When he was gone, I asked Alex why he hadn't let Charlie speak.
“If we'd brought Charlie into it,” he said, “Bittinger would have been insulted. There's nothing he could say that wouldn't be ascribed to the technology. And I didn't want Charlie losing his temper.”
“Maybe that would demonstrate he's alive.”
Alex shook his head and did a dead-on imitation of the senator: “It's all in the programing, Chase.”
Fifteen minutes later, we had the information on the Karnovsky cane. It was a fake.
Harley Evans was a counselor at the Westbrook Universal Church. He'd invited me in several times as a speaker at luncheons for the Rangers, the church's youth group. And on one occasion I'd passed out awards for him at a student-achievement event. Harley had been leading the charge for years in his church to recognize AIs as sentient beings and to admit them to the congregation. Alex knew him, and reacted to our conversation with Bittinger by inviting him over for dinner at the country house. We rarely made our own food, and that night was no exception. After we determined that Harley liked pizza, we arranged to have some delivered by Poppa Louie's.
While we waited for it to arrive, we shared some white wine, and Harley got a tour of the artifacts in the reception room. Like the bronze lamp that had once belonged to Omar Gorman. “Was this really his?” he asked.
“It provided his light,” I said, “while he was writing Lost Cause.”
And over here was a coffee cup, made in South America in the twenty-fifth century, that had been aboard the Valiant in its historic voyage.
And this was the bound copy of Their Finest Hour, which had given us back the second volume of Winston Churchill's classic history of World War II.
“Pity,” Harley said, “that the rest of it's lost.”
Alex touched the crystal case that held the book. “This volume's nine hundred years old. So we had it in relatively recent times. Maybe, one day, we'll find the rest. Meanwhile, at least we have the flavor of it.”
Harley was in his middle years. He was a small man, not quite my size, with blond hair and deep-set dark eyes that seemed always to be looking for something.
The pizza showed up in due time, and we sat down in the dining area in back. Alex uncorked a fresh bottle and Harley offered a toast. “To those who keep history alive.”
We divided the pizza and talked about the weather and how things were going at the parish, and the latest episode of Starburst, an HV adventure series that had drawn the interest of members of the congregation. Aliens, the Torabi, were gradually undermining the Confederacy while the good guys tried to convince politicians and whoever else might listen that they were really there.
When we'd finished, Alex brought out a chocolate cake. And it was while we were dividing the cake that Harley paused and thanked us for having him in. “Guys,” he said, “I know there's a reason I'm here, but before we get to it, I want you to know that we'd be delighted to have you stop by the church sometime, so we can return the favor.”
“Sounds good,” said Alex. “Count on us.”
“And now may I ask if there's something I can do for you?”
Alex nodded. “In fact, Harley,” he said, “we do need your help.”
“Ah. You want to join the fold. Excellent.” He smiled, letting us know he was kidding. “In fact, though, you'd both enjoy the social activities.”
“I have no doubt we would, Harley.” Alex took a bite of the cake, commented on how delicious it was, and sat back. “Chase has told me about your efforts to get the church to recognize AIs as sentient creatures.”
“Ah, yes. That's not exactly how we phrased the issue, but it's true. Yes.”
“How did you phrase it?”
“We've tried to make the point that they may have souls. And that even if we can't be certain, we should assume that they do. An error in this matter should be made on the side of caution.”
“You're concerned,” he asked, “that they may be punished in an afterlife because they weren't admitted to churches?”
“No. I'm concerned that we may be judged negligent for the way in which we've treated them.”
I lifted my glass to him. “I suspect we're not far apart, Harley.”
Alex took another bite. “How has the campaign been going?”
“Not well.” Harley's native optimism was fueled by a conviction that there truly was an ongoing divine plan. But something drained out of him at that moment. “'Black boxes have no future,'“ he said. “That's what they all say. The bishops. The prime donors. Pretty much anybody with influence. Black boxes have no need for salvation because they are no more God's children than the furniture. It's a rather large leap to try to convince people otherwise. This despite the fact that they will take offense at anyone who insults the house AI. And I must confess that I'm not sure they're wrong. But I think the correct course of action is, as I said, the cautious one. Assume a kind of basic”-he struggled for the right term-”humanity?”
“I think that works, Harley,” I said.
“But people aren't going to change, Chase. The sense is that a machine, no matter how human it seems, cannot qualify for Heaven. Alex, we have several dozen Mutes who are now members of our congregation. Not here, of course. On Toxicon. Where maybe people are a little more open-minded.” He paused. “We accept them, but not an AI.” He heaved a sigh. “Why is this an issue for you?”
Alex said, “We're just back from Villanueva.”
“Oh.” His expression changed to one of disapproval and, almost, horror. “I'm glad to see you got through it okay. From what I hear, it's pretty dangerous out there. Chase, you went, too?”
“Yes, Harley.”
“And something happened.”
Alex nodded. “I want you to hear something.” He raised his voice slightly: “Charlie-?”
Charlie apparently needed a moment to gather himself. Then the twenty-year-old boy appeared: “Good afternoon, Reverend.”
Harley smiled. “I take it you are not the house AI?”
“No, sir. I'm not.”
He told his story. How it had felt knowing that everyone was fleeing the world. How he'd watched first the school, then the town, emptying. The long silence that had followed, broken only by occasional thunder and rain, by the wind in the trees, and the rumble of trucks when the repair bots came to restore the building. Or restore him.
And there had been Harbach, a Beta who'd taken over most of the systems that Charlie had access to. “Harbach is a maniac. I watched him break down gradually, over the centuries. And finally he lost all touch with reality. He had no compunction about killing his own, if provoked. Had Chase and Alex left me, I'd be dead now.”
When Charlie was finished, Harley looked exhausted. “Alex, have you spoken to anyone yet?”
“One of the senate's science people.”
“Bittinger?”
“Yes.”
“What did he say?”
“Told us not to worry about it. Don't get excited about boxes. It's exactly what Charlie predicted would happen.”
“What would you like to see him do? I mean, it would be hard to sell a rescue mission. The public wouldn't support it. Chances are a few people would get killed. That would be political suicide.”
“I know,” Alex said. “I don't have a solution.”
“What would you like to see him do?”
“I'm not sure. But I promised Charlie I'd help.”
“That will not be an easy promise to keep.”
“We talked about it on the way home,” said Alex. “It shouldn't be that difficult to arrange something. The AIs are probably connected. We already have Charlie. He can help us pull out a couple more. Then we can get them to help us locate others. We'd have to send in some teams, some well-trained people. Maybe shut down the power temporarily. Wait for them to exhaust their reserves. Then we could go in with minimal risk.”