The Greatest Game

By Malcolm Little

The Megastate. A worldwide utopia of the 2040s, realized by the hyper-efficient Soteira, an AI overseeing future humankind. Society in the Megastate is peaceful, enlightened, proficient. Or perhaps that’s merely the surface.

Enter Luther Scotian, Seattle PD detective, cynical about life in a so-called paradise. As the security of the Megastate starts to fray, one of the AI overseer’s top agents—Luther’s ex-girlfriend Melina—recruits the detective. Able to flex his investigative talents anew, Luther finds himself smack in the middle of world-altering discoveries.

A conspiracy unravels. Wanting to ensure its continuity, the superintelligence behind the Megastate aids the detective. Spanning across the Americas, events quickly thrust Luther, Melina and Soteira into a dangerous game of cat and mouse. Their adversary’s goals, concealed aboard a revolutionary space station, involve no less than the undoing of civilization and the re-engineering of humankind.

Amidst androids, autonomous vehicles, augmented reality technology, and a global panopticon, The Greatest Game sends readers on an existential thrill ride. By the last page, you’ll be asking yourself the big questions. Are the goals of the Megastate desirable? What about the counter goals of the adversaries?

Crack open The Greatest Game and let yourself decide. Also, check out its prequel novella, Playing the Greatest Game, available on most major eBook retailers.

• Language: English
• Publisher: Malcolm Little
• Release date: Mar 15, 2017
• ISBN: 9780994763068

Malcolm Little

A native of British Columbia, Malcolm’s interests are diverse: Working with information technologies, pursuing a second degree in applied geography, and delving into character-driven stories. The multifaceted life experiences of this science fiction aficionado are evident in the stories he writes, where balancing the hard and the soft sides of the genre are of high importance. His first published novel, “Waves of Reprisal”, is hopefully the first of many to come. Indeed, ideas for both stand-alone and series science fiction have gestated inside his consciousness for many years. It’s time to let fingers crystallize those ideas.

Book preview

Part I: Siranx

Excerpt from State of the Megastate Address given by President Soter, January 17, 2034. Topics: healthcare reforms, advances in medical research, and genetic engineering.

"In a moral and economic frame, government-run universal healthcare under the efficiency aims of the Megastate is superior to corporatized healthcare backed by insurance companies. Therefore, throughout the Megastate, processes to abolish insurance companies and have the state take over full duties and responsibilities of the healthcare sector are in effect. For every citizen, MegaMed coverage will include everything from prescription medicine, physician-approved tests, instrument usage, and interorganizational transportation. To avoid such issues as the tuberculosis epidemic that exploded in 2025 and has only now declined to negligibility, antibiotic use will be minimized. Arguments concerning inefficient health bureaucracies, typically voiced by opponents of universal healthcare, are moot, since the bureaucracy will be managed by the unprecedented efficiency of my distributed intelligence.

"The crux of what the healthcare system overhaul will signify to the public can be summed up in two themes: innovative technologies, and a return to individualized care. Megastate resources will be directed into stem-cell research and micro-machine paradigms, as numerous applications of those technologies have already undergone testing and approval. Modernizing infrastructure to support these new technologies will involve a massive undertaking, an undertaking that will spearhead skills-based employment. Once the technologies are largely in place, a return to the model of individualized care, with a preponderance of family doctors and an integration of holistic health synthesis, will permeate across the Megastate. Citizens will know their physicians. Develop rapport with them. They will no longer be items on a conveyor belt of triage.

"However, while academic and business advocates have lauded the potentials of genetic engineering, the paradigm will not be included in the technology mix. All forms of direct genetic engineering, including genomic editing and DNA transformation, are to be put on hold indefinitely. Until long-term predictive models on the alteration of aspects of the human genome are simulated to an acceptable degree, no genomic modification projects are permitted within the Megastate.

"The primary reason for the abrogation centers on gathering data about the efficacy of the Megastate ‘Utopian Society’ plan. We must gather said data under a baseline set of human physical and social conditions. We cannot reach conclusions regarding the plan whilst simultaneously engaging in direct genomic modifications. Therefore, the GETEA—Genetic Engineering Temporary Embargo Amendment to the Convention on Biological Diversity—goes into effect this year. The amendment is a new principle concerning genetically engineered life forms, be they plant or animal. GETEA will remain in full effect until the modelling of future impacts reveals satisfactory predictive power. My initial estimates peg the embargo at twenty to thirty years. Under the framework of GETEA, only generational breeding for traits is permitted, as has been done for thousands of years prior to DNA-editing technologies."

Chapter 1

Robert Schaefer would not describe himself as a sociable man. His propensity to sneer at people’s nonsense is more trained now than it has ever been. Sitting on a stool in a Westchester café, sipping his plain coffee as his keen ears overhear every niggling syllable from yuppie customers, Schaefer desperately calls upon his newest skill: ignoring the din of the masses.

It isn’t working.

His commando training—frequently put into practice by the AI overseer—overwhelms any attempt at tuning out the masses. As he stares out onto the hazy morning sunshine of the concrete jungle, watching thin strands of June Gloom clouds evaporate, Robert’s keen senses perk at odd instances: the barista’s chirpy prattle, the mélange of coffee aromas, the smell of freshly baked Italian pastries and pizzas, slivers of a Philosophies of Humanity talk playing over a holointerface. And, of course, the chorus of mumbles accompanying SvoIP conversations.

So Robert decides to focus his keen senses on the only interesting element within the bustling café. The PoH talk, part of a series of intellectual debates spearheaded by Soteira, seems to feature noted philosophers and anthropologists from all corners of the Megastate.

It’s already gotten heated.

Not surprising, given the subject matter: the implications of the simulation revelation. Robert picks out bits and pieces of dialogue. One particular prof—an Arab judging from his accent—yammers on about the validity of the solipsist declaration the AI overseer announced back in autumn of ’38. His challenge sets off a spark. Within seconds, the PoH talk devolves into a shouting match. Not even commando-trained senses can make heads or tails of the subsequent squawking.

Plan C, then. Schaefer focuses his gaze on the outside world.

A small Bank of America building across the street catches his attention. The building sees little activity compared to the café, since banking transactions mostly take place over augdevices. The bank stands as a reminder of how duplicitous the old economic systems were.

Looking to his left, Robert regards the liquor-store entrance that the café shares the corner of Lincoln and Manchester with. Even though the stereotypical Angeleno has become a veritable clone, a different sort of people frequent the shop where sorrows are drowned. Robert could hardly blame them for their chosen vice.

Sweeping his gaze across the block, Schaefer evaluates the sum total of the neighborhood. It’s no different from any other in La-La Land. Schaefer has grown to dislike Los Angeles’ disconnected sprawl. The bland, paved desert. Among the few things about it he does admire are the urban planning group’s policies for LA’s future. They’re long overdue. Los Angeles needs more green infused amidst its beiges. Shitty little backyards don’t count.

Of course, any thoughts about urban-planning policies begs the question: what’s the point? If all of this, this entire world, is but a simulation designed to gather data for a pangalactic civilization of advanced AIs, why bother expending energy on social challenges?

In Robert’s mind, the announcement back in fall of ’38—almost four years ago now—was just another punch in the gut. Another nail in the coffin. Ever since the President of the United Megastate of Earth captured the US presidential election of ’32, the world has slowly but surely marched toward an AI dictatorship. Soteira or Soter, whichever gender the AI deemed fit the times, was an inexorable force that marched across the face of the Earth. Over the course of several years, the machine intelligence annexed states and recruited useful idiots. The intelligence’s power rested in the fact that societies across the globe were so dependent on technology for anything and everything.

It doesn’t take a genius to figure out what happens when the first true AI is set loose on a technophilic world.

When it takes nanoseconds to hack entire infrastructure networks, world domination is inescapable. Sure, there were old-school military campaigns targeting holdout states. Central Asia. UNASUR. But their defiance was driven by backwardness or isolation, not strength. Countries like Uzbekistan and Chile were hardly equipped to deal with a technologically superior enemy, especially an enemy who could instantly take control of anything made of circuitry. Extremely high-resolution nanosatellites made defiance using tools more advanced than steam engines an impossibility.

Schaefer shakes his head. It isn’t as if he didn’t contribute to the divorce of human responsibility from human affairs. He was one of those useful idiots. He still is.

And he relishes it.

Unlike a lot of the yuppies milling around the café, Schaefer has purpose. Specific purpose. Purpose handed down to him from their artificial president.

For some unknown, possibly analytical reason, Soteira has taken the old commando under her wing and buried him with Megastate operations. Schaefer was given free rein to form a team of operatives. The team has been thrust into numerous action scenarios across the Americas. When not engaged in international operations, they function as LAPD’s leading suppression squad. Throughout all the operations, Robert’s subsequent advice to the AI has always been met with consideration. Quite frankly, Soteira has been the best, most rational, most proportional superior Robert has ever had. It’s like being the right-hand man of Alexander (or sometimes Alexandra) the Great.

It’s certainly a cushy position to be in, filled with excitement and a sense of—albeit faux—duty. The rare complaints about society Robert voices to his trusted team members are mere quibbles, and he knows it. The state of humanity both big and small has improved. Empirically speaking, it has improved. Relatively speaking, it has improved. Gone are the days of governors poisoning water supplies to make budget. Gone are the days of mass deforestation and extinctions to make candy-bar ingredients. Gone are the days of repeating the same mistakes over and over, even though history laid them bare for all to read.

So when the machine ruler of the planet states that we humans need time to mature before having the reins handed back to us, who are we to argue?

Many groups have. Many state that Earth is ours to spoil. Many state that, in order to mature as a species, we must make mistakes and learn from them. We cannot do that if society is prescribed from an artificial deity. The paltry duties handed down by Soteira are insufficient, almost patronizing.

Robert used to believe all that. Perhaps he still does. Nevertheless, his mind and body remain too busy to dwell on such thoughts for long. Perhaps that’s by design. Soteira would have a synthetic conniption if he and his team decided to contemplate the ethics of their role in Megastate continuity.

Commander Schaefer.

The auglens in Robert’s left eye suddenly fills with the visage of the AI overseer. Robert almost spits out his coffee. The gorgeous face of Soteira occupies half his visual field.

Speak of the devil, he casually remarks.

Her uncanny eyes merely blink twice at his response.

I am sorry to disturb you, my friend. I know you have decided to relax today. However, an urgent situation has arisen, and you are the closest operative in the area of interest.

Robert gently puts down his bioplastic cup of joe. He lets out a small sigh. It’s rare for Soteira not to honor time off. This urgent situation must be as described. Still, he had hoped for a complete twenty-four hours of disconnected bliss.

What’s the situation? Robert asks Soteira.

A University of Washington biochemist named Greg Burnet has absconded with an unknown package he acquired from Thalesian Technologies headquarters in Seattle. For some inexplicable reason, I am having difficulty keeping precise track of Doctor Burnet. I have, however, traced his location to your vicinity in Westchester.

Maps and pictures of Thalesian Technologies headquarters, the Siranx tube, and the Alsace station flash rapidly in his auglens. The AI delivers the intel with eloquence and concision.

Outstanding! Soteira, once again, relays details better than anyone Schaefer has ever worked with.

How did Doctor Burnet get all the way from Seattle to LA? Robert asks.

Siranx tube, Soteira responds, briefly puckering her beige lips. According to Alsace station surveillance, Burnet hired a rideshare a few minutes ago. The rideshare’s circuit has been determined. It is en route to LAX via Lincoln Boulevard, and should be passing by the café you are sitting in at any moment.

Schaefer shoots to his feet, knocking over his stool. He leans forward, peering through the glass and onto the quiet streetscape. Still occupying his auglens, Soteira relays details about Burnet’s rideshare sedan. Schaefer’s looking for a black Ford Fete compact with Kludge company logos splattered on its body. Before he can look down the length of Lincoln, Robert spots the tiny Ford rolling past the café window and then the nearby intersection. Gobsmacked, Schaefer stares as the Ford blows past the infamous Custom Hotel midrise, closing the distance to LAX.

Soteira utters the commando’s name. Robert’s training kicks in.

Pushing latte sippers out of his way, Schaefer explodes out of the café door and into the musky LA environment. Ordering his auglens to zoom in on Burnet’s rideshare, he watches as it travels unimpeded toward the airport. Not a single red light halts its progress. Frantically looking around for a vehicle to commandeer, he tells Soteira to get off his auglens so he can see clearly. The AI instantly complies. Schaefer then spots a contrasting choice—a white Ford Fete parked to his right. A goateed, Caucasian yuppie is about to enter the car.

Stop! Schaefer shouts at the manicured hipster then pushes his way into the car without explanation. LAX, he orders the Kludge VI. Almost sensing the urgency, the driverless car peels away from the curb, leaving the aggravated yuppie to suck on a mist of burnt rubber.

Passing the Custom Hotel, Schaefer gazes through the windshield. He cannot spot Burnet’s car. Display route, he orders the vehicle’s VI. The windshield, with its embedded AR circuitry, lights up with a holographic map of the route to LAX. The VI tries to adjust the driver-seat parameters and shape the foam to the commando’s body shape, but Schaefer is too unsettled. Leaning forward in his seat, he quickly checks over the map.

A digital window containing Soteira’s face pops up in a corner of the windshield.

I’m following him, Schaefer informs her, though I’ve lost sight of his car.

Try to intercept him at LAX, Soteira says. I have already informed airport security to be on the lookout for Doctor Burnet.

Call the members of my squad. Tell them to split into two teams and converge at the entrances to both terminals.

I have already anticipated that you would request their presence. However, they are scattered around the county. Chances of any of them arriving at LAX within the next thirty minutes are negligible.

A couple minutes of awkward silence follows. Schaefer occasionally glances at the window containing Soteira’s beautiful visage. Consistent contact with the AI’s perfect aesthetic over the last several years has warped his mind a little. He’s caught himself occasionally gazing at her features. Her perfect artificial complexion. Her piercing blue eyes. Her full lips. Her raven hair cut stylishly short. Her melodic voice. The old commando knows the crush is a product of the charm the AI employs to disarm people; that and his frequent contact with Soteira. His subconscious doesn’t care that she’s an artificial entity. It fantasizes anyways. Whenever the AI switches over to the male version called Soter, he is simultaneously relieved and disappointed.

Robert shakes those thoughts from his mind. The rideshare calmly rolls along Pacific Coast Highway, passing by scrubland hills filled with russet soil and small bushes. The odd sixty-foot palms jitter against gusts of wind. As the road heads south, the housing stock gets cheaper and the built landscape more monotonous.

Realizing he’s not gaining on Burnet’s car, Schaefer takes manual control of the Fete. Warnings from the VI immediately ring in his ears. He floors the accelerator up to eighty kilometers per hour, violating the posted speed limit and prompting another set of warnings. Kludge doesn’t like it when customers show initiative. Neither do insurers.

Soteira, can you please shut this VI up?

The VI squeals just as the AI silences it.

So what exactly did this Doctor Burnet steal?

Soteira’s virtual representation hesitates ever so briefly before explaining.

He has in his possession a package containing restricted quantum storage technology. The technology is Megastate property. It is paramount that the package is recovered without incident. That is all the information I can supply you with, Commander.

Keeping secrets from your trusted foot soldiers? That’s new.

Schaefer doesn’t push the matter. An AI doesn’t change its mind—it stays tight-lipped as long as it deems necessary. They don’t exactly have the human desire to let people in on juicy secrets.

Rounding a bend in the highway, he sees it. The black compact carrying the doctor comes back into Schaefer’s view. Both Fords speed along the sweeping stretches adjacent to the LAX runways. The stretch allows Robert greater control of the little auto.

Schaefer accelerates to over one hundred twenty kilometers per hour. The car rattles.

Airbus planes fly low over the highway, some barely more than thirty feet above traffic as they head for touchdown on the tarmac. Sunlight reflecting off their hulls almost blinds the commando.

From her little window, Soteira remarks on the probability of a fatal accident at such high speeds. The clarity of the digitized face and voice is impeccable, even when overhead solar engines rumble their deep bass.

Enough with the safety lesson. Do you want me to catch Burnet or not?

Schaefer ultimately ignores her remarks. He’s too busy deciding what to do about the impending traffic jam.

The on-ramp to World Way is clogged. Schaefer turns off the GPS display. He leans forward, spotting Burnet’s compact as it takes a right onto World Way.

Robert’s at least a dozen vehicles behind . . . and not moving an inch.

Fuck it!

He swerves the wheel to the left and floors the pedal, scraping the rideshare against every single vehicle idling on the on-ramp. Fiberglass buckles. Sideview mirrors disintegrate. The constant sideswiping triggers warning buzzers from Kludge. The rideshare informs Schaefer that he has committed an offence and must submit to LAPD.

I am LAPD, he blurts.

The moment of inattention costs him. Barreling into a three-way intersection, Robert slams his foot hard on the brake. Too late. Screeching brake pads cannot resist the built momentum. Schaefer’s eyes bulge as they’re filled with the broad side of a truck.

The Ford crashes in the middle of the intersection. The airbag deploys. A nap follows the punch of gas-filled nylon.

Commander Schaefer? Commander, wake up!

Soteira’s raised voice alerts Robert’s jarred senses. He shakes off the concussion. A headache instantly coils in his temples.

Commander, Doctor Burnet is within a hundred meters of the Tom Bradley terminal. Airport security has not stopped him. You must apprehend him at any cost!

Cursing under his breath, Schaefer pushes open the ruined driver door. Gingerly getting out, he notices he plowed into a utility flatbed. The Fete’s windshield shattered into a million fragments. AR circuitry fizzles as it dies.

Squinting down the length of World Way, Schaefer spots the black Fete carrying Burnet. Channeling adrenaline reserves, he blows past gathered witnesses. Soon he is up to full sprint, dodging and shouting at bystanders to get the fuck out of his way. Most obey.

Turning on his auglens, Schaefer steamrolls down World Way for half a mile, knocking people and their luggage down and receiving vitriol as Soteira prods him on in his left eye. He tells the AI to give a description to LAX security of Doctor Burnet. He doubts it will do much good—airport security is an ongoing joke.

The departure lanes along World Way are like an endless valley abutting a sterile glass-and-steel frontage. The roadway eventually curves and presents Tom Bradley International terminal, a plain, brutalist, democratic bore of a building. Even the letters spelling out its name seem to have been drawn up in a couple minutes by an uninterested architect. Scattered metal luggage carts present obstacles for Schaefer to weave between. As do bystanders milling around, waiting for pickup or deciding where to go next within the confusing, sprawling airport. Frantic valets try to organize the concentrated clusterfuck of automobiles around the front of the terminal. Any hint of order is constantly under attack from tempers, vulgarities, ageism, and general rudeness, especially toward those with physical disabilities that slow the tempo down. Patience as a virtue doesn’t exist at airports.

The mini-marathon exhausts Schaefer. Sweat beads down his cheeks. Hands on his knees, he looks around for the elusive doctor. Soteira displays a small PNG of the biochemist. Schaefer cannot spot him—but he does spot the compact Ford rideshare. Its driver door swings ajar.

Empty.

Schaefer runs for the terminal entrance. He shouts to a couple airport security guards that he’s LAPD, in pursuit of a suspect. He runs between the lean guards, telling the one wearing a Dodgers hat to get on the line to flight control and halt all outgoing flights. The etched glass doors leading into the terminal part just enough to allow Schaefer to storm into the promenade. Inside, he’s greeted by a hive of activity.

Robert instantly loses all bearings.

There are umpteen ways to go. He stands at the entrance, confounded with too much choice. The AI overseer offers little help.

Check airport CCTV, Soteira, he tells her.

I am having difficulty accessing the LAX internal systems, Soteira replies.

What? Difficulty accessing? You’re supposed to be hooked into everything! Schaefer hollers.

Families struggle to keep their yowling children in tow. Younger travelers with backpacks slung across their shoulders expertly weave around the confused mothers and fathers. The confused commando is but another pylon to them. The vaulted, beige ceiling looms over a bevy of specialty shops that sell expensive, luxury frivolities to suckers that have bought into the narrative of brandname equaling status.

Amidst all this, Schaefer has to move, lest he lose the target. He makes to go for the twenty-foot-tall, shining info kiosks that contain the airport VI. Then again, they won’t track an individual for him, not without an executive order from airport management. No time to request that.

Spotting the queues for the security checkpoint, Schaefer jogs toward its maze of ropes. He takes an empty line being blocked by a portly old lady. LAPD. Megastate business, he utters as he pushes past her. Emerging into the food court beyond the checkpoint, Robert reassesses where he thinks Burnet might be going. The boarding corridors branch off—half to the left and half to the right.

The air inside the expansive terminal creates a small, circulating breeze composed of aromas from ethnic cuisine, perfumes from chic stores, and dust from the Los Angeles atmosphere. The din of conversations mixes with the terminal’s inaudible PA announcements. Schaefer strolls up to the arrival and departure screens. Their laundry list of flights show a couple departures happening in the next few minutes: Tokyo and Santiago.

Soteira, would Doctor Burnet have any reason to head to Japan or Chile?

No response. Distracted, Schaefer failed to notice the AI had disconnected from his auglens.

Soteira, you there? Dutch, reestablish contact with the last caller.

Schaefer waits a few seconds. Nothing. A second attempt. UserID POTUME unavailable flashes in his eye.

What the hell is going on? First Soteira has trouble tracking someone, now LAX is a dead zone for her?

Alarm bells whistle in the back of his mind. He ignores them, reverting to methods he utilized prior to there ever being a distributed intelligence to call upon.

Roll the dice, Schaefer mumbles to himself. South Concourse. Santiago.

Jogging down the moving walkway, the commando thinks he sees Burnet. It’s certainly someone carrying a container large enough to house a portable quantum module.

To the right of the walkway, Robert spots hope: a Soteira mobile platform. It’s standing at the fringes of the Economist store, perusing print material lining the wood shelves. Odd behavior. Certainly not what he’d expect from the perpetually social androids. Nevertheless, he needs its help. Leaping over the walkway railing, Schaefer strolls with purpose over to the beige-colored machine.

It spots him. The platform smiles faintly. Soteira has certainly gotten better at mimicking a proper friendly smile.

Flights to Santiago and Tokyo leave shortly. Any idea which one Burnet would take?

The platform smiles wider, showing its perfect teeth. The lines delineating the segments of its puzzle-piece face frame the angelic features of the android. As always, Schaefer is charmed, heartened by the respect and warmth the Megastate president accords him.

But it doesn’t answer his question. It simply turns its head, nodding to the right. Its translucent hair bounces ever so lightly.

From behind a shelf emerges someone Schaefer never expected to run into. He hasn’t seen this civilian buddy of his in almost a year. Not surprising, given the immense responsibilities Soteira had dumped onto him.

The man is a retired Navy SEAL. He wears a maroon cotton T-shirt under a denim-grey vest, with bluish-grey khakis and dark-blue casual shoes. He’s still as fit and lean as Robert remembers, and more manicured to boot. He keeps his mustache and beard trimmed neatly, and has what looks to be an expensive salon haircut.

The man is Kurtis Veerstra. A GAME designer. A maestro of Megastate machinations.

Rob. It’s been awhile. You don’t look so good—like you’ve been in a car accident, Kurt says, a look of genuine concern on his face.

Schaefer doesn’t reply. He simply stands there, gobsmacked once again.

Kurt’s places a hand on the platform’s shoulder meshing. His countenance turns serious.

We need to talk, Rob. Something very troubling is taking place in the Megastate, and I need your help.

Chapter 2

Melina Veerstra feels a migraine slowly coming on. She knows it isn’t because of the desert heat buffeting Kuwait City, nor is it because of the culture shock she hasn’t quite shaken off yet. It isn’t even the teenage girls chattering away inside the Rumaithiya classroom she’s instructing. It’s because Melina Veerstra—assigned to gather data on educational practices in the Middle East—has been spinning her wheels for months.

Sitting in a cushioned chair, Melina brushes her hair behind her ear and adjusts the tablet she’s showing to the girls. The assembled teens sit on Persian carpets in a rough semicircle as Melina regales them with accounts of empiricism and falsifiability, and how they should be applied to religious beliefs. To these hijab-wearing muslimas, discovering empirical truths and not hiding behind wishful thinking is a novel concept.

If science can only evaluate nature, what is the nature of Mohammed—peace be upon him—according to science?

The question arises from Mariam, a precocious girl who prefers to think about subjects other than putting on makeup and impressing boys. Melina sweats a little. Definitely because of the question. The air-conditioning is cranked to the max. It’s actually a little chilly inside the classroom.

Melina gazes at the courtyard past the sheer curtains. Angular, diffuse sunlight filters through, creating a feeling of morning that pervades all day long. She stares at the ludicrous marble fountain spewing water out of the mouth of a bottlenose dolphin. Half the water evaporates before being recycled. Such a waste.

She almost forgets Mariam’s question. Composing herself for the habitual barrage of ignorance, Melina settles on an answer.

The nature of an individual cannot be determined posthumously. However, the prophet’s assertions about reality and the way the world works can be. Scientists can establish tests to verify the accuracy of what Mohammed has said in the Koran. He might have been right about a great many things . . . or he might have been wrong.

Melina braces herself. But the barrage doesn’t occur. Instead, murmurs and nodding heads dominate the circle of muslimas.

Amazing. I just intimated that their prophet Mohammed could be wrong, and they didn’t eviscerate me.

Feeling confident from the exchange, Melina thinks the girls might be ready to start watching excerpts from Soteira’s PoH talks. She spent a good few hours editing clips from recent shows, particularly ones explaining how rational discourse can dissect the irrational beliefs of religions. She doesn’t want the effort to be wasted.

Settle down, girls. I have some holoclips I want to show you. They relate to what Mariam brought up.

She has Cesare—the codename for her auglens—cue up the PoH excerpts. The girls look on in anticipation. Just before Cesare is about to project the first clip, they are interrupted. A pudgy secretary opens the classroom door. She apologizes for the interruption. Melina doesn’t remember the woman’s name, so she remains silent.

Allamah Veerstra, the president of the Megastate requests to speak with you. She says it is urgent.

A collective exultation spreads among the circle of muslimas.

Quiet please, Melina instructs them. She nods a thank-you to the secretary and points at her tiny office. The secretary gets the idea. Why wouldn’t she, considering how often Melina talks to the AI overseer? Nobody here in Kuwait City knows about the GAME. They only know Melina is joined at the hip with the machine ruler of the planet.

You girls can stay here or venture into the courtyard. I shouldn’t be more than fifteen minutes, says Melina. Stay in the shade if you go outside! she shouts at a few eager students.

Putting down the tablet and heading toward the little cupboard that functions as her office, Melina overhears multiple instances of Soteira whispered through Arabic inflections. She finds that strange. One would think that an archaic, deeply religious society would scorn being ruled by a machine intelligence. Here in Kuwait, that’s not the case. Not even close. The Kuwaiti unanimously adore their AI dictator. Perhaps because Soteira replaced Israeli rule. Perhaps because Soteira improved living standards. Many of the younger generation have expressed the perspective that the AI is the next prophet of Allah. Whatever the case, Melina’s grateful to have one less drawback while living in the sandy oven.

Closing the office door behind her, Melina strolls up to her holotable. She plops herself into an uncomfortable plastic chair. The sun shines through a small window, creating a bright halo that illuminates the dust-filled air. Taking a split-second breather to compose herself, Melina brushes dust off the etched glass panel and raises it. Without warning, Soteira’s virtual face fills the transparent surface.

Greetings, Allamah Veerstra. I hope all is proceeding well with your work.

The AI’s melodic voice soothes Melina. The pending migraine dissipates.

Please, Soteira, forget the honorific. Nobody’s around to hear it.

As you wish. How is the work in Kuwait City progressing?

Melina sighs. Slowly. It’s painfully obvious the SKIAP’s education ministry tried to exchange one set of irrational beliefs for another. Someone should have told them the doctrine of state supremacy doesn’t work any better than the doctrine of Islam. Forced secularism just pushed the religion underground during the SKIAP years. Now, since you allow religious freedom, it’s back with a vengeance.

Education in Kuwait, under Megastate law, is secular as well, Soteira replies.

I know. But Megastate education is higher quality, more thorough, more progressive. I mean, for chrissakes you’ve mandated critical-thinking classes for high schoolers. No government looking out for its future survival ever dared do that. The Rumaithiya girls have had those classes, but I don’t think critical thinking has yet extended to their beliefs.

Give the process time, Melina, Soteira retorts, her features softening. You are a GAME designer. You are extremely persuasive. You will persuade the younger generation. You will liberate them from their religious indoctrination.

She’s starting to sound like a self-confidence recording.

However, you will not do so by overstretching your authority. You must work together with the local Sheikhs, until such time comes when they are obsolete.

Melina rolls her eyes. They constantly undermine what I teach!

I understand. And tacitly yes, you do supersede them. But we will not win the hearts and minds of future Kuwaiti leaders by fighting openly with their revered theocrats.

Aren’t you the future Kuwaiti leader? Melina shoots back. C’mon, Soteira. I haven’t been publically admonished by the local Sheikhs or Imams in over two weeks. That’s a friggin record. I know that isn’t why you’ve called.

I have a critical assignment for you.

Melina blinks in surprise. The lack of transition—though common when conversing with the AI—jars her.

Soteira continues. Your work in Kuwait is on hold for the time being. This assignment is far more important. It is paramount to the security and continuing viability of both the Megastate and the GAME.

Sounds like shit is about to hit the fan. Not the way Melina wanted to start the day.

Over the next several minutes, the holographic face of the ruler of the world details a story that makes no sense to Melina. Apparently, several days ago, a renowned biochemist stole a quantum storage device from Thalesian Technologies—the company that originally designed the AI overseer back in the twenties. Surveillance of this Doctor Greg Burnet was constantly disrupted as he made his way from Seattle to Los Angeles via the Siranx. Robert Schaefer, a friend of hers who happened to be near LAX at the time, chased after Burnet. He didn’t catch the biochemist. Instead, both men vanished without a trace inside the airport.

Rather than cut to the chase and ask pointed questions, Melina gets caught in an existential loop with the AI. The only questions that come to mind center on how the heck an omnipresent AI loses someone amidst its self-designed surveillance society. There should be no such thing as lapses in coverage. A person would have to be off the grid and buried under tons of rock to avoid Soteira’s eyes. Anyone sticking their head above ground would be spotted by a suite of orbital laser nanosatellites under the AI’s exclusive control.

It strikes me as odd too, Melina. I cannot associate the sensation with anything I have previously experienced. It may be analogous to cataracts, but that disease is recognized by the patient. Perhaps it is more akin to a lysergic acid episode, since it has opened my mind to how imperfect I am.

Melina chuckles. That was kind of funny. Soteira’s worked on her wit.

"I do not know how to approach this problem, Melina. For the time being, I need to keep the incident a secret. Since GAME designers are the hardest to keep secrets from, I decided to task one to investigate the incident. Nonetheless, I am not ordering you to lead the investigation. I am asking you to."

Me? Really? Melina stammers. Why me? I . . . I’m not a detective. I have no investigation skills.

Incorrect, Soteira interjects. Though you may not acknowledge them or use them that often, your deduction skills are respectable. You have the ability to see the overall picture in situations. You also have the ability to execute activities surreptitiously. And because this incident involves you and your husband’s associate, Robert Schaefer, you may have insights into his disappearance.

Melina waves her hand. Okay, okay, I get it. Of course, you know me better than I do—you have ever since that night in Koreatown and Bellingham. But I’m too busy here in Kuwait with the work you assigned me. I might finally be getting through to some of these girls.

Your work in Kuwait is the least important work out of all GAME designers.

Oh . . . I see.

You can always rely on an AI to put things bluntly.

The investigation work you will lead will be the most important work out of all GAME designers.

You can always rely on a bottom-up AI to smooth things over right after blunting them.

All right. I guess I have no real choice in the matter, Melina acquiesces.

No, you do not, Soteira says wistfully. Then the AI pulls a Jekyll, switching instantly to cheery mode. Thank you, Melina, for accepting. You must promptly return to the United States to begin the investigation.

How long will I be gone, do you think?

Unknown.

Me lleva la chingada.

It is not that bad, Melina. You will have any Megastate resource you need at your disposal. I have already arranged a taxi and a solar flight to take you back to Seattle. Right after your classes are done, you will depart for KWI. Do you have any further questions?

Melina rubs her face. So many. But I can’t keep my students waiting forever. I’ll talk to you on the flight back to the US.

Soteira simply nods. Her visage evaporates from the display. Melina folds the glass panel back into the holotable then leans into the plastic chair. Exasperated, she takes a moment to reflect on the shit stew that was just dumped on her plate. The desire to call her husband for advice seeps in. Perhaps that would be best, considering Schaefer is Kurt’s friend too.

She’s left the students to their own devices for over five minutes, but a few more shouldn’t be a problem. The girls are an orderly bunch.

Cesare, call Kurt in Mandalay, she orders her auglens. After a long minute of ringtone, her husband answers. His handsome face appears in her left eye’s field of view.

Melina, good to see you, he says, smiling warmly. How are things in Kuwait?

Things are going slowly. You look a bit haggard. What time is it there?

Just past lunchtime. I had to shovel my meal down fast. Kurt shakes his head, a look of disgust forming on his face. These former junta types have been blatantly lying about their budget allocations. They’re cagey bastards.

Melina notices Kurt’s mouth is hardly moving. He’s using SvoIP. Good thing, too. She wouldn’t want her husband—standout foreigner and Megastate fink—to mouth off near the Burmese officials he’s supposed to be cooperating with. She sees his skin has darkened under the influence of the tropical sun. It makes his blue eyes stand out.

They’re closely guarding their old secrets. They won’t even inform me of the location of obsolete weapon caches. He produces a grin. But that’s business as usual here.

Melina shares a halfhearted grin of her own.

Melina, I can see from the look on your face that something’s wrong. What’s up?

Well . . .

C’mon, Melina. I know you. Spill it.

Have you ever heard of Soteira having blank spots in her surveillance coverage?

Kurt bellows a laugh. You’re kidding me, right? . . . You’re not kidding me?

Melina shakes her head.

Kurt furrows his brow. Hmm. That would be a first: Total surveillance society run by an omnipotent AI runs into glitches. How did you find out about such blank spots?

Soteira told me. Actually, she’s ordered me to investigate an incident revolving around cascading failures in her surveillance coverage. She was trying to track a person of interest travelling from Seattle to Los Angeles.

Really. Who?

I probably shouldn’t say. I forgot to ask if I could discuss the investigation with anyone else.

Ooh, secret Megastate business. That’s our specialty. We are GAME designers, after all.

Kurt, I—

Don’t worry about it, Melina. You don’t have to ask on my behalf. Though if you start getting into dangerous situations, I will insist on being told everything. But I’ll take that up with Soteira, if the time comes.

Thanks for understanding, honey. Soteira said she chose me because she wants to keep the investigation under wraps. I am apparently the GAME designer doing the least important work. I think I’m actually getting through to these indoctrinated muslimas. But now she wants me to up and leave, because what I do rates least important in her hierarchy of errands.

Kurt frowns. Ahh, the bluntness of our machine president. Don’t let it get to you. Every GAME designer is doing important work. We’re an elite group, like the Illuminati.

Melina giggles at the reference. She then centers herself, ready to deliver bad news.

Kurt, honey, the incident involves Schaefer. He’s vanished without a trace.

The look on her husband’s face surprises Melina. Hit with the news, Kurt doesn’t look concerned or worried. He looks lost in thought. His thick eyebrows twitch.

Kurt, did you hear what I said? Our good friend has disappeared.

I heard, I heard. Haven’t seen Rob in almost a year. Last thing I heard, he was back in California on police suppression duty.

Aren’t you worried? Nobody goes missing in the Megastate, yet Soteira says Rob is missing.

I am worried. It’s terrible news, Kurt says somberly.

Melina knows her husband’s nuances. His concern sounds forced. Fake, even. Kurt quickly flips back to pensive.

You know, if you’re at a critical juncture with your work in Kuwait, what’s stopping you from enlisting some help? Check with Soteira. You might be able to recruit a detective or two. What about Luther? Isn’t he Seattle PD now?

Qué? Luther Scotian?

Yeah. From what I’ve heard, he’s still a pretty good detective. He could do the legwork of the investigation. I’m sure he’d jump at the opportunity for some Megastate intrigue.

Why would Kurt recommend my ex-boyfriend all of a sudden?

Indeed, Kurt never had much of a problem with Luther. Even so, Melina’s husband oft mentioned how her ex was wasting his potential. The last mention of Luther was at least five years ago, when they last saw him. He had come to visit his mother in Orange County, and then stopped by their old Pico apartment in Century City for some alcohol-fueled nostalgia.

Cripes. Melina, I’ve got to let you go. Mandalay security administrators want an impromptu meeting.

Okay, Kurt. I’ll talk to you later. Love you.

Ditto. Can’t wait to see you in the flesh at our furlough next month. At least I hope that’s still possible for you.

Soteira be damned if it isn’t.

Hehe. Goodbye, my love.

Kurt’s face dissolves from her auglens. Melina rubs her left eye, closing it briefly and allowing her rods and cones to settle. She then ponders her husband’s responses.

Her criminology training kicked in during the conversation. Kurt’s responses were strange, especially those regarding Robert Schaefer and Luther Scotian. She can’t quite put her finger on why.

Errant thoughts about Luther Scotian creep into her mind. She wonders what her old flame has been up to