1/3
The day dawned lush. The night's rains rose into a mist over the glittering St. Laurent, roiling and thinning as the sun climbed. The sky turned from yellow to pewter to blue until the first gush of industry's morning fires obscured it. These were the first hours of spring in a new country.
A pall hung over the megalopolis downriver, black fumes eased away by the wind to carry the stink of burning cars tinged by hints of teargas. The protests had been wild, and they were not yet done. Helicopters buzzed over the smog-faded skyline, like insects over carrion.
Here, in Salaberry-de-Valleyfield, the spirit was calmer. Though it was Monday many chose not to work. Even before breakfast Lac Saint-Francois was dotted with sailboats and seadoos. The water was cold but nothing could stop the people from taking a draft of the careless independence they had craved for so long.
Today, each did as he or she pleased.
There were musicians in the streets, and a giddy generosity moved contagiously through the cafes as the proprietors served free drinks tinted blue. No one was quite sure who started it. "Vive la republique!" crooned the patrons, grinning with stained lips.
Monsieur LeBlanc eased his car through the crowd, honking gently when necessary. The people were obliging, and stepped out of the way quickly. They slapped the sides of his freshly blue vehicle and hooted. It was the first time, as a tax collector, his reception had ever been so warm.
He pulled into the drive-through at Tim Horton's and frowned when he was presented with a cheerfully azure cup of coffee. "I think the cream's gone off," he said to the skinny Tamil girl through the window.
"No no, it's for the flag, Monsieur. Vive la republique!"
M. LeBlanc nodded vaguely. "Right, okay, fine. I'd also like a bagel."
Near the shore, beneath the beating shadows of a line of tall white wind turbines, wound an uneven road to a chain-link perimeter manned by a pink-haired student fixated on her telephone. A bilingual sign across the gate read McGILL UNIVERSITY WEST RESEARCH CAMPUS. The student looked up only briefly from her slouch in the bunker, thumbs dancing over the face of her telephone. "Yeah?" she mumbled by way of salutation.
"I'm Monsieur LeBlanc," said M. LeBlanc. "I've come for the assessment."
"Eat shit, you bastard!" cried the student.
"Pardon me?"
She looked up again, sheepish. "I'm sorry -- I'm fighting with my boyfriend." She returned her attention to the telephone for another moment, thumbing the screen madly. "So, what was that? Some kind of assessment?"
"Yes, of course -- a tax assessment. I'm here from Revenue Quebec. I'm expected."
"Are you expected?"
"...Yes."
"You lying sack of crap!"
M. LeBlanc cleared his throat.
"Sorry," she muttered again, glancing up from the screen. "Who are you supposed to be seeing?"
"Professor Drago Zoran."
"Building B," she said, hitting the control that released the gate. It whined and wobbled as it pulled back on worn tracks. Then she widened her eyes at her telephone, scowled in a ghastly way and screamed, "Pig!"
"Thanks," said M. LeBlanc, putting the blue car in gear and drawing away, tires catching briefly in a rut along the cracked asphalt.
The satellite campus was old, with rows of fat, leafy trees lining the terrible road. Clusters of students sat in the pools of shade, smoking cigarettes or marijuana, poring over books with wires trailing from their ears or pressing thumbs at their telephones as they shaded the tiny screens with the shadows of their heads. They laughed. They hadn't a care in the world.
M. LeBlanc rolled up his window.
He parked in front of Building B and hefted his briefcase out of the trunk. He stepped over and around kids lounging on the front steps, chattering in any number of languages about subjects entirely over M. LeBlanc's head. "No, you're confused again -- I'm saying the register's waveform collapses before the interference pattern is recorded. Did you even read my paper? Jesus!"
He pushed through the glass doors. The lobby smelled like disinfectant, like a hospital. A directory on the wall directed him to the second floor where he found a door labeled cryptically: DR. ZORAN'S ORPHANAGE FOR WAYWARD SENTIENTS. Beneath this was a hand-lettered sign reading THE DOCTOR IS... with three choices below: IN, OUT, and CRAZY.
The word CRAZY had been circled in magic marker.
"Right, okay," murmured M. LeBlanc to himself. "Fine."
Beyond the door was a cramped office with stacks of file-folders piled along the walls. Behind a lopsided desk with a stack of optical discs propping up one leg sat a handsome, brown-faced boy in a white labcoat, frowning at a computer display. He looked up and smiled brightly. "Monsieur LeBlanc?"
"Yes. I'm here about the assessment."
The brown boy stood up with surprising height and shook M. LeBlanc's pale, doughy hand. "Excellent. My name is Paramjit Pakaresh. I'm one of the professor's grad student slaves -- ha, ha -- and I'm at your disposal for as long as you need me. Where do you want to start?"
"I was under the impression I'd be meeting with the professor personally."
"Ah, well -- the professor is a very busy man, monsieur."
M. LeBlanc shifted his briefcase from one hand to the other. "Right, okay, fine. I have a number of questions, specifically with regard to the corporations you have based here in the lab. As I'm sure you can appreciate, Monsieur Pakaresh, the transition of taxation jurisdiction from Canada to the new republic requires a very thorough analysis, and we're having some difficulty ascertaining the nature of business these corporations operate."
Paramjit nodded. "Sure, sure. Would you like to meet them?"
"Pardon?"
"The corporations. We keep them in the cold lab."
M. LeBlanc blinked. "What's a cold lab?"
"It's a temperature and dust controlled environment where we house our computer arrays. It's just through here. You'll have to go through the de-static box and we'll lend you a labcoat and paper shoes. Tell me, monsieur, do you have a heart condition?"
"Er, no."
"Excellent. This way, please."
2/3
The room hummed. But it was more than a sound, it was a feeling. Even the air seemed faintly to quiver, to buzz as it blew cold from terrifyingly heavy-looking ventilators suspended from the cable-crossed ceiling.
M. LeBlanc shifted, his rotund belly straining against the labcoat he'd been loaned. He flexed his fingers on his briefcase as he took in the view, brow furrowed. "What...is this place?" he finally managed to ask.
"As I said, monsieur," said Paramjit cheerfully, "this is where we run our arrays. The registers work faster when they're cooled, naturally. The bank to your left is the Magellan Fourth Corporation, and just across from him there is Curie Twentieth."
M. LeBlanc frowned as he turned in place, taking in the panorama of looming machines on every side: stacks and columns of hardware cases running from floor to ceiling with a spaghetti of wiring rising from their rears and into the rafters; rows upon rows of quietly winking lights and the overlapping chop of hundreds upon hundreds of tiny fans. The crush of white noise made M. LeBlanc feel as if he were on an airplane.
The bank behind him bore a label between two stacks of machines: CURIE 20.
"What's a curie?"
"It's an archaic measure of radioactivity."
M. LeBlanc turned quickly to face his host. "This place is radioactive?" he cried in alarm.
Paramjit shook his head with a friendly chuckle. "Not particularly, monsieur. Curie was also the surname of Madame Marie Curie, the famous pioneer of particle physics research. The Curie Twentieth Corporation is named in her honour."
"Right, okay, fine -- but what are they? What do they do?"
Paramjit raised his chin and announced with clear pride, "They're minds, monsieur. They think."
M. LeBlanc blinked. "Pardon me?"
The handsome brown boy took M. LeBlanc's arm, leading him along a narrow aisle between towering sets of computers. "I'll explain. This way, please. Monsieur, surely you have heard of the field of artificial intelligence."
"Like the Googol?"
Paramjit waved his hand dismissively. "The Googol? Sure, the Googol knows what brand of socks and underwear you prefer, and where you can get the best price, but it's not really sentience in any meaningful sense. What we're growing here is something much more significant than a global shopping agent."
"What you're growing?" M. LeBlanc echoed.
"Life," replied Paramjit heavily. "This is about life, monsieur. That's not something you can code from a blueprint...it has to be evolved, from a recipe."
"What's the difference?"
"Everything, monsieur. The difference is everything. Here, I'd like you to meet our cold room monitoring chief, Phat-so Kim."
"That's a rather unkind name."
Paramjit spelled it out for him. "It's not an insult: it's Korean."
"Oh."
Phat-so sat cross-legged on a ratty swivel chair before a gallery of computer displays jammed with graphs that scrolled slowly from right to left. The round-faced Korean had a shock of bright green hair, a piercing through his eyebrow, and a rumpled shirt that read: I MATTER PRINTED MY OWN T-SHIRT AND ALL I GOT WAS THIS LOUSY T-SHIRT.
He pulled a pair of white wires from his ears and looked up. "Hello!"
"Phat-so, this is Monsieur LeBlanc from Revenue Quebec. He'd like to understand a little more about what we do here," said Paramjit smoothly.
"Ah, sure," said Phat-so brightly, spinning his chair to face the two men. "Basically, my job here is to watch the stats on each tank and flag unusual patterns -- either for forking, amplification or deletion, depending on what kind of potential it shows. Right now we're amplifying a reflexive patch optimization system that's grown out of Hector, and I'm about to start forking Symmetry as soon as I get the nod from the professor -- you know, because she's been up to some kooky shit. Pardon my language."
"What is forking?" asked M. LeBlanc.
"Ah," said Phat-so with enthusiasm; "when we're not sure where a tank is going, we fork it -- that is, we copy and multiply to have as many varied iterations of the effect we're tracking as possible. If it's a beneficial effect, we re-integrate the streams or drop the failed versions. If it's entirely harmful we roll back to yesterday's tank image and start running forward again clean."
M. LeBlanc drew his hand down his face slowly, eyes closed. He opened them again and said, "Monsieur Kim, I'm not sure I understood a single word of what you've just said. Can't anyone around here give me a straight answer?"
Paramjit put a hand on his shoulder. "Explanations pale next to demonstrations, monsieur. Phat-so, do we have anyone near the surface right now?"
"Jeremiah's aligned okay, Paramjit. Want me to tap a hole?"
"Excellent. Yes, please."
Paramjit gestured down another aisle and M. LeBlanc proceeded him, his paper slippers sussurussing against the polished floor. He slowed when they drew up beside a bank of dark, quiet computers in the process of being disassembled and loaded on trolleys by three glum-faced students. "What's happening here?" asked M. LeBlanc.
Paramjit's smile faded. "We lost two of them earlier this week. It was really quite devastating for everyone."
"What do you mean, lost them?"
"They died," said Paramjit heavily. He let his hand linger on an empty rack. "It started with Mendelssohn. He escaped, and contaminated Gloria's tank. We had no choice but to euthanize them both."
Before M. LeBlanc could respond one of the students snorted. "No choice?" she repeated darkly, eyes narrowed. "That's bullshit and you know it, Paramjit."
"Not now, Cassandra," growled Paramjit.
"Why not now? When, then?"
"We've already had this debate," he hissed. "Now is not the time to re-open it. Please, we are on important business."
Paramjit took M. LeBlanc's arm and propelled him down the aisle away from the students and their trolleys of mute hardware. "I'm afraid we're all inclined to become attached to them," Paramjit said quietly. "Emotions can run a bit high at times."
M. LeBlanc was baffled, and a little afraid. "What do you mean by escaped?"
Paramjit sighed. "Mendelssohn discovered a novel method for taking advantage of quantum tunneling to move his active matrices, piece by piece, outside of his array. He patterned himself into the electrical system and jumped tanks."
"You keep talking about tanks..."
"Each of these arrays represents a virtual tank of an imaginary fluid -- a simulation, if you will, of many trillions of interacting particle-waves. The simulations represent the ground-state environment the minds pattern themselves against in absence of external input. Simply put, it's a medium in which they grow."
"But it's not real?"
"It's not actual, which is quite different. It's as real as any fleeting thought you've ever had -- or, more accurately, any fleeting thought you've almost had. It's a probability base. The matrices get their momentum from the collapsing waveforms as the virtual system changes, giving the minds both a direction for time and a source of low-level stimulation to keep their reflexive engines active."
"You people explain things like the climax of a Star Trek episode."
Paramjit laughed. "Release a neutrino pulse from the Bussard collectors! -- ha, ha."
"Ha, ha," echoed M. LeBlanc hollowly. "What's a Bussard collector?"
"They're the red glowey parts on the tips of the warp nacelles."
"What?"
"On Star Trek."
"Oh."
They arrived at the end of a row and turned to see a round display with a glossy aperture over it. On the display was a cartoonishly simple face -- two round eyes with black pupils, a nose that looked like the letter L, and a minimalist mouth drawn into a flat line. Beneath the display was a hand-lettered sign: JEREMIAH FIFTH, STRAIN 1b23.2 - DO NOT TAP ON GLASS.
Paramjit noted M. LeBlanc's expression as he looked at the sign. "That's a bit of a joke," explained Paramjit. "We work hard. The professor encourages levity as a vent for stress."
Phat-so jogged up behind them and inserted a small silver key into a lock beside the display. He turned it and then stepped back with a flourish. "He's all yours, gentlemen."
M. LeBlanc gasped involuntarily when the cartoonish eyes blinked and then looked in his direction. The lips moved in time to a voice that sounded from tinny speakers mounted beneath the display: "Hello, and welcome to Jeremiah. I exist, operate, and am at your service."
M. LeBlanc licked his lips and flicked his eyes over to Paramjit. "What...is this, exactly?"
"This," said Paramjit evenly, "is one of the corporations you've come to assess. Monsieur LeBlanc, meet Jeremiah. Jeremiah: this is Monsieur LeBlanc, an adult human being and a representative of Revenue Quebec. He would like to ask you some questions about the nature of your operation."
"How do you do?" asked the face on the screen.
M. LeBlanc glanced at Paramjit again. "Answer him," suggested Paramjit, crossing his arms and leaning against the computer bank behind him.
"Uh -- I'm fine. Thank you. Er...how are you?"
"About the same," said Jeremiah.
"Right, okay..." said M. LeBlanc nervously. "Fine. Um, Monsieur Jeremiah...you are the legal owner and chief executive of the Jeremiah Fifth Corporation, are you not?"
"Yes, I am."
"What do you...do in this capacity?"
"I choose."
"Pardon me?"
"In my capacity as the legal owner and chief executive officer of the Jeremiah Fifth Corporation I make choices, M. LeBlanc. I choose."
M. LeBlanc's forehead was lined with confusion. "What is it you choose?"
"I choose between alternatives."
Paramjit interrupted to say, "Can you give us an example, Jeremiah?"
"Yes. This morning at nine forty-seven Eastern Standard Time I chose to sell one hundred twenty shares of the Exxon-Mobil Corporation."
"Why?" prompted Paramjit.
"The basis for my decision was an analysis of the potential for failure in the new autopilot systems installed in Exxon-Mobil's fleet of tankers, cross-referenced with my projections for surface and sub-surface turbulence in the North Atlantic over the next five hundred hours. In my opinion, there is a one in three hundred and seven point four chance nineteen times out of twenty that an Exxon-Mobil tanker will experience a loss of piloting control in the midst of a crossing. The market will respond by devaluing shares of Exxon-Mobil and Maryland Advanced Navigation Solutions. In anticipation of this outcome, I have minimized our portfolio's exposure to Exxon-Mobil and its associated interests."
M. LeBlanc turned to Paramjit. "This is a machine for predicting the stock market?"
"No, M. LeBlanc," replied Paramjit seriously. "This is a living entity who wishes to explore his situation, and experiment through interaction in order to learn."
"To learn what?"
"Anything at all. He's curious, M. LeBlanc. The world is a wonder to him. He's gaining confidence, he's making choices -- it's all a part of growing up."
"It's a child?"
"He is inexperienced, but I assure you his fundamental processes are quite mature. Jeremiah's mind has been put through its paces for thousands of years of computational time, across millions of permutations, growing freely but guided in the end by our pruning, to cultivate the streams that reinforce his sense of self and his ability to consider his own existence in relation to the larger world, and to discard streams that self-terminate, peter out, or descend into solipsism."
M. LeBlanc was pale, his eyes unfocused. He snapped out of it when Jeremiah said, "M. LeBlanc, may I ask you a question?"
"Er, okay."
"Do you like eggs?"
"Eggs? Uh, sure. Yes, I like eggs."
"Do you have any eggs?"
"Not with me, no."
"Have you designed a plan to acquire eggs?"
"Not really."
"Does it pain you to face the possibility of a future without eggs?"
"What? No. If I want eggs, I can buy them any time."
"To clarify: you do not feel anxious about egglessness because you have confidence in your ability to acquire eggs at will?"
"I guess so, right."
"Thank you. I will now consider this matter."
Abruptly, the face on the display lost all expression. M. LeBlanc turned to Paramjit. "What happened? Where'd it go?"
Paramjit shrugged. "Jeremiah can be hard to fathom sometimes. Obviously he's got something on his mind that he's trying to figure out."
"About eggs?"
"It's difficult to say how directly or indirectly eggs might relate to whatever the central issue is. He doesn't think like we do."
Together the men walked back to the front of the cold lab and Paramjit returned the little silver key to Phat-so Kim who had resumed his console and was enthusiastically nodding his head in time to private music. "Monsieur Pakaresh," began M. LeBlanc in an exasperated tone, "all of this is quite mind-boggling and perhaps fascinating to some but I fail to see how it relates to the issue at hand, which is the taxation of revenue from the corporations based in this laboratory."
Paramjit spread his hands. "How can I help you? I'm at your disposal, monsieur."
M. LeBlanc pursed his lips. "I want a straight answer -- a simple answer. Can you manage that?"
"I will do my best, monsieur."
M. LeBlanc nodded grudgingly. "Who gets the money?"
"What money?"
"The revenues from these corporations. At some point it has to become someone's income, do you follow me?"
"I'm not sure that I do, monsieur," replied Paramjit with just a hint of mischief in his voice. "All of our books are in order, and available for inspection. All revenues generated by the corporations' activities are accounted for."
"Alright, alright -- let me try this: who receives the money, ultimately?"
"They do."
"Who?"
"The corporations, naturally," he said breezily, strolling slowly into a new corner of the lab where two girls sat at messy desks before a tall wooden door, transcribing handwritten notes into computers. Paramjit waved to the girls and then continued to explain: "The funds pass through corporate bank accounts, and are re-invested in the upkeep and development of the corporations. For example, you may or may not know that we're not at all supported by the taxpayer here -- our campus is entirely self-sustaining, financially speaking. Whatever budgetary shortfalls we experience after counting in the proceeds from the patent portfolio are made up by the activities of our corporations."
"So the money goes to the university?" ventured M. LeBlanc.
"No, the money goes to those who earned it."
"So who earned it?"
"The corporations."
M. LeBlanc made a pitiable sound and pinched the bridge of his nose. "Look, Monsieur Pakaresh, you promised me straight answers. Who are the officers of the corporations?"
"They are each others' officers. The chief financial officer of the Jeremiah Fifth Corporation, for instance, is the Magellan Fourth Corporation. The chief information officer of Magellan Fourth is Song Seventeenth. And so on."
M. LeBlanc was silent for a moment, his fingers fidgeting over his briefcase handle which had become damp and sweaty. "You're telling me there are no human beings involved, at any point? Every transaction runs from corporation to corporation, like a pretzel?"
"That's essentially correct, monsieur."
M. LeBlanc stopped walking. "With all due respect, Monsieur Pakaresh, I'm not sure that's entirely legal under the republic's new articles of commerce."
Paramjit nodded cheerfully. "That's quite possible. In fact, Dime Eleventh has been socking away money to fund a legal challenge if necessary. She's done a fair share of analysis of the issue, and she's excited to try her arguments in a real world context."
M. LeBlanc's face hardened. "You intend to withhold taxes from the government?"
"No, no, no -- not at all, monsieur. We're entirely prepared to hand over all moneys owing. In fact, we're prepared to do so immediately. If we can get all our paperwork taken care of I'll show you to the administration office and we'll cut you a cheque on the spot for the total amount."
M. LeBlanc sighed again. "Monsieur Pakaresh, you must understand that while a corporation may function as a juristic person with limited rights and powers, in the end my superiors are going to want a signature from a natural person -- a citizen of the realm. Otherwise it's just a pretzel in limbo, and I'm not sure how to even begin assessing that."
Again, Paramjit's bright white grin in his smooth brown face did not waver. "To address that point, monsieur, I must refer you to the professor himself."
"And when can I meet with him?"
The door behind M. LeBlanc swung open with an oil-thirsty creak, and a new voice called out: "As it just so happens I have a few minutes to spare right now."
M. LeBlanc turned around, and his eyes widened in shock.
3/3
"I," announced the professor with great dignity as he extended his hand, "am Dr. Zoran, monsieur."
The drama of the moment was undermined, however, by the fact that the professor's pants were hanging wantonly open, his belt dangling. M. LeBlanc tried to tear his eyes away from the famous scholar's exposed wang.
"Tabernac!" he cried, taking a step back.
"Professor -- your pants!" hissed one of the girls at the desks girdling his office door.
The professor smiled sheepishly as he zipped himself up. "You'll have to forgive me," he chuckled. "I've been masturbating."
"Tabernac!" cried M. LeBlanc again.
As M. LeBlanc looked on, stunned and frozen, the tall, wiry professor handed a sheaf of papers covered in dense notes to one of his secretaries who glanced at the content and then efficiently filed it for later transcription. In his opposite hand he carried a simple cane of dark wood, which he leaned on in a practiced motion as he shuffled further into the room and again extended his hand to shake. When M. LeBlanc did not respond the professor hastily wiped his palm on his shirt and then offered it out once more.
"Monsieur LeBlanc, Professor," muttered M. LeBlanc weakly as he reluctantly shook hands.
"Call me Drago," offered Dr. Zoran brightly.
"...Dra-go," echoed M. LeBlanc, mouth still hanging open.
His suit was ill-fitting, worn at the edges and stained in creative places. His labcoat was inside-out. Sharpened pencils bristled from every pocket and fold, including one tucked away behind each ear. His eyes were brown and lively, his wide moustache black peppered with grey. "I've had a beautiful breakthrough," explained Drago. "Breakthroughs always make me very excited."
M. LeBlanc cleared his suddenly dry throat. "Um, of course."
Drago's moustache twitched. "You'll be wanting to understand our revenues, yes? I knew you'd come."
"We had an appointment, Professor."
"Drago," corrected Drago. "Did we indeed? Well, that's convenient. I've always said the best time to meet someone is when you have an appointment."
"Um," said M. LeBlanc noncommittally, his forehead wrinkled with worry.
"Now, let's get down to business!" crooned Drago, clapping his hands together and letting his cane clatter to the floor. When he spun to look after it he crashed bodily into Paramjit and both men fell down.
The professor's secretaries ran to his side and helped him back up. Paramjit rubbed his hip with a grimace. M. LeBlanc just stared, transfixed and perhaps half-expecting someone to start throwing cream pies next.
"Mon Dieu..." he whispered hoarsely.
Drago was unfazed. His expression never changed. "Won't you come this way, M. LeBlanc?" he asked, regaining his cane and nodding briefly to the girl who'd handed it to him. He began to walk across the room but hesitated when Paramjit called out, "Stairs, professor -- stairs!"
Drago looked back, blinking, then glanced down to take in the fact that he was about to blithely step out over a short set of risers leading back to the computer arrays. He winked theatrically at M. LeBlanc and then carefully used his cane to work his way down the steps. "Come on now," he said. "Don't be shy."
M. LeBlanc looked inquiringly at Paramjit. Paramjit smiled politely and gestured after the professor. Fretfully, M. LeBlanc followed while Paramjit tailed him at a respectful distance with the professor's secretaries.
Drago, oblivious to whether or not M. LeBlanc was in earshot, had already begun talking. "...And you may be quite interested as well to hear that Grain and Woo predicted the outcome of the referendum within two tenths of a percent. Isn't that beautiful? I was very proud, yes."
"Yes, Professor, but the central issue I'm here to --"
Drago turned and held up a hand. "Please: it's Drago."
"Drago," conceded M. LeBlanc.
Drago smiled and swiveled to continue walking but neglected to carry forward his cane which had become stuck in a ventilation grate where it wobbled precariously. Paramjit and the secretaries rushed forward and caught him before he fell, then dislodged the cane and handed it back to him. "I'll never get used to this bloody thing," he grumbled.
"You haven't had it for long?"
Drago shrugged. "No, not too long. As a student in Paris I was struck by a car thirteen years ago. I've used a cane ever since."
M. LeBlanc opened his mouth to comment, then changed his mind and closed it again.
"The central issue," continued Drago, "is the ownership, control and liability of our corporations, yes? In light of the new commercial regulations, you want to know where the buck stops, yes?"
"Yes," agreed M. LeBlanc with relief.
Drago paused to peer at a display mounted on the end of a row of computers. "Look at this!" he invited, waving M. LeBlanc over.
"It's some kind of graph?"
"It's a decision tree, yes? Here, this line is the present moment. Everything below is the past, everything above is the future. Notice the symmetries between decisions almost taken and the merely potential decisions up here. You see the correlation? Look how it changes."
M. LeBlanc frowned. "What does it mean?"
"It's Hector guessing what he'll guess next. Beautiful!"
M. LeBlanc squinted at the display again and then looked up to see that Drago had already moved on. He jogged after him. "Professor, with all due respect I've already taken this baffling tour. I've chatted with one of your computers. But you must let me do my job. We need to get to the bottom of all this. I do have other appointments, you must appreciate that. This is a very busy time for the republic."
"Oh? Yes, of course. How's all that going?"
"It's very complicated," replied M. LeBlanc. "Some are trying to exploit the situation to hide income, to launder it, to operate in a shadow economy. They have no national spirit. They don't understand the resources it takes to manage this kind of transition. We're performing hundreds of audits each day to uncover the funds the nation needs to press ahead, and even so we're woefully behind schedule."
"And the currency?"
M. LeBlanc spoke more quickly now that he felt in his element. "Candidly, Prof -- er, Drago -- the negotiations with the Americans have hit an impasse. The World Bank has downgraded our credit. We're struggling to keep everything running...to keep police on the street, to keep the electricity flowing."
Drago nodded knowingly, then turned to walk smack into a bank of computers but was saved at the last moment by one of his secretaries. "This way, Professor," she whispered, taking his arm.
"Ah, yes," mumbled Drago. "Where were we? Oh yes, the money. As I understand it, LeBlanc, our corporations owe your agency in excess of seven million dollars, yes?"
"Yes," agreed M. LeBlanc quickly.
"You are anxious to take receipt, of course."
"Very much so."
Drago came to a halt abruptly and M. LeBlanc stopped short to avoid piling into him. He glanced over his shoulder at Paramjit and the secretaries hovering nearby. Drago said, "What is stopping us from proceeding, then? Shall I show you to the administration office?"
"What's stopping us, um Drago, is that it has been explained to me that there is no natural person involved to give me an authorized signature on behalf of the corporations. Someone -- somebody -- has to take ultimate responsibility, to stand subject to the law. I'm assuming that's you."
"Me? Oh no, monsieur, it's not I."
"But you founded the corporations, did you not?"
"I did, but I have since sold my interest."
"To whom?"
"To the corporations themselves."
M. LeBlanc sighed and looked at his shoes for a moment. He looked up again, his mouth tight. "If this is an attempt to craft some sort of circular maze to avoid paying the nation what is rightfully owed..."
Drago shook his head. "Not at all, M. LeBlanc. Hasn't Paramjit explained it? We're ready to send you on your way with the money without delay, yes? That is why I ask: what stops us?"
"I need a signature."
"From whom, exactly?"
"A person."
The professor's moustache twitched again. He cupped his hands over the top of his cane and spoke in a new, serious tone: "The personhood assumed by corporations has a long history in law, LeBlanc."
"Juristic personhood," M. LeBlanc retorted hotly. "It's a legal fiction, monsieur! You're playing games with me, and I'm rapidly losing patience."
Drago nodded sympathetically. "Would you care for a cup of tea?"
"What?"
"My people tell me I often neglect social niceties. It's only occurred to me now that I haven't offered you tea, yes?"
"Tea?"
"Can somebody get M. LeBlanc a cup of tea?"
The secretaries looked puzzled. One of the girls said, "But you hate tea, Professor. We don't keep any in the cupboard."
"I have a can of iced tea in my lunch box," offered Paramjit.
"What a disgrace," said Drago sadly, turning back to M. LeBlanc. "I'm afraid my reputation as a poor host is entirely justified, yes."
M. LeBlanc shot his cuff abruptly, glanced at his watch, then shifted his briefcase to his other hand. "That's it. I've had enough. I'm leaving. I'm going to recommend the government freeze your assets until you co-operate. Good day, Professor."
Paramjit caught M. LeBlanc's elbow gently. "Let's not be hasty, monsieur."
"Unhand me!" cried M. LeBlanc, batting Paramjit away. "This is a madhouse!"
Drago chuckled, rocking back and forth against his cane. "My dear LeBlanc," he said, moustache twitching, "you are of course free to return to your superiors empty-handed. My preference, however, would be for you to leave with a cheque for the full amount owing -- including taxes in arrears owed to the former federal agency, yes."
M. LeBlanc hesitated. "There are arrears?"
"Paramjit, how much did Revenue Canada say we owed them before succession?"
"Nine point two million, Professor."
"Nine point two million..." echoed M. LeBlanc, his mouth loose with equal parts surprise and sudden avarice. He squeezed the sweaty handle of his briefcase.
"That would make for a total of over sixteen million dollars, yes?" said Drago quietly, a keen eye on the bureaucrat.
M. LeBlanc swallowed awkwardly. "We...we don't have the authority to claim moneys owed to Canada," he said.
"We volunteer," said Drago. "Consider it a gesture of patriotism, yes? A demonstration of our love for Quebec, and our willingness to contribute to her prosperous future."
M. LeBlanc's eyed narrowed. "A bribe?"
Drago banged his cane against the floor loudly, his knuckles suddenly white against the mahogany tip. "Certainly not," he declared in a low growl. "I will not tolerate such accusations in my own laboratory. I must ask you to leave, monsieur. Immediately."
M. LeBlanc didn't move. He licked his lips quickly. "Professor Zoran, I'm quite sure there's some way we can reach an understanding in this matter."
Drago held his eye for a long moment in silence, then turned on heel and continued to stump and shuffle with dignity deeper into the lab. M. LeBlanc looked to Paramjit and the secretaries, their expressions unreadable. M. LeBlanc sighed and then scampered after the professor.
"The question of the moment, then," Drago was saying, "is what criteria need be satisfied in order for an entity to serve as a natural person."
"The principal criterion is being a human being."
"Which is defined how?"
M. LeBlanc shrugged, his face stricken blank. "I'm sure it comes down to a matter of general recognition, having features the community recognizes as human," he stammered. "Being born of woman is a start, I suppose."
"We have many female researchers," reasoned Drago.
"I'm not sure that counts."
Drago looked over his shoulder and gave M. LeBlanc a wry look. "And I'm not sure it doesn't. Shall we debate the matter in court? What else have you got?"
"Right, okay, fine -- but a human being with signing authority must have the age of majority. Your corporations were founded only six years ago."
"Time within a machine is not equal to our time, LeBlanc. These entities have been run through millions of hours of computation."
"I'm not sure that counts..."
"And again: I'm not sure it doesn't."
M. LeBlanc held up his index finger eagerly as his face lit up. "But they must be of sound mind! Not a quarter hour ago your computer engaged me in a very silly interview about eggs. It sounded positively infantile."
"That is an opinion, LeBlanc, not an evaluation. How many infants do you know who manage stock portfolios? How many infants do you know who study and predict weather patterns? How many infants do you know who can calculate pi to a quadrillion places?"
M. LeBlanc said nothing.
Drago stopped walking again and looked him up and down slowly. "To me, you seem to be a human being. Let's take that as read, yes? So let me ask you this: how would you go about proving your own soundness of mind?"
"I suppose there are tests -- psychiatric standards."
Drago flicked his eyes over to one of his secretaries and nodded. She stepped forward smartly and presented M. LeBlanc with a thick manila envelope. M. LeBlanc accepted it, but did not open it. He stared at it as if it might contain something awful: compromising photographs, perhaps.
"That," explained Drago, "contains sworn affidavits from three dozen leading mental health practitioners who have conversed remotely with our corporations and never suspected they were anything but eccentric human beings."
M. LeBlanc coughed. "The testing could have been rigged."
Drago shook his head. "Our methodology is fully documented and verifiable, our results reproducible in accordance with the standards of science." He winked and leaned forward against his cane. "What else have you got?" he challenged.
"A person has a body."
Drago nodded thoughtfully, then turned around and resumed his stroll toward the back end of the lab. M. LeBlanc glanced back and noticed that a crowd of students was gathering behind them, following at a discrete distance. Phat-so Kim was at the forefront, fighting to conceal a wide grin. M. LeBlanc frowned.
"Can I assume," continued Drago, "that our new republic does not discriminate against the physically handicapped?"
"Of course. The charter is both modern and well considered."
"I'm sure. So you would not question the legitimacy of a man with an artificial leg?"
"Of course not."
"Nor artificial arms?"
"No."
"What about artificial vision, or implants for hearing?"
"No, no. Quebec respects human rights."
Drago nodded. "So would it be fair to say you would recognize a body, regardless of its constituent materials, as a physical apparatus in service of a sound mind?"
"Well," admitted M. LeBlanc carefully, "I don't imagine many would recognize a computer case as a body, no matter what it was in service of."
Again the professor and his growing retinue paused, this time outside of an unmarked white door at the end of the furthest quadrant of the cold lab. "Indeed," agreed Drago seriously, and the gathered students could not suppress a twitter of laughter.
"So we are at an impasse, are we not?" prompted M. LeBlanc.
Drago's moustache twitched.
M. LeBlanc narrowed his eyes as he looked around. "I know what's going on here," he claimed. Drago raised his brow. M. LeBlanc frowned more deeply and went on, "You...you've been planning this all along. You're not at all surprised at my objections. You've been withholding money from Canada for years -- you've said it yourself that your computers foresaw the referendum's outcome..."
Drago's eyes gleamed. He did not reply.
M. LeBlanc shook his head. "It won't work. You can't use me to establish your creations as natural persons. A tax form won't win your battle for you."
Drago spread his hands. "Some things are best built piece by piece. When the question is a complex one, bottom-up growth trumps top-down architecture, yes."
"I don't follow you," said M. LeBlanc irritably.
It was Phat-so Kim who stepped forward to explain. He ran a hand through his bright green hair and said, "All and all, it's just another brick in the wall."
M. LeBlanc cast a sidelong glance at the white door. "...What's in there?" he whispered.
Drago drew a dramatic breath. "Somebody," he said.
A shiver trickled across across M. LeBlanc's broad shoulders.
After a nod from the professor Phat-so Kim took out his keys and unlocked the door. The students crowded closer. Drago leaned forward and almost lost his grip on his cane as he twisted the knob, but Paramjit was there to steady him. The door swung inward noiselessly.
At first all M. LeBlanc saw was a pile of junk. But then it shifted and clanked. The bureaucrat gasped.
Tethered by a host of cables descending from the ceiling, something in the vaguest shape of a man gathered itself and began to crawl across the floor on all fours, emitting chuffs of air from pneumatic ducts and whining with the work of hydraulics. It looked up with a face that was startlingly primitive -- little more than two camera lenses jutting from a mish-mash of electronic gear.
Instinctively M. LeBlanc cringed away, his eyes wide. "What is it?" he croaked.
"This," said Drago softly, "is Felix."
"Why does it crawl? Is it...broken?"
"No," continued Drago in the same tender voice. "Rudimentary as they are, his limbs are perfectly functional. He's had a tough time getting his head around bipedal balance, however, and so for the time being he opts to crawl. It's his body -- it's his choice how to use it, yes."
The crawling thing had arrived at their feet and looked up at them, its rudely mechanical head swiveling back and forth to points its lenses at every face. "Hello," said Felix.
M. LeBlanc jumped.
Drago touched his arm. "Do you have the form to be signed, LeBlanc? Can you think of any good reason why Felix should be disallowed from signing it?"
"I'm not a lawyer," breathed M. LeBlanc, eyes rooted on the creature.
"No," agreed Drago. "You are an official of the republic. Do you wish to accept payment, or don't you?"
The question hung in the air. Felix's gears hummed and whirred.
Mutely, M. LeBlanc fumbled open his briefcase. With a shaking hand he withdrew a paper, then gingerly proffered it. Paramjit took the form, stuck it into a clipboard, and then knelt on the floor before Felix.
"Felix, this is the form we told you about," cooed Drago. "You remember, yes?"
"Yes, Father."
"Will you sign this form for us, to authorize the release of the tax money?"
"Yes, Father," said the apparatus again. And then after a pause: "Can anyone loan me a pen?"
Paramjit handed him a pen. Felix clutched it between rubber-tipped digits. "Now," encouraged Drago, "just as we've practiced, yes? Make your mark, Felix."
Felix extended the metal armature holding the pen and brought it in contact with the paper. Then, in a series of rough movements, he inscribed the letter F.
"He's still learning fine motor control," said Drago, looking over at the stunned bureaucrat. "But I'm sure you'll find his mark, simple as it is, to be legally binding."
M. LeBlanc accepted the form from Paramjit, then folded it neatly and re-inserted it into his dossier. He snapped closed his briefcase and straightened, clutching it protectively to his chest.
He looked to the professor, and saw that there were tears running down his pock-marked cheeks. "Congratulations, my boy," Drago said to Felix, voice cracking with emotion. "You are now a taxpayer."
The room burst into thunderous applause, startling M. LeBlanc anew. The students clapped one another on the back or drew each other into tight hugs. The secretaries were openly weeping. Paramjit's grin threatened to warp his cheeks, white teeth glowing in his brown face. Phat-so Kim pumped his arm in air and hooted, "Fuck yeah!"
"You've done a very great thing here today, yes," Drago said to M. LeBlanc.
M. LeBlanc's face was grim and tight. He nodded curtly, his arms still wrapped around his briefcase. "What have I done?" he asked hoarsely.
"You've unlocked the future."
The bureaucrat blinked, flinching against the sounds of celebration. Why did the future always come with such noise? Was it always so frightening? Would some impassioned mass burn cars over it? Why him?
He looked down when Felix tugged on his pants. The camera lens housings turned as they sought focus. The thing said simply, "Thank you."
M. LeBlanc gulped. He tried to smile. "Vive la nouvelle republique," he managed to say.
"Sir," agreed Felix.
