Free Polity 1 - Prador Moon by Asher Neal

fitments lay easy on the eye. The carpet itself was decorated with repeating representations of the Trajeen AI and computer network. AIs were represented as red triangles, subminds were minor orange triangles, with variously coloured dots indicating servers and computers, and the whole being tangled in a three-dee web of com channels. The walls were clad with pillow-shaped foamstone blocks. Not so much bustle here—an oddly quiet and comfortable niche for something requiring no comfort. George led her to wooden panel doors and opened them onto a wide lounge alongside which long windows gave a panoramic view across the runcible.
    “Please, take a seat.” George gestured to a sofa.
    Moria perched on the edge of one plush black fabric-covered sofa and surveyed the lounge. It seemed likely to her that much of this room's contents were either antique or indistinguishable reproduction. The oval table lying between the two sofas appeared to be made of genuine Earth-import wood, or maybe the table itself had been imported. Along one wall, on a worktop of polished stone, stood a collection of computers extending from the earliest PCs to present day. Behind them the racked wall contained a huge collection of ancient storage media: tapes, discs of many different sizes and formats, stacks of silicon data storage units, digital paper, carbon rod and early crystal, and much else she could not identify. In one corner squatted an insectile telefactor with forelimbs folded across its body as if it were in prayer; behind it lay the atmosphere-sealed shelves of a carousel packed with books. She realised the computers were all wired in and, by wear in the carpet below, that the telefactor frequently used them. It seemed the AI enjoyed access to much ancient information, though to what purpose she could not guess. A hobby? Historical research?
    “A drink?”
    Moria turned to see George standing by a drinks cabinet.
    “Do you have greenwine?”
    “Certainly.”
    He found a bottle Moria knew to be a rare vintage, and poured two glasses before coming over. He placed the drinks on the table and seated himself on the sofa opposite.
    “So when does the AI talk to me?” She took a sip of her drink—ice cold in a crystal goblet lightly dusted with frost.
    “It is talking to you now,” George replied.
    A beat.
    “You're a Golem?”
    “No, I am physically human but mentally a submind of the Trajeen System Cargo Runcible AI.” He gestured towards his chest. “This body was grown in a vat, the mind programmed as an adjunct to myself.”
    Moria had not known this to be possible. It might not be, for AIs did not necessarily tell the truth.
    “Okay.” She took another drink to hide her confusion, then decided to play along with this. “Other than the fact that the aug I'm wearing might be something other than standard, I've something else bothering me.”
    George waited.
    She continued: “Why did Sylac use his own name if he is a fugitive?”
    “He conducted many operations in his surgery in Copranus City, working under the pseudonym Doctor Runciman Hyde.” George winced. “A rather telling pseudonym… Only with you did he use his correct name. He is arrogant and wants us to know about his work. By using his true name, prior to closing his surgery and moving on, he knew we would eventually find out, and track down all those upon whom he conducted nonstandard augmentation.”
    “He has gone then?”
    “We are searching for him at present, but he had two weeks in which to make his escape. Precisely at the time you experienced the enhanced level of aug function aboard the shuttle, over a hundred others experienced the same. However, only through you did we identify him.”
    “So what now?”
    “Now I must make an assessment of you, your aug, and the synergetic combination you represent.” George leaned forwards and now Moria noticed something weird about his eyes: the irises seemed to have become evenly spoked and metallic. “I will