LAW Chat, on the legal bandwidth of the LINK, October 12, 2075
KMarshall@LINK.com
"I'm from the District Attorney's Office in New York. I'm looking for advice on a very unusual situation that we've got here. A couple of our detectives actually put their hands on hard evidence linking a power reroute hack on the New York node to a perp code-named the Mouse. They nabbed him real-time here in New York. The case against him is pretty solid. That's not the problem.
"My problem is with his AI. As strange as it may seem, there don't seem to be any precedents on the books about the culpability of an AI in LINK crime. Mouse's attorney wants to make the case that since the AI did the crime, the AI should do the time. Any advice?"
SZien@LINK.com
"First of all, the AI can't do the time. There's no way to bind a free agent like an AI. The only solution would be to deactivate it, which would be tantamount to a death sentence. For a power boost that seems a little excessive, don't you think?"
AThomas@vatican.va
"If I may interject? There aren't that many true, operational AI's out there. Mouse's page and the Dragon of the East, the two notable exceptions. Still, there's no way to prove that the AI, even Mouse's AI, is truly responsible for its actions and not behaving according to some deeply programmed code.
"The Vatican policy is that an AI is similar to a soulless golem or an elemental [See the vatican.va file AI7-23.] under complete control of the wire-wizard. The wizard is ultimately responsible for all of the AI's actions."
SZien@LINK.com
"I am pleasantly surprised, (although I should not be, I suppose), to find my esteemed colleague at the Vatican familiar with the Jewish concept of a golem. Likewise, I agree with the bulk of his statement. There simply is no way of telling if Mouse's page or The Dragon of the East aren't just extremely detailed programs that are operating completely at the will of their makers, even if they appear to operate independently."
NIPetronenov@mousenet.com
"Russia, my proudly atheist country, runs almost completely via mouse.net. We recognize Mouse's Page as a full citizen and grant him all according rights, including that of asylum which, I must inform you, he is exercising at this moment. Ms. Marshall, I suggest we continue this discussion on a private band."
Chapter 11
"Forgive me, Father, for intruding at such an earlyhour," a voice said as I opened my eyes a crack. Morning sun filtered through stained glass. Deep reds glowed in the tunic of the mosaic: Christ the Shepherd. Black lead outlined a clear piece of glass representing a halo. Unadulterated sunlight shone through it, contrasting the surrounding browns and blues. The lamb draped over Christ's rounded shoulders rested its head under the crook of Christ's jaw.
Like the lamb, I was being carried. My head was nestled against smooth, cool skin. The flesh was almost as cold as the air in the drafty cathedral. I looked around dreamily. Speckles of sunlight did their best to warm the wood of the pews, but the church felt distant and as empty as a tomb to me.
This is no place for refuge anymore. Not for my soul, not for my body. Surely the police will find us here, I tried to say, but my voice was too weak. All that came out was a helpless-sounding croak. I barely recognized it as my own voice. Cradled like a fragile doll, I tried to move. My body felt too heavy to lift. My left arm swung uselessly at my side. A heavy pain thundered in my shoulder.
"Shhhh," a voice cautioned. "Save your strength." His warm breath tickled my cheek. I could feel strands of his hair, feather-light against my nose. The sensation distracted me from the pain. I shut my eyes and held on to the softer feeling.
"I'm just vesting for Matins," an apparently famliar voice responded. "You'll have to wait, my son. I can't let you in. The church isn't ready."
"Hagia Sophia. She is always here, is She not? Besides, your sign claims twenty-four-hour service. I need your service now. I can't wait fifteen minutes until 6:00 A.M."
"Yes ... but ... that woman needs medical attention, not prayer."
A growl rumbled near my ear. "Does the parable of the Good Samaritan mean nothing to you, priest?"
"Of course! But, this is no place for the wounded..." The priest's words ended in a soft, "oof." It was the sound of surprise, or of being pushed against a wall.
"Yield or I will destroy you." A blinding light penetrated behind my eyelids. I jerked open my eyes to the sensation of a sudden strong wind. The priest collapsed against the marble basin of holy water. His hands raised as if to ward someone off. The priest's face was turned away, hidden against the folds of his black robes, but I recognized the silver-in-blond hair.
"Eion," I whispered.
At my voice, Eion looked up. "Dee ... Oh my God," Eion murmured, but was interrupted with a hiss. My head bobbed as I was carried farther into the church. Bootheels crashed against the stone floor, sending noise ricocheting against the vaulted ceilings.
The somber-colored banners that hung along the processional fluttered in the aftereffects of a sudden strong wind as I was marched toward the altar. I bounced painfully as he took the low stairs two at a time.
"No," I moaned weakly. My mind protested, I'm bleeding, please, not on the altar cloths.
"No!" Eion's usually commanding voice was tinged with hysteria. "You defile the church!"
"Blood is part of your covenant with Him, yes? Besides, in the old days They were quite fond of grand gestures like this. Remember Abraham and Isaac? Trust me. If anyone knows how to get Their attention – I do."
Reaching the dais, I was laid gently on the altar. I looked up into his face. Chestnut brown eyes met mine, not the flashing gray I expected. "M ?"
"Morningstar, though I would prefer to have been introduced as Sammael," he said, with a slight upturn of his mouth. The expression was somewhere between a grimace and a smile. "Sammael was my given name. Michael likes to call me Morningstar to remind me of my little tumble from grace."
The church echoed with Eion's gasp. "Satan ..."
"Satan ..." Morningstar hissed out the name, savoring it. "Did you know that 'satan' used to be a generic term implying any adversary?" Morningstar asked me, ignoring Eion. "Now I'm the only one worth mentioning. Fortunately for you, priest," Morningstar said over his shoulder, "I'm arrogant enough to appreciate the compliment."
He glanced over at the crucifix suddenly, as if it had spoken to him. Auburn curls brushed the hard angle of his broad shoulders and fell loosely across his muscular back. Flecks of red-and-blue light speckled his black designer trench coat.
The hazy light of the cathedral seemed to illuminate a ghostly form underneath the image of Morningstar. It was as though his clothes were a thin gauze wrapping. Underneath another image glowed. A frayed tunic hung limply across his naked shoulder. It was pure white in places, but dark soot stained most of the fabric to a dull shadowy gray.
Hovering on the edge of consciousness, I could see a glimmer of enormous wings, the span of which must have reached twenty feet. Like the tunic, they were blackened and tattered. Almost completely featherless in most places, a few patches of white clung stubbornly to wounded flesh. The angle of one of the wings was askew, and the sharp edge of bone poked out, painful and raw-looking. He held the broken wing close to his body, as though it were still tender.