“It stands for Northern Artificial Intelligence Solutions,” Jo answered. “I did a job for one of their competitors, once. Something about looking into a new project they had going . . . codename ‘Primus Sanguis.’”
“Primus Sanguis . . . Latin. First Blood,” Eslar muttered before turning to her and saying, louder, “What does it mean?”
Jo shrugged. “I try—tried—to make a point not to dig too deep into my clients’ affairs. The more I knew, the more danger I was in during work. And after.”
“Who had you hack them?” Takako asked.
“CBM.”
“The computer chip server people?” Of course, Takako would recognize the company. She was from around fifty years ago. In a different reality, certainly, but it seemed that much was the same.
“In my time, they’re one of the leaders in AI—” Jo quickly added, “Artificial Intelligence,” for any in the room who would, somehow, not know. “I can’t say I know the full details of what Primus Sanguis was . . . but I know CBM wanted it badly.”
“How badly?” Wayne asked.
“Bad enough that they cut me a check that paid my mother’s and my bills for a year.”
Wayne whistled softly. “And this Artificial Care Act, dollface? Care to do more 2050s translating?”
Jo turned back to the paused video grimly. “I only know the broad strokes . . . In the UNA, there’s been a debate on the actual rights androids should have. Some advocate that they are sentient creatures and should be granted the same rights and protections as humans. Others disagree.”
“Give machines the same rights as humans?” Wayne scoffed at the notion and the sound grated Jo’s ears.
“They’re not machines,” she corrected. “They’re thinking, living creatures. Most androids now are nearly one-hundred percent bio-mass—virtually indistinguishable from humans.”
“Except for the cogs for brains,” Wayne said smartly.
“Josephina’s right,” Samson interjected in his soft voice. The second Wayne’s eyes shot over to him, he sunk further into his chair. Jo was afraid he wouldn’t say anything further, but it seemed he could find the courage so long as he didn’t actually have to look at anyone. “They’re not cogs, or metal. . . as you know. They’re machines, yes, but their brains are biological supercomputers, in a way. . . It’s complicated.”
“It is,” Jo attempted to both thank Samson for speaking up and encourage him to do so more by lavishing some quick praise. “Samson’s entirely correct.”
“It sounds sideways,” Wayne muttered.
Jo opened her mouth to retort, but Snow interrupted her.
“There’s more to the video, and more relating to this wish.” He brought them back on track from the useless debate. It was a discussion Jo could have for days, especially if there was even the slightest chance it’d delay learning more about, and working on, the wish.
The video sprang back to life with a nod from Snow, continuing where it left off. “—this calling card, combined with the others, has led law enforcement officials to believe that the Bone Carver is, in actuality, an android. However, the motives surrounding this suspicion remain unclear.
“Republican groups have been quick to rally behind the investigation, saying that these killings will—and should—be considered on the eve of voting for the Artificial Care Act. Democrats have marked the Bone Carver as a lone wolf, arguing that, just as humans, there is the possibility for deranged individuals that are outliers from the norm in every species, but it is not grounds to withhold rights from an entire population. The senator from Pennsylvania—where the first murder was discovered—has declined to comment beyond expressing his condolences to the families and loved ones of those affected.”
Snow straightened away from the table, and with that, the video feed sputtered and died. A few images remained, blatant depictions of what this Bone Carver had done, but for a moment, Snow held off on any further explanation. Despite herself, Jo raised a hand towards one of the images, a short, jagged-edged bone etched with a moniker that, considering the computer code, Jo felt like she should have been able to identify. But nothing came to mind outside of a reflexive roiling of her stomach.
This wasn’t just murder. This wassport.
Whoever was committing these murders had gruesomely ended the lives of twelve people, cut into their flesh, wrenched out their bones, cleaned them, prepared them, and then deposited them miles away from where the bodies were found with seemingly nonsensical coordinates carved into them that related tenuously enough it made you want to believe there was a pattern, but it was impossible to tell. It was brash. It was mocking. And it was utterly ruthless.
There were no further interjections while Snow offered them as many details as he himself appeared privy to. Everyone was eerily still. Death lived all around them, in their wish, in their home. The only light at the end of this darkness was going to be actually helping someone—especially after their last failure. Whether they were willing to admit it or not, they wanted,neededSnow to lead them to that optimistic end to what seemed like an Edgar Allen Poe story on depressants.
At least, that’s where Jo hadassumedSnow was going with all this.
“Our wish comes from the Bone Carver himself,” Snow bit out. “His request is to prevent any and all future possibilities of getting caught. The Severity of Exchange has a window of approximately two weeks.” When the words were met with stunned silence, Snow sighed, waving a hand in front of himself and ridding the space above the table of all remaining images. “In short, the wish is for him to continue murdering humans without repercussions. Indefinitely.”
That finally managed to get a reaction. Or five.
“You’re joking, right?”
“This is so wrong. This is sowrong.”
