20k Leagues II
Gally
Got the whole word talking King Kiba
"And who's this?" Mr. One asks, gesturing to you. "Your boyfriend?"
Madeline looks to you, clearly unsure what to say. "We're just...he's my…"
"Partner," you say, looking Mr. One in the eyes. "The Family works best in pairs."
"Well that at least is something I can get behind," Mr. One says, grinning. "Partners it is then. After you."
The flight in the jump jet is long and quiet. Mr. One shows little interest in conversation, instead falling asleep almost immediately after in his cramped, military style bucket seat. It's surprising, but not at all disappointing. You are more than happy to take the opportunity to spend the flight in silent meditation.
Madeline spends the first hour glancing between yourself, the sleeping Mr. One, and Mr. Two, who is forced to hunch over his knees by the size of his seat. If he is uncomfortable, however, he does not show it – he rarely looks up from his book. After realizing that nobody is going to start suddenly speaking, she settles back in her seat. Her gaze slips, as if she is staring at something very far away, though she could reach out and touch the ceiling of the jump jet.
By tuning out the roar of the engines, you can focus on the sound of her breathing. You know very little of Madeline Al-Fasir – more than you know of Charlotte, but not much. Blackbird had...heavily encouraged that you allow your fellow candidates their privacy, but that is not the only reason you've avoided digging too deeply into their files.
There could not possibly be anything inside them that would justify paranoia. The Oriole title is yours by right and merit. And yet, you have not dug. That is...unlike you.
What you do know of Madeline is surface level. Her mother dead, in childbirth. Her father an eccentric billionaire who rarely leaves his home in the Alps. At some point in her early childhood, twenty-two percent of her brain was replaced by the Bio-Robotic Artificial Intelligence Neuralink-3.
The BRAIN-3. Savants do love their acronyms. A brain that is nearly one-quarter supercomputer has its benefits, and potent ones at that or she wouldn't be here. She mouths words with her eyes closed, taping her fingers rhythmically against her thigh. Listening to music, fed directly into her auditory cortex.
The flight stretches on. One hour becomes two, then three and change before you feel the descent begin. Taking into account the speed of this model of jump jet, you draw a circle in your mind to identify possible locations where you would be landing.
When you step outside, you realize that you are in the middle of the Mojave desert.
"Sir. Ma'am." Mr. One is awake again, holding dark strips of cloth out before him. "Please."
They want you in a blindfold. This is ridiculous, even for them. "What level of emergency are you on?" You ask.
"Sir, you have an incomplete understanding of the situation," Mr. One says, leaning forward. "This is not a crisis that was passed down the chain of command, subjected to bureaucratic niceties such as levels of emergency. I received a call from a man who does not call men like me, and was told in no uncertain terms that shit is royally fucked."
You look to Mr. Two, half expecting him to shake his head as he had before – but he only watches you with still, patient eyes that gleam in the cabin's half-light.
"Please," Mr. One says, offering you the blindfold again. "I know it's a pain in the ass, but brass was very clear about what they expect as far as operational security."
You speak through gritted teeth, reminding yourself that your eyes are only a piece of your ability to perceive the world. "Fine." The blindfold is thick, and dark, and Mr. One ensures that it is knotted tightly against your eyelids before you feel the gust of air that signals the hatch opening.
You step out of the jet, guided by the steady, insistent paw of Mr. Two. The air is dry, the heat of the sun relentless against your exposed skin. You stand on smooth concrete – a helipad, almost certainly – but a thin layer of something shifts and crunches beneath your feet. Sand. You are in a desert. Based on your earlier assumptions of speed and distance, you are the Mojave desert. You shift your feet, gauging the amount of sand. A lot. If the helipad is elevated, it is not by much.
Mr. Two leads you across the helipad, your ears straining to pick up something, anything. There is the roar of the jump jet's turbines, slowing. There is the steady step step step of four people. The sun is in front of you, but you feel no shadow until the very last moment. A small building.
A lock beeps. A door slides open and you step though it. Air conditioning, turned up to max. No sand beneath your feet. You feign a stumble, reach out to steady yourself, and find the wall with a hand. Close. You are in a hallway, a tight one. The building is small. Space is at a premium. Mr. Two's grip on your shoulder firms, and he increases the pace.
A lock beeps. A door slides open and you step through it. Security within the building. You are turned around, and smell oil. Plumage. She is right in front of you. The room begins to move. An elevator. You are moving at speed.
Down. Down. Down. You are deep underground already, and still you continue. Down. Down. Down. The elevator clicks to mark the passage of floors. You count ten, twelve, and then the clicker falls silent. Down. Down. Down.
The elevator dings. The door slides open, and you step through it. The air is still cold, but you don't hear air conditioning. It smells of disinfectant, of artificial clean. Mr. Two pushes you in front of him, down a hallway. You veer off course quicker than Mr. Two can correct you, and your shoulder finds the wall almost immediately. Tighter than even before.
A lock beeps. A door slides open, and you step through it. Mr. One speaks from somewhere behind you. "The blindfolds can come off now."
You are careful not to rip the thing from you face – to make the removal of the blindfold as calm and composed as you can. You will not give an inch to these people.
The room you find yourself in is small, bare. White walls. The door behind you has slid shut – the wall before you bares two more, though neither have any locking mechanism that you can see.
"You need to be sterilized," Mr. One explains.
Plumage starts forward, but you step in front of her. The movement is subtle, but there. She stops. "You need to tell us what the hell we're doing," you say simply. "We're not walking into this blind. Whatever this is."
Mr. One and Mr. Two share a look. Mr. Two shrugs.
"I understand your concern," Mr. One says. "But we need to be efficient with the limited time we have."
"If only there had been an entire plane ride with which to share vital information," you tell him.
Mr. One actually chuckles. "Unfortunately we weren't permitted to discuss the details of your mission before arriving here," he says. "In order to maintain-"
"Operational security." You practically snarl the words.
"Sir, I am not in a position to negotiate with you," Mr. One says. "All I can ask is that you begin the sterilization process."
"We've already come this far," Plumage says, quiet. "They obviously need us."
You sigh and step aside, taking up position in front of the right door. Plumage mirrors at the left, and both slide open simultaneously. You step through.
The room is small, white, with a large box similar to a shower in the middle and another door on the far wall. The rooms are separated by a tinted window, so that all you can see of Plumage is her silhouette. You see her turn, recognize your silhouette. "Wy-Cardinal?"
"I'm here," you reply.
Mr. One's voice comes through from a speaker built into the ceiling. "Please place all clothes and effects in the locker I'm opening now," he says, just as a drawer slides out from the wall. "They'll be returned to you when we're done. All nice and laundered, it's heavenly."
"I-I don't know if I'm comfortable with that," Plumage says.
Mr. One clears his throat. "Right, sorry." A moment later the window turns entirely opaque. "Is that better?"
"Thank you."
You strip naked, and place your clothes in the drawer, which slides seamlessly back into the wall. From there, it's not hard to intuit that you're meant to step into the shower-like structure.
The sterilization process is brief, but...less than pleasant. Nozzles embedded within the wall hit you with spray like a fire hose, plastering your hair to your scalp and leaving your skin pink. Another substance, some kind of soap, follows quickly after, and once that is removed by more water, you are dried and subjected to an intense burst of UV radiation. By the time you step from the shower, you feel practically newborn.
There is a skintight ensemble waiting for you in the drawer – your closest approximation would be a diving suit. It's strangely slick in your hands, but adjusts to your body until you fits you like a glove. Only then does the door slide open.
Plumage greets you on the other side, wearing an identical skintight suit. Both of you try not to look directly at the other. Both of you mostly fail.
Through a window in this new room, you can see Mr. One and Mr. Two. Mr. One taps on the window, smiles. "Now," he says, "we can finally get to work."
"Start with where we are," you say, crossing your arms.
To your relief, he doesn't hedge. "We're in the primary CPU for the JEFFERSON network."
You blink.
"Oh my god," Plumage whispers.
"I assume form your reactions that you're both familiar with the JEFFERSON network?" Mr. One asks.
You don't quite snort, but you do exhale sharply through your nose. "I've had access to Family computers since I could type. Please."
"It's the American artificial intelligence network," Plumage says.
"America's only artificial intelligence network," you add. The soviets have two, and Japan three of their own, and there are two more within the Free World, but JEFFERSON is the only machine of its kind under exclusive American control. A true thinking machine, next to which even the Family's supercomputer is practically an abacus.
"Good," Mr. One says, "I can skip straight to the good stuff then. Fifty-six hours ago, JEFFERSON reported errors in its machine learning systems."
"I was under the assumption errors of that kind are common," you say. "The network is built to self-correct."
"It is," Plumage says. "Something else must have gone wrong."
"Very astute," Mr. One says, his voice dry. "Usually, JEFFERSON can self-correct for any errors. As I understand things, this time was different. When JEFFERSON ran debug protocols, the errors began to cascade exponentially. Popping up faster than they could be corrected."
"That's impossible," Plumage says. She sounds so confident, so absolutely sure, that when she looks to you for confirmation you can meet her gaze with only uncertainty.
Again, the limitations of your varied training rear their head. With so much to learn, you simply have not dedicated enough time to computers to parse the complexities of artificial intelligence networks. Very few people have – but it seems obvious to you that Plumage is one of those few. Frustration spikes through you, but only for an instant before you catch and strangle it. Frustration can come later. There's work to be done. "Walk me through this," you say, meeting Plumage's gaze. She is, after all, Family. You would prefer her analysis to the scraps the Cavalry is willing to give you.
"It's impossible," Plumage says again. "To inspire errors at that speed you'd need another artificial intelligence network to be feeding them in."
"Why couldn't that be what's happening now?" You ask.
"If another network had that level of access to JEFFERSON's systems for fifty-six hours, we would've blown it up already," Plumage says. Her eyes widen. "Don't tell me we're here to set charges."
Mr. One actually manages a wry smile. "Relax, ma'am. We wouldn't trouble the Family for something so straightforward."
Plumage breathes a sigh of relief. "Then if it's not an external hack, the problem must be integrated into the logic systems themselves." She looks to you. "JEFFERSON isn't a computer. Computers are fast, but dumb. They do what we tell them to do because that's all they can do. An artificial intelligence network is something different. Something smart. The logic systems are the underlying code that makes that possible."
You nod. "I think I understand. It identifies a problem, tries to correct itself. But the corruption stems from the systems through which it self-corrects. The more it tries…"
"The more errors it generates," Plumage finishes. "An exponential cascade effect. It must have…it partitioned the damaged systems?"
"It tried," Mr. One said. "The corruption had spread too far, too fast. Partition was impossible."
"So it should've reverted to an earlier iteration of itself."
Mr One. nods. "It should have. But it didn't. Eggheads figure that it couldn't be sure how long the corruption had been present in its systems. Biding its time."
Plumage shakes her head. "But that means...its only option would've been to shut itself down entirely!"
"Looks like the brass knew what they were talking about, when they said to bring you in," Mr. One says. Mr. Two nods, a silent agreement.
"Wait." You hold up a hand. "If JEFFERSON is shut down, who the hell is running the country?"
Mr. One grins. "Well the traffic lights still turn, and your money's still worth something, so we must be doing alright," he says. "The Cavalry has contingencies. But you're right. We need JEFFERSON back online, or life's about to get real uncomfortable, real quick."
"So that's what this is," you say. "You want us to reboot the system? Purge the corruption?" You look to Plumage, but instead of shocked she looks...contemplative.
"It's a good idea," she says. She's quieter now, enough that it's hard to hear her over the roar of the engines. "There's only a handful of people on the planet who might be able to pull this off, and I'm likely closest to hand."
"Clearly I'm missing something," you say, "because I've read your file and I'm not seeing it. JEFFERSON took a massive team of savant scientists nearly thirty years to construct. What makes you think that you, alone, are capable of something like this?"
"It's not…" Plumage trails off, sets her jaw, and begins again. "It's not me specifically. It's what inside my skull. JEFFERSON's logic systems are compromised. It needs an another logic system that it can trust to not be corrupted. Something it can use to double check its own work until it can purge the errors from its machine learning code." She taps the side of her head with a finger. "That's where the BRAIN-3 comes in. Its logic systems are identical to those utilized by JEFFERSON. All I need to do is give it physical access to the parts of my brain that are computer." She gathers her hair in one hand and pulls it up and to the side, granting you a view of the computer port fixed seamlessly into the skin where the back of her neck meets the base of her skull. "I'll need an adapter," she says to Mr. One. "My port is McKinsey standard but I don't know what JEFFERSON uses."
You process her for a moment, keenly aware of the three sets of eyes on you. "And how exactly...did you end up with JEFFERSON systems in your head?"
To your surprise, Plumage's first look is Mr. One. The man only shrugs. "He's your partner."
Plumage sighs. Nods. Looks back to you. "My father," she said, "invented the BRAIN-3. He was the one that installed it when – the point is, he was one of the last savants to work on building JEFFERSON. When it came time to code the BRAIN-3, he used his prior work."
You look over at Mr. One. "I'm sure the Cavalry was thrilled about that."
"I like the sarcasm," Mr. One says. "But the Cavalry has tolerated the young miss' existence as a walking, talking security hazard, and it just so happens that that tolerance has worked out for all parties involved." He winks. "Now if we're all caught up on the basic theory, shall we move to the practical exam?"
The next door slides open, and you are met with a rush of sweltering air.
You peer in through the doorway, speechless. Wires, cables and pipes extend up maybe two hundred feet – you cannot quite identify the ceiling because of the lack of illumination, but it at must be at least that high. The far end of the room is equally distant, even harder to see because of the sheer density of pipes and cables, which form a labyrinthine jungle, so thick that you'd have to squeeze yourself through. A few feet past the door, the floor abruptly ends, replaced by a thick, deep blue liquid – and the jungle continues downwards, though you can only see a few feet into the liquid.
"This," Mr. One's voice informs you, "is the central cooling unit. Direct access to JEFFERSON's logic systems can be made at the bottom."
"This," you murmur, "seems like a design flaw."
"You said it yourself, kid," Mr. One says. "JEFFERSON's construction was done over thirty years, by a team of savants. Do you know how nuts plans get when a handful of savants get together? Plans are drawn up, work is started, then boom! Inspiration. Plans get changed, plans get thrown out, people don't make reports like they're supposed to. An access junction gets turned into a goddamn cooling unit and nobody notices until six months after completion because this all so over everyone elses' heads that they can barely understand what's being built, let alone why. JEFFERSON works-" Mr. One pauses for a moment, "mostly. That itself is a goddamn miracle of engineering."
"We'll have to dive," Madeline whispers.
"There is equipment waiting for you in the room," Mr. One explains. "Ensure that you are properly sealed within your suits and helmets. The coolant fluid is toxic, and the radiation levels will increase as you dive deeper."
"How much radiation are we talking?" You ask.
"Enough that we will not be able to maintain radio contact with you beyond a few hundred feet."
"A few hundred feet?" Plumage asks. There is a tinge of breathlessness to her voice, indiscernible to anyone who had not just spent three hours listening to her breathing. "How...how deep is the bottom?"
"Roughly five thousand feet."
Plumage swallows.
Mr. One continues on, relentless. "You'll notice the pipes and wiring," he says. "Those do extend all the way to the bottom. We've loaded navigational data into smartwatches which are included with your gear. I warn you that this data might not be wholly accurate due to aforementioned issues during construction."
You whirl back to face Mr. One. "This is insane," you tell him, jabbing a finger in his direction. "You waited until the last moment to tell us because you knew how fucking insane this is."
"We would not have turned to the Family unless we had a very great need," Mr. One says. "You have twelve hours of breathable oxygen in your tanks."
"Rebooting could take up six," Plumage says. "Maybe longer."
Mr One nods. "Our data says that you should have plenty of oxygen for descent and ascent."
"Your data which is flawed," you say.
Mr. One flinches. At least there is something human in him. "I reiterate the extent of our need," he says. "JEFFERSON cannot be allowed to remain inactive much longer. Too much relies on its operation. If the Soviets discover that we are without our artificial intelligence network, the consequences could be devastating."
"He's right," Plumage says, straightening. "Cardinal, he's right. It could be...a power shift of this size could see the cold war go hot. It has to be us. It has to be now."
She is shaking.
{} Who is the team leader?
[] Cardinal
[] Plumage
Madeline looks to you, clearly unsure what to say. "We're just...he's my…"
"Partner," you say, looking Mr. One in the eyes. "The Family works best in pairs."
"Well that at least is something I can get behind," Mr. One says, grinning. "Partners it is then. After you."
*
The flight in the jump jet is long and quiet. Mr. One shows little interest in conversation, instead falling asleep almost immediately after in his cramped, military style bucket seat. It's surprising, but not at all disappointing. You are more than happy to take the opportunity to spend the flight in silent meditation.
Madeline spends the first hour glancing between yourself, the sleeping Mr. One, and Mr. Two, who is forced to hunch over his knees by the size of his seat. If he is uncomfortable, however, he does not show it – he rarely looks up from his book. After realizing that nobody is going to start suddenly speaking, she settles back in her seat. Her gaze slips, as if she is staring at something very far away, though she could reach out and touch the ceiling of the jump jet.
By tuning out the roar of the engines, you can focus on the sound of her breathing. You know very little of Madeline Al-Fasir – more than you know of Charlotte, but not much. Blackbird had...heavily encouraged that you allow your fellow candidates their privacy, but that is not the only reason you've avoided digging too deeply into their files.
There could not possibly be anything inside them that would justify paranoia. The Oriole title is yours by right and merit. And yet, you have not dug. That is...unlike you.
What you do know of Madeline is surface level. Her mother dead, in childbirth. Her father an eccentric billionaire who rarely leaves his home in the Alps. At some point in her early childhood, twenty-two percent of her brain was replaced by the Bio-Robotic Artificial Intelligence Neuralink-3.
The BRAIN-3. Savants do love their acronyms. A brain that is nearly one-quarter supercomputer has its benefits, and potent ones at that or she wouldn't be here. She mouths words with her eyes closed, taping her fingers rhythmically against her thigh. Listening to music, fed directly into her auditory cortex.
The flight stretches on. One hour becomes two, then three and change before you feel the descent begin. Taking into account the speed of this model of jump jet, you draw a circle in your mind to identify possible locations where you would be landing.
When you step outside, you realize that you are in the middle of the Mojave desert.
"Sir. Ma'am." Mr. One is awake again, holding dark strips of cloth out before him. "Please."
They want you in a blindfold. This is ridiculous, even for them. "What level of emergency are you on?" You ask.
"Sir, you have an incomplete understanding of the situation," Mr. One says, leaning forward. "This is not a crisis that was passed down the chain of command, subjected to bureaucratic niceties such as levels of emergency. I received a call from a man who does not call men like me, and was told in no uncertain terms that shit is royally fucked."
You look to Mr. Two, half expecting him to shake his head as he had before – but he only watches you with still, patient eyes that gleam in the cabin's half-light.
"Please," Mr. One says, offering you the blindfold again. "I know it's a pain in the ass, but brass was very clear about what they expect as far as operational security."
You speak through gritted teeth, reminding yourself that your eyes are only a piece of your ability to perceive the world. "Fine." The blindfold is thick, and dark, and Mr. One ensures that it is knotted tightly against your eyelids before you feel the gust of air that signals the hatch opening.
You step out of the jet, guided by the steady, insistent paw of Mr. Two. The air is dry, the heat of the sun relentless against your exposed skin. You stand on smooth concrete – a helipad, almost certainly – but a thin layer of something shifts and crunches beneath your feet. Sand. You are in a desert. Based on your earlier assumptions of speed and distance, you are the Mojave desert. You shift your feet, gauging the amount of sand. A lot. If the helipad is elevated, it is not by much.
Mr. Two leads you across the helipad, your ears straining to pick up something, anything. There is the roar of the jump jet's turbines, slowing. There is the steady step step step of four people. The sun is in front of you, but you feel no shadow until the very last moment. A small building.
A lock beeps. A door slides open and you step though it. Air conditioning, turned up to max. No sand beneath your feet. You feign a stumble, reach out to steady yourself, and find the wall with a hand. Close. You are in a hallway, a tight one. The building is small. Space is at a premium. Mr. Two's grip on your shoulder firms, and he increases the pace.
A lock beeps. A door slides open and you step through it. Security within the building. You are turned around, and smell oil. Plumage. She is right in front of you. The room begins to move. An elevator. You are moving at speed.
Down. Down. Down. You are deep underground already, and still you continue. Down. Down. Down. The elevator clicks to mark the passage of floors. You count ten, twelve, and then the clicker falls silent. Down. Down. Down.
The elevator dings. The door slides open, and you step through it. The air is still cold, but you don't hear air conditioning. It smells of disinfectant, of artificial clean. Mr. Two pushes you in front of him, down a hallway. You veer off course quicker than Mr. Two can correct you, and your shoulder finds the wall almost immediately. Tighter than even before.
A lock beeps. A door slides open, and you step through it. Mr. One speaks from somewhere behind you. "The blindfolds can come off now."
You are careful not to rip the thing from you face – to make the removal of the blindfold as calm and composed as you can. You will not give an inch to these people.
The room you find yourself in is small, bare. White walls. The door behind you has slid shut – the wall before you bares two more, though neither have any locking mechanism that you can see.
"You need to be sterilized," Mr. One explains.
Plumage starts forward, but you step in front of her. The movement is subtle, but there. She stops. "You need to tell us what the hell we're doing," you say simply. "We're not walking into this blind. Whatever this is."
Mr. One and Mr. Two share a look. Mr. Two shrugs.
"I understand your concern," Mr. One says. "But we need to be efficient with the limited time we have."
"If only there had been an entire plane ride with which to share vital information," you tell him.
Mr. One actually chuckles. "Unfortunately we weren't permitted to discuss the details of your mission before arriving here," he says. "In order to maintain-"
"Operational security." You practically snarl the words.
"Sir, I am not in a position to negotiate with you," Mr. One says. "All I can ask is that you begin the sterilization process."
"We've already come this far," Plumage says, quiet. "They obviously need us."
You sigh and step aside, taking up position in front of the right door. Plumage mirrors at the left, and both slide open simultaneously. You step through.
The room is small, white, with a large box similar to a shower in the middle and another door on the far wall. The rooms are separated by a tinted window, so that all you can see of Plumage is her silhouette. You see her turn, recognize your silhouette. "Wy-Cardinal?"
"I'm here," you reply.
Mr. One's voice comes through from a speaker built into the ceiling. "Please place all clothes and effects in the locker I'm opening now," he says, just as a drawer slides out from the wall. "They'll be returned to you when we're done. All nice and laundered, it's heavenly."
"I-I don't know if I'm comfortable with that," Plumage says.
Mr. One clears his throat. "Right, sorry." A moment later the window turns entirely opaque. "Is that better?"
"Thank you."
You strip naked, and place your clothes in the drawer, which slides seamlessly back into the wall. From there, it's not hard to intuit that you're meant to step into the shower-like structure.
The sterilization process is brief, but...less than pleasant. Nozzles embedded within the wall hit you with spray like a fire hose, plastering your hair to your scalp and leaving your skin pink. Another substance, some kind of soap, follows quickly after, and once that is removed by more water, you are dried and subjected to an intense burst of UV radiation. By the time you step from the shower, you feel practically newborn.
There is a skintight ensemble waiting for you in the drawer – your closest approximation would be a diving suit. It's strangely slick in your hands, but adjusts to your body until you fits you like a glove. Only then does the door slide open.
Plumage greets you on the other side, wearing an identical skintight suit. Both of you try not to look directly at the other. Both of you mostly fail.
Through a window in this new room, you can see Mr. One and Mr. Two. Mr. One taps on the window, smiles. "Now," he says, "we can finally get to work."
"Start with where we are," you say, crossing your arms.
To your relief, he doesn't hedge. "We're in the primary CPU for the JEFFERSON network."
You blink.
"Oh my god," Plumage whispers.
"I assume form your reactions that you're both familiar with the JEFFERSON network?" Mr. One asks.
You don't quite snort, but you do exhale sharply through your nose. "I've had access to Family computers since I could type. Please."
"It's the American artificial intelligence network," Plumage says.
"America's only artificial intelligence network," you add. The soviets have two, and Japan three of their own, and there are two more within the Free World, but JEFFERSON is the only machine of its kind under exclusive American control. A true thinking machine, next to which even the Family's supercomputer is practically an abacus.
"Good," Mr. One says, "I can skip straight to the good stuff then. Fifty-six hours ago, JEFFERSON reported errors in its machine learning systems."
"I was under the assumption errors of that kind are common," you say. "The network is built to self-correct."
"It is," Plumage says. "Something else must have gone wrong."
"Very astute," Mr. One says, his voice dry. "Usually, JEFFERSON can self-correct for any errors. As I understand things, this time was different. When JEFFERSON ran debug protocols, the errors began to cascade exponentially. Popping up faster than they could be corrected."
"That's impossible," Plumage says. She sounds so confident, so absolutely sure, that when she looks to you for confirmation you can meet her gaze with only uncertainty.
Again, the limitations of your varied training rear their head. With so much to learn, you simply have not dedicated enough time to computers to parse the complexities of artificial intelligence networks. Very few people have – but it seems obvious to you that Plumage is one of those few. Frustration spikes through you, but only for an instant before you catch and strangle it. Frustration can come later. There's work to be done. "Walk me through this," you say, meeting Plumage's gaze. She is, after all, Family. You would prefer her analysis to the scraps the Cavalry is willing to give you.
"It's impossible," Plumage says again. "To inspire errors at that speed you'd need another artificial intelligence network to be feeding them in."
"Why couldn't that be what's happening now?" You ask.
"If another network had that level of access to JEFFERSON's systems for fifty-six hours, we would've blown it up already," Plumage says. Her eyes widen. "Don't tell me we're here to set charges."
Mr. One actually manages a wry smile. "Relax, ma'am. We wouldn't trouble the Family for something so straightforward."
Plumage breathes a sigh of relief. "Then if it's not an external hack, the problem must be integrated into the logic systems themselves." She looks to you. "JEFFERSON isn't a computer. Computers are fast, but dumb. They do what we tell them to do because that's all they can do. An artificial intelligence network is something different. Something smart. The logic systems are the underlying code that makes that possible."
You nod. "I think I understand. It identifies a problem, tries to correct itself. But the corruption stems from the systems through which it self-corrects. The more it tries…"
"The more errors it generates," Plumage finishes. "An exponential cascade effect. It must have…it partitioned the damaged systems?"
"It tried," Mr. One said. "The corruption had spread too far, too fast. Partition was impossible."
"So it should've reverted to an earlier iteration of itself."
Mr One. nods. "It should have. But it didn't. Eggheads figure that it couldn't be sure how long the corruption had been present in its systems. Biding its time."
Plumage shakes her head. "But that means...its only option would've been to shut itself down entirely!"
"Looks like the brass knew what they were talking about, when they said to bring you in," Mr. One says. Mr. Two nods, a silent agreement.
"Wait." You hold up a hand. "If JEFFERSON is shut down, who the hell is running the country?"
Mr. One grins. "Well the traffic lights still turn, and your money's still worth something, so we must be doing alright," he says. "The Cavalry has contingencies. But you're right. We need JEFFERSON back online, or life's about to get real uncomfortable, real quick."
"So that's what this is," you say. "You want us to reboot the system? Purge the corruption?" You look to Plumage, but instead of shocked she looks...contemplative.
"It's a good idea," she says. She's quieter now, enough that it's hard to hear her over the roar of the engines. "There's only a handful of people on the planet who might be able to pull this off, and I'm likely closest to hand."
"Clearly I'm missing something," you say, "because I've read your file and I'm not seeing it. JEFFERSON took a massive team of savant scientists nearly thirty years to construct. What makes you think that you, alone, are capable of something like this?"
"It's not…" Plumage trails off, sets her jaw, and begins again. "It's not me specifically. It's what inside my skull. JEFFERSON's logic systems are compromised. It needs an another logic system that it can trust to not be corrupted. Something it can use to double check its own work until it can purge the errors from its machine learning code." She taps the side of her head with a finger. "That's where the BRAIN-3 comes in. Its logic systems are identical to those utilized by JEFFERSON. All I need to do is give it physical access to the parts of my brain that are computer." She gathers her hair in one hand and pulls it up and to the side, granting you a view of the computer port fixed seamlessly into the skin where the back of her neck meets the base of her skull. "I'll need an adapter," she says to Mr. One. "My port is McKinsey standard but I don't know what JEFFERSON uses."
You process her for a moment, keenly aware of the three sets of eyes on you. "And how exactly...did you end up with JEFFERSON systems in your head?"
To your surprise, Plumage's first look is Mr. One. The man only shrugs. "He's your partner."
Plumage sighs. Nods. Looks back to you. "My father," she said, "invented the BRAIN-3. He was the one that installed it when – the point is, he was one of the last savants to work on building JEFFERSON. When it came time to code the BRAIN-3, he used his prior work."
You look over at Mr. One. "I'm sure the Cavalry was thrilled about that."
"I like the sarcasm," Mr. One says. "But the Cavalry has tolerated the young miss' existence as a walking, talking security hazard, and it just so happens that that tolerance has worked out for all parties involved." He winks. "Now if we're all caught up on the basic theory, shall we move to the practical exam?"
The next door slides open, and you are met with a rush of sweltering air.
You peer in through the doorway, speechless. Wires, cables and pipes extend up maybe two hundred feet – you cannot quite identify the ceiling because of the lack of illumination, but it at must be at least that high. The far end of the room is equally distant, even harder to see because of the sheer density of pipes and cables, which form a labyrinthine jungle, so thick that you'd have to squeeze yourself through. A few feet past the door, the floor abruptly ends, replaced by a thick, deep blue liquid – and the jungle continues downwards, though you can only see a few feet into the liquid.
"This," Mr. One's voice informs you, "is the central cooling unit. Direct access to JEFFERSON's logic systems can be made at the bottom."
"This," you murmur, "seems like a design flaw."
"You said it yourself, kid," Mr. One says. "JEFFERSON's construction was done over thirty years, by a team of savants. Do you know how nuts plans get when a handful of savants get together? Plans are drawn up, work is started, then boom! Inspiration. Plans get changed, plans get thrown out, people don't make reports like they're supposed to. An access junction gets turned into a goddamn cooling unit and nobody notices until six months after completion because this all so over everyone elses' heads that they can barely understand what's being built, let alone why. JEFFERSON works-" Mr. One pauses for a moment, "mostly. That itself is a goddamn miracle of engineering."
"We'll have to dive," Madeline whispers.
"There is equipment waiting for you in the room," Mr. One explains. "Ensure that you are properly sealed within your suits and helmets. The coolant fluid is toxic, and the radiation levels will increase as you dive deeper."
"How much radiation are we talking?" You ask.
"Enough that we will not be able to maintain radio contact with you beyond a few hundred feet."
"A few hundred feet?" Plumage asks. There is a tinge of breathlessness to her voice, indiscernible to anyone who had not just spent three hours listening to her breathing. "How...how deep is the bottom?"
"Roughly five thousand feet."
Plumage swallows.
Mr. One continues on, relentless. "You'll notice the pipes and wiring," he says. "Those do extend all the way to the bottom. We've loaded navigational data into smartwatches which are included with your gear. I warn you that this data might not be wholly accurate due to aforementioned issues during construction."
You whirl back to face Mr. One. "This is insane," you tell him, jabbing a finger in his direction. "You waited until the last moment to tell us because you knew how fucking insane this is."
"We would not have turned to the Family unless we had a very great need," Mr. One says. "You have twelve hours of breathable oxygen in your tanks."
"Rebooting could take up six," Plumage says. "Maybe longer."
Mr One nods. "Our data says that you should have plenty of oxygen for descent and ascent."
"Your data which is flawed," you say.
Mr. One flinches. At least there is something human in him. "I reiterate the extent of our need," he says. "JEFFERSON cannot be allowed to remain inactive much longer. Too much relies on its operation. If the Soviets discover that we are without our artificial intelligence network, the consequences could be devastating."
"He's right," Plumage says, straightening. "Cardinal, he's right. It could be...a power shift of this size could see the cold war go hot. It has to be us. It has to be now."
She is shaking.
{} Who is the team leader?
[] Cardinal
[] Plumage
