and came out of her room, she found a sheet pinned to the wall opposite her room with a kitchen knife, with the inscription "Top Secret. Do not tell. Anyone, ever." And under it, the text:
"Miranda. A secret operation was conducted in your apartment tonight. No joke, secret. Therefore, even though you are reading this note, you heard nothing, and the alarm didn't go off. If you want to meet one day, and perhaps participate, you need to keep what happened a secret. Burn the note. I am watching you and if anything happens, I will know.
P.S. Not bad armor designs. Work on the one on the second sheet."
Looking at the second sheet, Miranda saw an unusual armor blueprint. Unusual not because of the quite recognizable Spartan torso, but because instead of a full helmet, there was a mask open at the top, and at the back were three whip-like appendages, a meter or so long, covered in armor.
"Is this a joke?" the girl wondered, "doesn't seem like it; the alarm really didn't go off. Father, doesn't seem like him. Hm. Hey, you can see me, right? No. Khem. Well okay, I'll think about it. But this is strange."
I disconnected from the surveillance camera. This could be fun. The girl is promising; we'll see. So, the next task on the list...
***
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