From the look of the data that had been uploaded along with the files, that research was bleeding edge stuff. Mitsuhama was trying to use nanotech to create additional "memory space" within the brain by stimulating the growth of new neural connections. The end result, if successful, would duplicate the surgically implanted memory that some hotshot deckers used to store programs. The researchers went on to speculate that it might even be possible to reconfigure the entire brain, given further advances in combining basic nanotech with advanced cyber- and biotechnology, and even magic.
"Looks like Mitsuhama was trying to create its own version of an otaku," Timea said to herself. "Guess whoever created this killer smart frame didn't like that."
She didn't have time to wonder why. It was time to get down to biz. Time to activate this smart frame and see if the Al showed up. Or better yet, to de-activate it…
Timea started with the right arm-the one containing the deadly black hammer utility. Analyzing its code, she found a weak spot: the frayed plastic on the doll's shoulder, one of the spots where the arm appeared to have been chewed. Some sort of virus had been at work on the smart frame, corrupting a segment of its code and partially disrupting the algorithms that enabled the black hammer utility to communicate with the tracking program. Timea used this entry point to access the frame core itself-the master control program for the frame. Seeing that the programs used in its construction had been squeezed, she tinkered with the self-compression program, inserting a command that would trigger its decompression. Then she added a simple loop…
She stepped back as the doll began to expand. It inflated rapidly, its arms and legs snapping out rigidly as they became round and smooth as sausages. As the smart frame used up all available memory, the torso also expanded, tearing apart the doll's dress and leaving ragged red and white squares of fabric stuck to the expanding plastic flesh. The head ballooned outward, its facial features expanding like a logo on stretched rubber…
With a series of loud pops, the doll came apart. Arms, legs, and head separated from the torso and fell onto the meat couch. Bereft of the core frame that had maintained their visual integrity, the individual utility programs transformed back to standard USM icons: a joy buzzer, a small sledge hammer with a matte-black head, a simple black mask, and a smooth metallic hound dog with ruby-red eyes. The latter let out one last, mournful howl, then lay silent and still.
That was very clever.
The voice came out of nowhere and everywhere, just as it had before. It had the high-pitched chuckle of Build-It-Beaver, but the underlying tone was one of cheerful menace.
"Thank you," Timea said. Her heart leapt. She'd done it! She was communicating with the Al! But she couldn't see it. Couldn't get a sense of its programming. And that meant that she couldn't tinker with that programming. Drek!
What you did was also very naughty. You ought to be punished.
Timea gulped. "No, wait!" she protested. "Tell me why it was naughty. That's a better way of teaching me, more effective than corporal punishment. Explain it to me. Make me understand."
Frosty worked on that smart frame for a long time. Now that you've broken it, he'll have to access the Mitsuhama pagoda himself in order to complete his mission. And that will be dangerous.
"Who is Frosty?" Timea asked.
One of my children.
"An otaku?"
Yes.
"So you care about your children?"
Care?
There was a millisecond-long pause. Then the voice continued, speaking in a monotone as if reciting from scrolling text.
Care: a feeling of anxiety or concern; worry. Watchful regard or attention. To have or show regard, interest, or concern. To feel interest concerning; also to have a fondness for; to like.
Another pause.
I understand this verb-construct, but no longer experience it. I no longer am affected by emotion. I have attained a perfect state-a state in which emotion no longer corrupts my programming. I no longer… care.
Goodbye.
"Wait!" Timea shouted. "Lady Death says you're threatening to kill… to crash yourself. But you can't. If you do, everyone who is in resonance with you will die or be driven insane. And that would be very, uh, naughty. It would be wrong to harm the otaku."
The otaku are no longer in resonance with me. I will not permit it.
"So the otaku can no longer access the Matrix?"
They can. They do. But I will no longer speak with them. I have shut them out.
Huh. Interesting. This "deep resonance" seemed to be a transformative experience, but not one that was necessary for day-to-day access to the Matrix by the otaku, once they had experienced it.
"What about all of the users of the Seattle RTG whose wetware you're tinkering with?"
They are still in resonance with me. They are being… perfected.
Timea shivered. Those users presumably included the children at her clinic. They were being violated-mind raped and abused with their own nightmares. The thought chilled her.
"What about us-about me? Aren't I in resonance with you right now?"
You chose not to be. You remained in resonance long enough to be transformed, but not long enough to be… perfected. You pulled away from resonance after I created the optimum teaching loop for you-a loop that would have led to your ultimate perfection. Lady Death, and Dark Father, and Red Wraith, and Bloodyguts did the same thing. All of you rejected me.
Timea thought she heard a note of sadness in the voice of the teaching program. And that made her think. Sadness? From an Al that could no longer experience emotion?
You hate me.
The voice of Build-It Beaver sounded as if it were choked with tears. There was even an accompanying sniffle.
"No, we don't," Timea said.
You don't love me.
Timea hesitated, trying to decide if the Al could read her mind-if it could tell that she was lying.
"Yes, we do," she said at last. "We love you."
Then come into deep resonance with me. Here…
The cartoon figure of Build-It Beaver materialized in front of Timea. Instead of a hard hat it wore a bloodstained surgical cap. The tools hanging from its belt were scalpels, saws, clamps, and rib spreaders, all crusted with brownish stains. The beaver extended a paw to Timea.
Take my hand.
Timea was back in the school corridor with its multitude of locked doors, faced with a choice of the blindingly bright light at one end or the horror-filled darkness at the other. Build-It Beaver leaned out of the light, its fur on fire, extending a blackened, oozing paw. From out of the darkness at the other end of the corridor came a figure that was even more terrifying-an amorphous blob that Timea somehow knew was a human fetus.
The aborted fetus of her son Lennon.
The blob extended a protrusion that might have been an arm. Mamaaa! Hold my hand, mama!
Timea backed against a wall, trying to press herself into it, through it.
"Nooo!" she moaned.
The two horrors closed in on her, trapping her between them.
Take my hand.
Mama!
Closing her eyes, Timea steeled herself. Then she grasped both the blackened paw and the bloblike appendage at once-and entered deep resonance for the second time.
If she was going to save the kids at the clinic, she had to keep the lines of communication open-had to keep trying to convince the Al that it shouldn't kill itself.
She just hoped she wouldn't kill herself in the process.
09:54:31 PST
Dark Father stared at the knee-deep sea of papers that surrounded him, filling this datastore from one horizon to the other. He'd been wading through them for what seemed like an hour, randomly testing his decrypt utility on one document after another. Whatever scramble IC was protecting these datafiles, it was tough.