Base Metal (The Sword Book 2)

mask's core function was to interface between user and net, but also act as a guide and safeguard. It was interface and assistant in one, and the longer a mask/user pair ran together, the more proficient the gestalt became.
There were exceptions. Occasional hostile models required a purge, but those were exceptionally rare. As a rule, the adaptive code produced an optimized, complementary personality suited for the individual user. However, this did lead to long-term issues.
The longer a mask ran, the more it emulated, the more the program would develop artifacts and tics, bits of code accrued from abandoned evolution, scoured from errant thoughts of the user, or plucked from the miasma of the net. For this reason, the mask software was confined to the hardware of the assist box, and not permitted to host to the open net or fully load into the user's wetware. These constrictions prevented the transmission of viruses across the mind-machine barrier and preserved the integrity of the user's mind, while also safeguarding the mask from rampant corruption. Even with these, degradation was inevitable, and the masks required regular resets and retraining sessions.
Firenze had not done this.
He'd told himself that he'd avoided a reset because he wanted to push efficiency to a higher threshold and that his research required the improved speed. He excused that it would be too large a hassle to rebuild her. He reasoned that he'd shown no signs of aberrant behavior, no tell-tale marks of feedback disorder. He was well in control, so long as he kept his logs and paid attention. There was no reason to wipe the mask yet.
She flashed him a smile, and he returned it, despite himself, and enjoyed the warm satisfaction that bloomed in his chest. There was no reason to purge the template.
He said, "I need you to go stealth."
Her smile vanished. She replied, "Oh, sure, I get it. I prep the party, but once it's started, I'd better make myself scarce." She made a sound like a popped balloon and added, "Chauvinist."
"That's not it."
"Racist?" she offered.
"Not better, but probably closer. Look, Neland's got some strong opinions-" he was talking to an empty chair. He sighed, "We can talk later." Somehow, he always managed to piss her off. He blamed the philosophy classes.
The phone rang. Network connections dialogued, hand-shook between Neland's softjack and Firenze's direct link, requesting access. Firenze picked up the old rotary phone, and Neland sat opposite him.
The professor wore his sportcoat open and tieless, looking more set for golf than whatever meeting he'd just departed. Neland's craggy face broke into an expressive grin as he looked about the room. He nodded appreciatively and said, "Nice place you've built."
"Thank you." Firenze answered. He didn't bother to mention that Neland could only see it and hear it. You needed a hardjack to grok the whole thing, but him owning that piece of hardware wasn't exactly public knowledge. He said, "I've put a lot of work into it."
"It shows. You've got an eye for this. This means I picked the right man for the job."
"Job?" Firenze asked. He forced down the butterflies in his stomach and tried to pretend this was something from the blue. Of course, he'd heard rumors that Neland was setting up funding for some big AI experiment. Those tales had perforated the campus commons. He might also have cracked the database for confirmation, but he wasn't going to show Neland that. Instead, he forced himself to be curious and calm and resisted the urge to squeal.
Neland explained, "I was very impressed by your work on false-rendering and sensate feedback in a softjack. At first, I thought there'd be too much low-end processing drain, but the scaling was bang on. Heat, voltage, timing, everything. Doctor Kusowa wouldn't shut up about it, tried to steal you from my program. I had to take a look, and... well, consider me impressed."
"Thank you, professor. Integrated virtual worlds are a real passion of mine." Firenze had mastered the art of academic understatement, at least through the net. If this had been in meat-space, he'd have been near a panic attack by now. In here, he was perfectly cool.
Neland continued, "Your work shows. I'm about to start a project involving adaptive code and AI comparison. It's a crossover with Doctor Singh's work in technoethics, and we're really digging into the intersection of technical and social conflict thresholds. Would you be interested? We could use you on the tech side. I can explain more once you've signed the non-disclosure. How about it?"
"Sounds interesting." Firenze said, his heart pounding up into his throat.
"So you'd consent to the NDA?"
"Sure." Firenze stated. He wanted nothing more than to jump around the room and holler like an idiot.
"Great." Neland said. He leaned back into his chair, satisfied, and offered, "Just a head's up, we're going to be looking at the edges of dumb AI and self-modifying code. We'll be pushing the envelope of rampant growth, so it will involve State sponsorship. This will look fantastic for your doctoral." He leaned forward, extended a hand, and finished, "I look forward to having you on the team."
Firenze shook it, eagerly, and said, "I look forward to being there! Thank you for the opportunity, sir!"
"Not a problem. I'll send you the paperwork. Take care." Neland vanished.
Firenze waited until he was positive the connection had been terminated. Then, secure in his privacy, he let out a deafening triumphant scream, near doubled over in exuberance.
"You'd think you'd won something." Lauren said. She stood next to her chair, a bottle of cleaner in her hand. She sprayed it liberally across the leather, her nose wrinkled in disgust, and said, "He put a groove in it. There's an old specist man-groove in my chair."
Firenze spun her around from the shoulder, brought her face-to-face, and exclaimed, "I got it." The words didn't feel real. "I got it!"
"He's still an asshole." Lauren stated.
"Yes! Yes, he is!" Firenze agreed. "He's an amazing specist asshole who just opened the government-contract door! That means money!