Hmm, who haven't we visited in a while? :) Also, I'm in Mallorca for a few days, so I'm a little behind on some of the comments, but I shall catch-up!
An invitation The doors of the train slithered shut, a little hiss of pneumatic pressure escaping as the rubber seals met and pressed together. I looked around the carriage, starkly lit by bright white fluorescent tubes that ran along the middle of the ceiling above a protective steel grill, and considered my seating options. To my left there were eight empty seats and two occupied: the occupant was slumped over to one side across both seats, wearing a pink fluffy sweater and puce jogging pants and she smelled so strongly of alcohol I didn't need to get any closer. She saw me looking and forced a grin onto her grimy face, showing yellowish-black teeth, and wiggled a stump of a tongue at me. I turned away, implicitly declining her invitation, and blew down my nose to try and clear the smell of cheap wine. The far end of the carriage, to my right, was where everybody else was sitting. That they were as far away as possible was obvious, and I was sure that if there had been interconnecting doors on this train that the carriage would have been empty. There were no seats there; just worried looking suits and a mother with her two school-aged children. They both had the blank eyes of recent implantees, so I guessed that they were either just out of school or getting ready to graduate. It seemed to me that they dropped out earlier and earlier now, choosing an implant over education, but maybe that was my age talking. The central section of the carriage was empty then, but there was a green-ish pool of mostly-liquid vomit in the middle of the floor there. Oddly I couldn't smell it, but that might have had more to do with the alcoholic on the other side of me.
I stayed where I was, standing in the doorway with one hand resting on a pole that was probably as unsanitary as everything else I could see, and ran a quick network check. My implant -- a high-end Kamisura -- ignored the local AI's demand for money (with menaces; should I be surprised that a Brooklyn subway train system was run by an AI that thought it was a gangster?), pushing past its outdated defences (does no-one update public service AIs anymore?) and then pushing its request into an endless loop that effectively locked the AI out of the network. There were a couple of hops, and a bit of negotiation with a much-better AI that was guarding the main Brooklyn hub, but when that negotiation broke down my Kamisura deployed a sweet little flak package that made the reluctant AI it was talking to think that it was being DDOSed and it broke off to deal with that. The Kamisura did the cyber-equivalent of hopping over the fence while the AI wasn't looking, and a few moments later I was outside the transit network -- supposedly impossible, at least without paying a hefty bribe -- and located spider-like in the main Brooklyn network, effectively disguised as the transit AI. The train sped up. It wasn't a lurch and a sudden acceleration, but we could all feel the change. I hesitated, wondering, and then a voice came over the PA: metallic and dehumanised. "Next stop will be Greenfields. No stop-stop-stopping till Gree-green-greeenfields. Get off at your own ris-ris-peril." Mac? I subvocalised. In theory you only need to think these things and the implant picks it up, but even the Kamisura only managed it 8 times out of 10 so subvocalising is more reliable. Of course, most Kamisuras don't have a ghost in the machine, but mine had the bio-copied mind of MacArthur living in there. It was like sharing my head with a tiny psychopath. We're going to Greenfields he said, his voice making me think of gravel in cement mixers. Or maybe leg bones being shoved down an industrial waste disposal unit. Mac was unsettling to talk to. Yes, but it's not that urgent. I felt him laugh. What's the point of spoofing that AI if you're not going to take advantage of it? Spoofing? You're still thirty years behind on the patois, Mac. The lights of the next station, not Greenfields, came into view and to my slight surprise the doors of the carriage slammed opened even as we hurtled through. I suppose there was an invitation to get off there, but you'd need to be suicidal. The air tugged at me and I was glad I was still holding on to the pole. Then we were through and the doors slammed shut again and the whole carriage seemed to stop holding its breath. Very thoughtful, Mac I murmured, and turned my attention back to the Brooklyn hub.
3 comments:
Hmm, who haven't we visited in a while? :) Also, I'm in Mallorca for a few days, so I'm a little behind on some of the comments, but I shall catch-up!
An invitation
The doors of the train slithered shut, a little hiss of pneumatic pressure escaping as the rubber seals met and pressed together. I looked around the carriage, starkly lit by bright white fluorescent tubes that ran along the middle of the ceiling above a protective steel grill, and considered my seating options. To my left there were eight empty seats and two occupied: the occupant was slumped over to one side across both seats, wearing a pink fluffy sweater and puce jogging pants and she smelled so strongly of alcohol I didn't need to get any closer. She saw me looking and forced a grin onto her grimy face, showing yellowish-black teeth, and wiggled a stump of a tongue at me. I turned away, implicitly declining her invitation, and blew down my nose to try and clear the smell of cheap wine. The far end of the carriage, to my right, was where everybody else was sitting. That they were as far away as possible was obvious, and I was sure that if there had been interconnecting doors on this train that the carriage would have been empty. There were no seats there; just worried looking suits and a mother with her two school-aged children. They both had the blank eyes of recent implantees, so I guessed that they were either just out of school or getting ready to graduate. It seemed to me that they dropped out earlier and earlier now, choosing an implant over education, but maybe that was my age talking.
The central section of the carriage was empty then, but there was a green-ish pool of mostly-liquid vomit in the middle of the floor there. Oddly I couldn't smell it, but that might have had more to do with the alcoholic on the other side of me.
I stayed where I was, standing in the doorway with one hand resting on a pole that was probably as unsanitary as everything else I could see, and ran a quick network check. My implant -- a high-end Kamisura -- ignored the local AI's demand for money (with menaces; should I be surprised that a Brooklyn subway train system was run by an AI that thought it was a gangster?), pushing past its outdated defences (does no-one update public service AIs anymore?) and then pushing its request into an endless loop that effectively locked the AI out of the network. There were a couple of hops, and a bit of negotiation with a much-better AI that was guarding the main Brooklyn hub, but when that negotiation broke down my Kamisura deployed a sweet little flak package that made the reluctant AI it was talking to think that it was being DDOSed and it broke off to deal with that. The Kamisura did the cyber-equivalent of hopping over the fence while the AI wasn't looking, and a few moments later I was outside the transit network -- supposedly impossible, at least without paying a hefty bribe -- and located spider-like in the main Brooklyn network, effectively disguised as the transit AI.
The train sped up. It wasn't a lurch and a sudden acceleration, but we could all feel the change. I hesitated, wondering, and then a voice came over the PA: metallic and dehumanised.
"Next stop will be Greenfields. No stop-stop-stopping till Gree-green-greeenfields. Get off at your own ris-ris-peril."
Mac? I subvocalised. In theory you only need to think these things and the implant picks it up, but even the Kamisura only managed it 8 times out of 10 so subvocalising is more reliable. Of course, most Kamisuras don't have a ghost in the machine, but mine had the bio-copied mind of MacArthur living in there. It was like sharing my head with a tiny psychopath.
We're going to Greenfields he said, his voice making me think of gravel in cement mixers. Or maybe leg bones being shoved down an industrial waste disposal unit. Mac was unsettling to talk to.
Yes, but it's not that urgent.
I felt him laugh. What's the point of spoofing that AI if you're not going to take advantage of it?
Spoofing? You're still thirty years behind on the patois, Mac.
The lights of the next station, not Greenfields, came into view and to my slight surprise the doors of the carriage slammed opened even as we hurtled through. I suppose there was an invitation to get off there, but you'd need to be suicidal. The air tugged at me and I was glad I was still holding on to the pole. Then we were through and the doors slammed shut again and the whole carriage seemed to stop holding its breath.
Very thoughtful, Mac I murmured, and turned my attention back to the Brooklyn hub.
Greg - more efficiently that I will, obviously...
Ah, took me a few moments to figure out who you'd decided on. I do hope you'll find a way to continue this tale sooner than later.
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