The Turing Option

“I am going to try and find Dr. Bociort — if he is still alive. Which will probably mean making a trip to Rumania. The people who stole my first AI and tried to kill me are still out there. I am going to find them. For a lot of reasons. Revenge might be one of them, but survival is the main one. With their threat removed I can stop looking over my shoulder. And General Schorcht will no longer have an excuse to cause me trouble.”

“Amen to that.” She yawned widely and covered her mouth. “Excuse me. But if you are half as tired as I am we should get some sleep.”

“Now that you have said it — yes.”

He pulled down the curtain and turned on the lights. As promised, the two berths were made up and swung easily into position.

“I’ll take the upper,” Shelly said, opening her suitcase and taking out pajamas and a dressing gown, grabbed her purse. “Be right back.”

When she returned the only light on was the small one over her berth. Brian was under the covers and Sven had raised the curtain an inch and was looking out.

“Good night,” she said.

“Good night,” Sven said. A soft snore was the only other sound.

39 December 20, 2024

The scenery flowed by while they ate breakfast in the dining car. Small villages, jungle and mountains, an occasional glimpse of ocean as they skirted the Sea of Cortez. While they were finishing their coffee a phone rang and Brian saw one of the other diners take it from his jacket pocket and answer it.

“I’m being stupid,” he said. “I should have thought of it before this. Do you have your phone with you?”

“Of course. Doesn’t everyone?”

“Not me, not now. You know that you can receive a phone call no matter where you are. Did you ever think of the mechanism involved?”

“Not really. It’s one of those things you take for granted.”

“It was so new to me that I looked into it. There are fiber-optic and microwave links everywhere now, cellular nets right around the world. When you want to make a call you just punch it in and the nearest station accepts it and passes it on. What you might not realize is that your phone is always on, always on standby. And it logs in automatically when you move between cells by sending your present location to the memory bank of your home exchange. So when someone dials your number the national or international telephone system always knows where to find you and pass on the incoming call.”

Her eyes widened. “You mean it knows where I am now? That anyone with the authority could obtain this information?”

“Absolutely. Like General Schorcht for instance.”

She gasped. “Then we have to get rid of it! Throw it off the train—”

“No. If a phone goes out of commission a signal is sent to the repair service. You don’t want to draw any attention to yourself. We can be fairly sure that no one is looking for you yet. But when they find that I’m missing and the search begins, they will be sure to contact everyone who worked with me. Let’s go back to the compartment — I have an idea.”

There was a panel under the window that looked perfect. Brian pointed to it.

“Sven, do you think you can take those screws out?”

Sven swiveled his eyes to look. “An easy task.”

The MI formed a screwdriver head with its manipulators and quickly took out the screws that held the plastic panel in place. There were two pipes and an electric cable passing through the space there behind the panel. Brian pointed.

“We’ll just put your telephone in here. The plastic panel won’t block any signals. If the military call and you don’t answer they are going to have a busy time tracking the signal while it’s moving around Mexico. By the time they sort it out we will be long gone.”

The train pulled out of Tepic at lunchtime and turned inland towards Guadalajara, reaching Mexico City exactly on time. Sven was packed safely away and ready for the porter who came for their luggage. He led the way to the Depósito de Equipajes, where they checked everything in. Brian pointed to the bank next to it.

“The first thing we do is get some pesos. We don’t want a repetition of Mexicali.”

“And then?”

“We find a travel agency.”

Outside of the Buenavista railroad station, Mexico City was cold and wet; the smog hurt their eyes. They ignored the cab rank and walked out through the crowds and along Insurgentes Norte until they came to the first travel agency. It was a large one and a placard in the window said english spoken, a very hopeful sign. They turned in.

“We would like to fly to Ireland,” Brian told the man behind the large desk. “As soon as is possible.”

“I’m afraid that there are no direct flights from here,” the agent said as he turned to his computer and brought up the tables of departing flights. “There is an American flight that connects daily through New York City — and a Delta flight through Atlanta.”