Locked In: AI: Augmented Intelligence, #2

By Harry Dayle

Mysterious radiation readings.

Unexplained sickness and death.

Can a technologically augmented ex-detective work out what's going on…and avert a catastrophe?

Ex-policeman Xavier Baxter is getting to grips with the awesome power installed in his head. When worrying radiation readings appear across the South East of England, Xavier takes it upon himself to investigate.

Meanwhile, back at the Attic, one of the team is about to derail everything the secretive organisation has been working on.

Locked In is the latest techno-thriller from Harry Dayle, and the second in the Augmented Intelligence series set in the mysterious MI16 government agency.

• Language: English
• Publisher: Harry Dayle
• Release date: Jan 12, 2024
• ISBN: 9798224951239

Book preview

ONE

The turning of the trees in London’s royal parks was a sight that brought a child-like joy to Xavier Baxter’s heart. In years past when the majestic oaks and chestnuts had shed their summer coats, making the pathways into rivers of gold, he had often fought the urge to leap into mounds of leaves, kicking them into the chilled air while shrieking with delight. Such behaviour would not be befitting of a police sergeant, even an off-duty one. And so his enjoyment of the phenomenon had always been tempered by his adult brain filtering his boyish urges. And because the falling of the leaves was the only positive thing to happen in October, it meant it was a month that – all things considered – was best avoided if at all possible. Annual leave spent somewhere warm was his preferred method of getting away from what was otherwise a dark, drab time of the year. He’d rather be in the proximity of crystal blue waters than the cold grey drizzle, which seemed omnipresent between September and May.

The drizzle was almost as thick as fog when Xavier marched across London Bridge. Glancing east, the smoky curved glass exterior of City Hall had all but disappeared, blending into the miserable, all-pervasive damp.

Xavier lowered his head against the accompanying wind, pulled his black trench coat tight, and powered onwards. While he walked, he flexed an invisible muscle. Not flesh, but a phantom limb, an imaginary appendage. At least that was the way he explained the process to his colleagues. It was the only way he could put the mental action into words. When he told his brain to move this non-existent part of his physique, it lit up a pathway of synapses which invoked a state of mind they referred to as blue. And in this state of mind, he imagined his old colleague, Detective Constable Chloe Fry, uttering a phrase.

You could have sent a car to take me.

He reached the far end of the bridge and heard Chloe’s voice again. This time, the words she spoke were not planted into his imagination by his own actions. The message she relayed had been transmitted from one of Xavier’s new colleagues. Which one was not clear, although he had a good idea given the tone of the response.

You were close enough. You can walk it quicker than a car can get to you. It is only the other side of the river. Walk faster.

Knowing he was being watched by the capital’s CCTV camera network, he raised a single middle finger in the air.

Charming, Chloe’s voice whispered inside his head.

That was new. He didn’t remember training the word into the communication system. Then again, the last few weeks had been a blur of intensive learning and exercises. The days had run into one another, and they had covered so much ground everything had become a mush of memories. While the weather had gradually deteriorated, as the nights had drawn in and the temperature had dropped, and as his brain had been worked so hard he found it difficult to concentrate on anything for long, he had suggested to Annabel that perhaps a break was in order. A couple of weeks in Morocco, or maybe the Canary Islands, just to recharge his batteries. He couldn’t recall her exact response, but he was sure it contained words that had definitely not been programmed into the communications system yet.

What do I say when I get there? Are they expecting me?

Xavier passed under a railway bridge so wide the road below was a tunnel. Above him, commuter trains ground and squealed as they accelerated out of London Bridge station where they had disgorged their passengers for another day’s work in the City. The sound triggered a memory, one which had been lurking just out of reach for the best part of a month. For a split second he was transported to a traffic island in a busy intersection at the end of Vauxhall Bridge. His right hand reached up and rested on his left shoulder.

Baxter. You okay?

The recollection popped like a bubble and he was returned to reality, finding himself turning onto St Thomas Street on autopilot.

Yes. Tell Anton I need to speak to him when I get back.

How do you know this is not Anton?

Your charming manner gave you away, Caitlin. What do I say when I arrive?

Your name is Barry and you have been sent to deal with the problem. That is all they need to know and they will not ask questions. The man on the ground is DI Harris. He is your liaison. Keep us posted, Baxter.

Ahead, through the drizzle that was now turning into a full-blown rain shower, the looming mass of The Shard towered over him. Its sheer glass sides made Xavier wonder if the architect’s brief had been to come up with something as far removed as possible from the stock brick houses and buildings surrounding the base of the project. Every city had to move forwards, Xavier understood that. But wasn’t such extreme progress what Docklands was for?

One of his issues with modern buildings, particularly skyscrapers, was that they had many entrances, not all of which provided access to the part of the complex one required. The Shard was no exception, and so it took him several minutes to locate what turned out to be a discreet automatic door manned by a bellman wearing a sharp uniform and a fixed smile. The two men nodded to each other as Xavier passed him and strode between two security pillars. There was no time to check with Caitlin about what kind of detectors they bore and whether he should take any precautions to protect the hardware in his head. The doors opened to welcome him without a hitch.

I am in.

The downstairs lobby to the hotel was smaller than he expected. Taller than it was deep, it was nonetheless opulent, with marble and leather covering every surface.

Xavier bypassed the receptionist and headed straight for the man in the navy suit hanging around the waiting area. Even if he had not recognised him, he would have made him as a copper from a mile off. It was something about the man’s stance, the way he exuded suspicion and skepticism from every pore.

He took a deep breath, held out a hand, and announced himself. I’m Barry. Been sent to help with a little problem.

Harris took his time, eyed him from head to toe and back, before shaking his hand. His eyes narrowed. Have we met?

Oh shit. I have just pulled his file, Chloe’s voice whispered in Xavier’s head.

I doubt it, Xavier said. He let go of the policeman’s hand and walked past him to a bank of lifts.

You got a brother? The name Baxter mean anything to you?

Xavier felt his neck begin to burn despite the rain dripping onto it from his soaked head. The plastic surgery following the shooting was only the first of a number of such procedures the Attic had planned. Anyone who knew him well, Josh, for example, or Chloe, would see through the superficial changes to his appearance with ease. He had worked with DI Harris on only a couple of operations, but the man was as sharp as they came and had a memory for faces, though it was usually preoccupied with criminal ones.

Only child, Xavier said. He pushed the call button. And no more questions, thank you, Inspector. You know how it is.

Harris was by his side. You lot, all the same. Think your shit don’t stink and you’re something special just because you get to run around and use a made-up name like a five-year-old.

By us lot, you mean–?

Spooks, Harris spat.

The lift pinged, the doors opened. Harris entered first.

They exited on the thirty-fourth floor, Xavier pushing ahead of the policeman. The principal lobby was more up to expectations. The double height space was as over-the-top as the ground floor entrance, but the marble and gold finishes could not compete with the vast expanses of glass. Xavier glimpsed specks of blue through the grey; they were almost above the clouds. He vowed to return on a clear day to sample what must surely be a magnificent view. The space inside was filled with armchairs and sofas and low tables. A bar stretched the length of one wall. The barman was stacking bottles into a refrigerator; he had no customers to serve. Indeed, the whole lobby was deserted, aside from a handful of staff. Only one cluster of seating was occupied – by people who did not look happy to be there.

Harris led him to the main reception desk, where a young man with slick hair and a suit even sharper than his own greeted him with a nod.

This is the specialist, Harris said, jerking his head Xavier’s way without looking at him.

Phillip Devere. I’m the duty manager. I trust you have been briefed on our situation?

Xavier shook his hand. Barry. He glanced back around the reception and imagined how it should be: buzzing with activity. Yes. Have they made any demands?

One thousand, Devere hesitated, turned and slid a document from the desk beside him, and read from it, frowning. Bitcoin. DI Harris informs me this is a new kind of money.

Cryptocurrency, Xavier said, remembering the word from the scant briefing he had received less than fifteen minutes earlier. A shade over a million pounds, or one point two million US dollars at today’s exchange rate. May I?

Devere nodded. Of course, here. He handed the document over. We cannot possibly pay such a sum. That is not to suggest that the safety of our guests is not of paramount importance, but there is also a question of precedent. To give into such a demand would be to invite a flood of similar attacks.

I think your lack of data security might be more of an open invitation. Not that your company is alone in its wilful blindness to the threats posed by the connected world. Xavier scanned the printed email, filling in the blanks that the Attic hadn’t been able to communicate accurately to him on his way to the hotel.

We are Anonymous. The Red River Hotel Group is guilty of the following crimes against humanity:

- Slave labour practices

- Funding terrorism

- Illegal government lobbying

- Bribery of planning officials

- Disrespect of the local community

- Criminally poor cybersecurity

- Poor taste

Our message will be heard far and wide. Every one of your guests is, today, a prisoner. They will become the mouthpiece of Anonymous.

Your nightmare is just beginning. Pay now the sum of one thousand BTC to the address below to release your prisoners. Have a nice day.

Poor taste, Xavier muttered, and took another look around the lavish lobby. The hackers might have gone a bit far in ensuring their demand be met, but he couldn’t disagree with their final charge. How many guests are locked in their rooms?

Two hundred and twelve, the duty manager whispered. I already faxed a full list to Detective Harris’s people. We disconnected the hotel’s internet connection the moment we received the demand and understood what was happening, but it hasn’t helped.

Xavier slapped the email back onto the desk. No, I expect they probably thought of that. They will have put safeguards in place when they executed the hack, made sure the system stayed locked whatever happened. Can I see the computer that controls the doors?

Follow me.

Devere led them into a back office. Six computers filled a table, and a squat man bulging out of a short sleeve yellow shirt was working at one. He glanced at Xavier, though his fingers never left the keyboard.

This gentleman is from Synapse Security. They supplied the system. Supposed to be top of the line. The same system used in most government buildings. Any luck so far?

The other man shook his head, wiped his brow on the back of his hand, and increased his typing speed.

Xavier leaned over his shoulder and read from the screen. You’re not even logged in, are you?

Bastards have changed all the passwords. Even the backdoors for emergency access.

You mean for engineers that want to sneak around hotels without paying?

I mean for engineering access. Who are you? More old bill?

Nope. He turned back to Devere. I need you to take me to a locked door.

Which one?

Any one.

The manager grasped his chin and avoided eye contact.

Any room, Xavier repeated.

Yes, but there is a question of priority. Some of our guests–

For goodness’ sake. He pushed past the two men, strode across reception, got back in the lift, and pressed the button for the next floor up. At the same time, he thought blue. Harris has a list of guests staying in the hotel. Can you get a copy?

Easily. Why?

Never know, might be important.

Wait! I must accompany you. The manager, breathless and red in the face, held back the closing doors long enough for himself and Harris to squeeze through. What are you going to do?

Open the doors to the rooms and let your guests out, Xavier said simply.

The lift deposited them on a wide platform overlooking the lobby below. A sign directed visitors to rooms in three directions. Xavier picked one and walked until he came to a door; room number 101. Apt, he muttered. Instinctively, he reached out to pass his hand across the card reader set into the handle, but he stopped himself, turned the gesture into a stretching motion, then pulled his phone from his pocket. Working without props would only raise more difficult questions, and Annabel wouldn’t be pleased.

The manager grimaced. We’ve already tried opening the doors with our customer app. No good, I’m afraid. They’re deadlocked. That’s why the guests can’t even open them from inside.

At the same moment, someone began banging on a door further along, and shouted, Oi! Who’s out there? When are you going to get us out of here? Three fucking hours I’ve been in here. How hard can it be to–

Whatever he said next was drowned out by the sound of more guests hammering on their doors and shouting insults and obscenities. Like dominoes falling, the chorus of complaint cascaded along the corridor until nothing coherent could be made out.

Xavier shook his head, leaned in closer to the manager to make himself heard, and said, I have an app of my own, thanks.

For the purposes of keeping up appearances, he tapped at the screen for a bit until he found a note-taking app, into which he typed a few lines of meaningless jargon. He looked nervously at Harris and Devere. They were too close for comfort. Annabel was always banging on about discretion, so he said, Gentlemen, would you mind moving away please?

Harris grunted and stuffed his hands into his trouser pockets. Why? You gonna dynamite it?

Just move back, will you?

The policeman’s eyes narrowed again. We have met before. I remember you. Cocky little sod you were. That hasn’t changed. You weren’t called Barry back then though.

Mister Devere, if you want these doors open, you will need to insist that this gentleman moves away from the door.

I’m the one giving orders around here, son–

No, you’re the police liaison. This is private property, and if Mr Devere asks you to move away, you’ll be looking at a complaint in your file if you disregard that request.

Devere, almost bowing, eyes pleading, turned to Harris. If the specialist thinks it is necessary, then I must ask that you comply. I am responsible for the wellbeing of everyone in this hotel, including you.

Harris looked set to argue his case, but his shoulders slumped. He kicked the carpet with the toe of his shoe and shuffled away, muttering.

Xavier let out his breath, smiled at the manager, then turned his attention back to the door. Taking his phone in hand, he passed it over the lock, at the same time flexing a different mental muscle, the one which activated the synaptic pathway they called green.

Nothing happened.

He tried the handle. The door was locked.

The manager, a few paces back towards the lift, coughed politely.

Xavier ignored him and opened the line of communication with the Attic.

Not working. Maisie hasn’t unlocked the door.

Wait.

He prodded at his phone again, buying time.

Chloe’s voice spoke in his head. We have not seen a request to open.

I just tried.

Try again.

He repeated the action, holding the phone screen towards the door, passing it from the top of the lock to the bottom.

Not working.

Still no request. Are you wearing metal gloves or something?

Is that serious?

We are not seeing the open command, so either you are not trying a hackable lock, or something is interfering with the signal from the NFC chip in your hand. Gloves?

Xavier looked at the phone. It was metal-backed. Hang on.

For a third time, he tapped on the phone, but this time he shifted position so he was standing with his back to Devere. He took the phone in his other hand, held it near the lock, then passed his free hand across the handle mechanism.

There. We see it.

Door is not open.

Six seconds.

Then what?

Then try again.

Nearly there, he said, glancing over his shoulder.

Now.

He repeated the action, all the time thinking green. He knew it had worked this time even before the LED lit up on the handle. Maisie had a way of feeding back a sensation of success, which he felt as a kind of tickle in the back of his mind. With complete confidence, he pulled down the handle and pushed open the door.

The room was empty, so he strode to the next door, clocked the green light, and opened that one. A fat man wearing only boxer shorts gawped at him, before bellowing, About bloody time. You’ll be hearing from my lawyer. I’ve lost my best client because of this hotel’s incompetence. I’ve…hey, where the bloody hell do you think you’re going? Come back here and listen to me.

All along the corridor, doors opened and a mix of relieved and angry hotel guests poured out of the rooms.

Xavier smiled to himself, retreated to where the manager was attempting to calm the first escapee, and said, Get your people to sort out your security, yeah? Maybe put in a firewall or something. Have a nice day.

Harris tried to intercept him at the lift, but he blanked the man and went for the stairs instead. Today was supposed to be his day off after all. Someone else could deal with the aftermath.

TWO

Your objection has been noted, Annabel said, tapping at the glass screen which was her desk. You’re getting a good deal. You’re working less than a full day today and you’ll get a full day’s paid leave at a later date to compensate.

Paid leave? Xavier snorted. He leaned back in the visitor chair, tipping it onto its rear legs. I don’t even get paid to work here.

You’re well looked after.

I’ve done what you asked. Come in, debriefed you. There’s no pressing need for me to stay the rest of the day.

Annabel began to explain something about wanting him around in case the police needed to follow up, but he wasn’t paying attention. His mind had already wandered back to the streets of the City where he was supposed to be meeting Olivia. They had planned a boat trip up the river, a picnic somewhere out of town. Sure, the weather was far from perfect for nautical activities, but any excuse to spend a bit of time with her was fine by him. At least he’d had a chance to call her to cancel on the short return journey to the Attic.

How does it work between you and the police anyway? he said, snapping back to the moment.

What do you mean?

When I was a copper, I never heard of MI16. Not even rumours. It can’t be a question of rank because senior officers are shit at keeping secrets. Nobody in the Met knows about this place. So how do they call the Attic in for jobs like the hotel this morning?

I would have thought that was obvious. Annabel rose from her chair and opened the door. They go via MI5.

Right. Hence Barry, the supposed spook. If this is going to be a regular thing, can I get to choose a better pseudonym?

This isn’t going to be a regular thing. You were the closest asset. Otherwise we would have sent Caitlin.

Well, that’s marvellous. My day off has been ruined because robo-bitch didn’t want to leave her cosy den.

Mr Baxter, please. A little respect for your colleagues.

Caitlin appeared in the doorway, leaned on her crutches, and grinned. It didn’t suit her. ’S okay, I like it. Robo-bitch is cool. I’ve been called worse. Anton’s waiting for you in his room.

Annabel offered a cold smile, pushed his chair back onto a stable footing, and said, Off you trot.

Anton’s lair was a few doors down from Annabel’s. It was rarely referred to as an office, with good reason. The man himself was half-hidden from view to anyone entering. To find him meant first negotiating a maze of haphazardly placed bookcases, then stacks of books that towered like the columns of the Roman Forum. That brought Xavier to a dingy, low-ceilinged corner entirely filled with what passed for a desk but was actually a kitchen worktop propped up on piles of bricks. Anton had explained it was the only way he could get the horizontal space he was after. Fifty per cent of that space was occupied by scientific journals, which Xavier thought could just as well be stacked on what little of the floor was unused, thus enabling the software engineer to enjoy a more conventional setup, but he continued to keep this idea to himself. The rest of the bench was taken up with a ragtag collection of laptop computers, all of which were on and working autonomously. Only the top of Anton’s head was visible behind the middle computer. He was perched on a Swiss ball.

With Caitlin having left him at the door, Xavier picked his way through the mess. Tell me, Anton. How long do you think I’ve got before it happens to me?

Anton’s head shifted in an irregular pattern as he rolled his hips to keep steady on the ball. Until what happens?

The thing where I lose all warmth and humanity. I presume it’s a compulsory operation after a fixed length of service in the Attic?

I think it only applies to the women.

Thank God for that. Caitlin said you wanted to see me. Supposed to be my day off. Apparently, I’m the only person who believes that. Xavier stepped across a low stack of programming reference manuals and squeezed around the bench, bent double to fit below the steeply raked ceiling.

Actually, you said you wanted to talk to me. Nice job at the hotel, by the way.

Thanks. Ran into an old colleague. He recognised me. No biggie.

You tell Annabel?

Yeah. She’s brought forward the date for my next makeover. I’m still not used to this face and in a few weeks it’s going to change again.

Anton tore his eyes away from the screen at last. Oh, you can sit on those if you want.

Are they new?

Very observant. Two years’ worth of Byte magazine from the late eighties. I had most of them already, naturally. Caitlin blew up twenty issues last year, doing a thing that didn’t work out like she hoped. Found those replacements on eBay and they came yesterday.

And you’re letting me sit on them? Are you feeling okay?

I have three copies of each issue. I keep making her buy me more anyway and she keeps forgetting she already did. So what’s up?

Xavier straightened the stack and manoeuvred himself into an uncomfortable sitting position. I had a flashback this morning on the way to the Shard.

Anton sat up straighter. Vauxhall Cross?

He nodded. The traffic island. Without thinking, his hand reached to his shoulder again. The scar was still sore enough that he had to choose his clothing carefully. Nothing too tight fitting, and nothing so loose that it rubbed the dressing. I remembered, Anton. I remembered what made me turn.

A reflection, yeah? You saw the gun reflected in a bus window?

Xavier shook his head. No. But I did see the gun. Which makes no sense, I know. Given the angle the car was approaching, there’s no way I should have been able to see it. And yet I did. As clear as I can see you now. Only I didn’t see it from my own point of view. It’s like I was floating above myself.

An out-of-body experience?

That’s what it felt like. One minute I was grappling with Roger, the next I was looking down on me and him and the island, and I saw the car. And then it’s as if I zoomed right in on the open window and the gun barrel.

Anton watched him, expressionless for a moment. Finally, his face cracked into a wide grin, and he slapped a hand on the worktop, making three of the lighter laptops move. I knew it. I knew it! Maisie. She got inside your head.

She’s already inside my head.

Not that collection of chips that Elise implanted. I’m talking about the real Maisie. The server array. The AI. The racks full of computers up the hall. Anton twisted with difficulty. Facing Xavier, and with eyes alive, he continued. She follows you, Xavier. She watches you by any means possible.

Yeah, you said. Amazing. And more than a little bit creepy.

Anton frowned. She’s a machine, not a voyeur. Anyway, she was watching you out there when you confronted Roger–

From the traffic cameras?

Traffic cams, on-board security cameras on passing busses, any smartphones she could get into that happened to be looking your way. Mostly Android devices, they’re easy to hack. Any means available. She analysed all that footage in real time. She must have picked up the threat from the MI5 car and communicated it to you. This is excellent, Xavier, really excellent. I suspected as much, naturally. I’ve even been through the archives looking for evidence, but she doesn’t keep hold of the realtime footage. Can’t. Too much of it. Even GCHQ would be hard pushed to store the amount of data flowing through Maisie. She filters and selects and keeps edited highlights. Not enough to prove my hypothesis. But this, your memory of the events, it fits perfectly.

Xavier lowered his head and pinched the top of his nose. You’re telling me your machine analysed all available camera footage and found a gun? How did she know it was a gun? No offence, Anton, but I don’t buy it. I’ve done some reading on this stuff.

Anton leaned back so far he almost toppled off the ball. Really? You read the articles I gave you?

Don’t sound so surprised.

I thought you were being polite by taking them.

I’ve got a sodding computer in my head. I wanted to know a bit more, okay? And from what I’ve read so far, computers have a hard enough time telling the sky from the side of a lorry.

You’re referring to a recent electric car accident.

Xavier nodded. Yeah, that one in America which crashed. They say the software misinterpreted the massive white lorry driving in the next lane as open sky, which is why it thought it could drive right into the side of it. I know you’re, like, a genius and everything, but let’s face it, that car company’s got a bigger budget than the whole of the Attic. If all their cash and resources can’t come up with something capable of telling a truck from the sky, I’m having trouble believing your racks of computers can pick out the barrel of a handgun in a crowded London intersection. Even if it was only watching one camera. And you reckon it was watching loads. Artificial intelligence isn’t that great yet.

Anton shook his head. No, you’re not getting it, Xavier. This is what I was trying to tell you before. Maisie isn’t artificial intelligence, she’s augmented intelligence. You’re a part of the system. A crucial part. The computers in the other room, they do the legwork. They hack the camera feeds, assemble the images, perform some primary filtering. Some of the data which comes out of that process goes through your head–

Bollocks. I have to concentrate to send you a message. We have a limited vocabulary when you want to reply until we train more words. No way are your machines sending live images through me, I’d know.

Not all the time. I said Maisie filters. She throws a lot of stuff out and only sends you what she thinks might be useful. She didn’t save the footage from that day’s events, but she logged the incident because she remarked you were in danger. You were in a fight in the middle of a busy road junction, with a known criminal who had already caused you harm. Somehow, she got those images through the chip and into your head. Your brain subconsciously took over, spotted the gun, and took evasive action.

Xavier looked up so sharply he hit his head on the ceiling. Ouch. Shit. He rubbed his skull and frowned accusingly at the offending bit of plasterwork. It was undamaged. Turning back to Anton, he said, You don’t know, do you? You don’t really know what happened.

The other man looked for a moment like he might protest, but his shoulders slumped. I don’t know precisely how she did it, or how you did it. But make no mistake, the outcome is precisely what Maisie was designed for. This is new ground. We’re treading new territory here, Xavier. I’ve written hundreds of thousands of lines of computer code to make Maisie do her part, to get the data into the chip in your head. But at a certain point it goes from being software to, well, wetware.

Wetware? Oh God, you mean brain tissue, don’t you?

Anton nodded. The human brain is remarkable. Almost infinitely adaptable and reprogrammable–

So Elise is always telling me.

Unlike my machines, though, I don’t know how to program your neurones and synapses. We can train them with the exercises, as we are doing every day, but that stuff - the comms and opening doors - that’s merely scratching the surface of what’s possible. What happened at Vauxhall Cross is a taster of what you and Maisie can do. You and the machine were in perfect harmony.

It was barely for a split second.

Enough time to note and assess the danger and to take evasive action.

Xavier rubbed his shoulder, harder this time. Quite possibly the stupidest action I could have taken. Almost got myself killed to save a rogue.

A rogue who has been spilling secrets about corrupt security service officers like his life depends on it. Which, to be fair, it does. No, you did good. Don’t beat yourself up over it. I believe your former colleagues call that a right result.

I wasn’t thinking about unmasking dodgy spooks from P Section. I was thinking about a little girl who was about to become fatherless. Is that worse or better than a little girl who has to spend the rest of her life visiting her dad in a top security jail?

Anton closed his eyes and shook his head. The point is the system worked. Maisie got the images to you and your brain put the pieces together. She was watching out for you and she sensed your intent. The brain-silicon interface brought the two of you together in a completely unique way. Xavier, if we weren’t a secret organisation, this is the sort of thing that would shock the science community to its core. This is the sort of breakthrough Nobel prizes are made of. He stared into the middle distance, losing sight of Xavier for a minute.

If Maisie– If all those machines, Xavier wasn’t sure he liked anthropomorphising a room full of computers that had direct access to his head. If they know what I want, then we can forget the training programme, yeah?

Anton smiled, refocussing. You’d like that, wouldn’t you? No, we aren’t stopping the programme. You were lucky. Something about your state of mind made you receptive to the message, but it was outside your control. If we are to harness the potential, the full potential, you need to learn how to access Maisie at will, to direct her, interrogate her, use her in ways we haven’t even thought of yet. Your training is only just beginning. Speaking of which, now you’re here, we should probably get a move on.

Great. More pointless exercises.

Anton grinned. That’s what it takes. The more you train your brain to communicate with Maisie, the easier it will become, and the more you will be able to do.

Xavier rubbed his head, still sore from where he had banged it. "You keep telling me that, but I don’t