Page 79 of Throwing Fire

Everyone knows what happens when an AI gets free. You getTundra’s Rebellion, the day the hypernet went dark. You get Phogath. A million dead and food shortages for a year throughout the Core. You get Tje Dhos. So the AIs are TYED, and the sheep never look up.

“No entries found,” she tells me.

Maybe the search was too specific. “Search, mag-gun.”

“No entries found,” she repeats.

I rub my chin with the hand I don’t have wrapped around Kez. Try again. “Search, magnetic disruption weapon,” I say.

“Three found,” she responds and a short list pops up. Spectra MRG. Probably a newer model than what I used in SAWL. The specs look pretty much the same, though.

“Locate, Spectra MRG,” I tell her.

“Two, Tyng Tower, Hemos City. One location unknown.”

I fucking knew it. “Unknown? Query.”

“Querying,” she tells me. Her brow creases along well-worn lines. AI emoting. “Spectra MRG serial number 6097-4414-863 released to Security Xec Zatlan on twenty-eight-four-twenty-one. Authorization, Sandringham Snow.”

That was three days ago, and I’m pretty fucking sure I did not authorize it. “Locate, Security Xec Zatlan.”

“Locating,” she says. I know Tyng employees have trackers implanted, because the Tyngaling doc tried to stick one in my arm. “Security Xec Zatlan found.” And then she gives me a location less than fifty meters from where I’m sitting.

Fuck. “Employee identification image, Security Xec Zatlan.”

A man’s face overlays Mother Jo’s. He looks vaguely familiar. I’ve probably met him during security briefings, but he’s not high enough up the Tyng ladder for me to know his name. The blond hair, caught up in a regulation queue for his ID vid is plenty recognizable, though. It was floating around in the current when I last saw it.

“Terminate employment, Security Xec Zatlan,” I tell Mother Jo. Once his employment is terminated, the tracker will go dead. That’ll prevent any do-gooder from finding him on my shock net. “Family?”

“Contracted. Two registered offspring.”

Fuck. “Reassign. Security Xec Zatlan killed in line of duty. Full family benefits.”

“Noted,” Mother Jo tells me.

“Query, Spectra MRG activation key.” Some of the weapons in SAWL were keyed to the user’s bioprint. So the weapon wouldn’t work if it fell into civvy hands.

“Confirmed. Authorization Sandringham Snow.”

Gotcha fucker. “Revoke authorization, Spectra MRG 6097-4414-863.” That’s one mag-gun that will be going dead in someone’s mangy paws.

“Authorization revoked,” Mother Jo confirms.

One problem down. Now to figure out who really authorized the weapon that eventually ended up in Dom Fox’s pink paws, since it sure as hell wasn’t me. “List, log ins Tyng-net, Sandringham Snow.”

Mother Jo does and I read through them carefully. Nothing unusual. No off-hours log ins while I was sleeping, or on the Clouds, or unconscious. They’re all at times when I was either in the Tower or logging in from the Warren or my place by the river. Someone’s covered their tracks.

But the pool of suspects can’t be too deep. Sure, most of the Tyngalings know who I am, but those are long fucking odds on breaking my encryption. No, it’s someone close. Someone in our inner circle. And I still don’t know who it is.

So I set a trap.

“Mother Jo, increase authorization, security commands level three and above. Password, HH-KK. No prompt. Ten second delay. On failure to authorize, notifySpinningInfinity, ship code SI2662. Confirm.”

“Confirmed,” Mother Jo acknowledges.

Tough for someone to crack security they don’t know about.

“Mother Jo,” I say. “We got a traitor in our house.”

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