If Julian Huxley could be believed, the Eleven were his enemy. They were the people, if that was the word for it, who were ultimately responsible for his assassination.
“How many years are we talking about?” asked Andrea.
“Decades. Decades of work.”
Thomas looked depressed, with his shoulders slumped and his gaze turned away. Perhaps that was the explanation for his eccentric behavior. It wasn’t usually possible to tell how Thomas was feeling at all. In fact, if I had to guess, I would have said he didn’t have any feelings, or at least not as that term was generally understood.
“The body was that fried?” asked Andrew.
“The components that would have acted as a Rosetta Stone for Huxley’s memories were irrecoverably damaged,” Thomas replied. “Without them, I can only compare and deduce to yield any kind of useful data.”
“Can’t you fabricate them yourself?” asked Veraldi.
Thomas snorted. “You’re assuming I haven’t already tried? No, Vincenzo, I cannot. They cannot be fabricated in a home laboratory such as the one I have here.”
The equipment Section 9 provided for Thomas was well beyond anything that could have been described as a “home laboratory.” I suspected the real answer was a bit more subtle than Thomas was letting on. In all likelihood, he simply didn’t know how because they were Huxley Industries’ proprietary technology. Thomas wasn’t the sort of man who would admit he couldn’t do something.
“Alright, Thomas,” Andrea told him. “You can stop working on that project for the time being. We aren’t going to have you extracting data manually for decades; that just isn’t an effective use of either your time or ours. Better?”
Thomas perked up suspiciously fast. He turned back toward the group with such a big grin on his face that I suspected him of faking the whole display to get out of a project that bored him. “Much. So how are we going to find out about the Eleven without Huxley’s data?”
“We’re not,” replied Andrea. “We’re just going to do it the smart way instead of the hard way. You said you needed some parts. What parts are those?”
“Specific components from the systems used to create the android. I would need to send you images from the blueprint to indicate what they are, but I would describe them as devices used to map Huxley’s mind and the system that generated the experiential network supporting it.”
“Send them to Tycho here. Tycho, are you up for another manhunt?”
“Always,” I answered, although the truth was I would rather have remained at the safehouse for a few days before having to go back out. For all I knew, this mission wasn’t even going to turn out to be on Earth at all.
“Track down Lucien Klein. He might be able to help us get our hands on those devices.”
“Lucien Klein?” I frowned. “You mean he’s still alive?”
When we let him go, it was to serve as human bait for the forces that had killed Huxley. I was sent to Mars shortly after that and had kind of forgotten about him.
“He did what we asked him to do, so that’s a yes. I don’t know where he is at the moment, but the info should be in the system. He’s being watched by our people, although I doubt he knows it. You might have a little bit of trouble even getting through to him, because he’s living under a false identity and he’s understandably a bit paranoid about the prospect of being tracked down and killed by the same cyborgs that got Huxley. But once you do get through to him, you’ll have the joy of talking to the man.”
During his time in Section 9’s custody, Klein was not exactly the most pleasant conversationalist. In fact, he was an arrogant and intentionally offensive individual. Out of the two aspects of the assignment, talking to him was probably going to be the worst.
“That sounds like a real joy. Jones, can you help me find the man?”
Andrew Jones was our expert at infiltration, in charge of helping us fit in no matter where we were. This was mildly ironic, because Jones himself always seemed to stick out of the woodwork like a loose nail. Still, it stood to reason that he would know the system better than anyone else in the room.
“Sure thing. We can go have a look at the database as soon as we’re done here.”
“Alright then,” said Andrea. “Field reports from everyone. Veraldi?”
“As far as I can tell, there’s been no further activity from the illegal cyborgs. They’re either lying low or they’ve been pulled from this job completely.”
“Lying low is my guess.” Andrea brushed her bangs back out of her eyes. “That last scenario was extremely public, and there’s still a major Sol Federation investigation going on. Whoever was behind it is probably happier not to be noticed for a bit now that Huxley is dead. Sommer?”
“Done and dealt with.”
Raven Sommer was a sniper, so by this she must have meant that some unfortunate individual was no longer among the living. I didn’t know the details. It must have come up while I was off-world.
Andrea nodded. “Jones?”
“I’m laying the groundwork for several different scenarios right now. I might need a budget adjustment, though. Rents are going up again.”
“You might just have to stay someplace that isn’t top of the line, Andrew. Someplace affordable.”
“I might?” he scoffed. “And how are you going to explain it to the Operator when our systems get breached because of the shitty security at those affordable rental units?”
“Okay, okay. I’ll bring it up, see what I can get you. Anyone need anything else from me at the moment?” When nobody said anything, she stood and stretched her arms. “Okay. Jones, find Klein for Tycho and then go back to your project. Tycho, come see me before you head out.”
“Will do,” I replied, and stood up to go with Jones. This was the life of Section 9, but it honestly would have been nicer to get a little more time to just rest, even for a minute before going back out into the world. I made a note to myself to ask Andrea about vacation time and followed Jones into his room.
Our team spent so much time living in safehouses or hotel suites that no one’s room ever had much of a personality. Jones, however, had gone the other way. Every available surface was covered with clothing—most of it quite stylish—devices of one kind or another, or items I couldn’t even define if I wanted to. Even the bed was completely buried, and Jones had to push a pile of expensive-looking suit jackets aside to make room for me to sit.
“This place looks like shit,” I commented.
“I am well aware of that. Now, let’s see what we can find for you.”
He seemed a little bit testy, so I just sat down on the edge of his bed while he gestured in the air. I didn’t understand the appeal of using a gesture interface for your dataspike—I preferred a simple menu with ocular tracking—but he did tend to speak with his hands. Maybe the choice was intentional so he could disguise accessing it during conversation.
“Okay, here we go,” Jones said. “Lucien Klein lives in Italy under an assumed name. Thurston Michael, an associate director for The 3000 Initiative, some AI policy think tank.”
I frowned. “So, he’s still working in AI? What’s the point of changing your name if you’re not going to change your profession? Whoever hired those Augmen wouldn’t have any trouble hunting him down.”