Page 37 of Undercover Infidel
Dr. McLaren’s eyes widened slightly. “So the rumored passages are real. Fascinating from a historical perspective, though clearly dangerous in the wrong hands.” She shifted her attention to me. “You mentioned concerns about Viktor Orlov?”
“First, whether or not he’s alive.”
“While I too have heard the rumors, I’ve not received confirmation that they’re true.”
“Acting on the supposition he is, would he be capable of developing a comprehensive AI-weapons system?”
Her eyebrows flashed. “Capable? I suppose so.” For the next hour, Dr. McLaren proved why she’d been the foremost AI ethics expert in SIS, maybe even in all the world. Her knowledge of the neural network design was mind-boggling, and her analysis of Orlov’s previous work incisive.
“As you know, Viktor was brilliant but entirely lacking a moral code,” she explained, spreading diagrams across the table. “His approach to recursive learning algorithms was revolutionary, but he rejected the ethical constraints as ‘limitations on evolution,’ as he put it.”
“Were you able to review the transcripts from Nightingale’s interview?” I asked.
Dr. McLaren’s expression grew serious. “I have done, and if Orlov—or someone else—is pursuing true autonomous integration, he’s attempting something most researchers consider impossible.” She shook herhead. “The computational requirements alone would exceed most current hardware capabilities.”
“But if he had access to specialized neural processors?” Con asked, leaning forward.
“Even then, full autonomy without human oversight mechanisms is a pipe dream.” Her dismissal seemed confident, yet something in her expression gave me pause. “Besides, the ethical implications alone would prevent any major world power from deploying such a system.”
“Fallon Wallace and Tower-Meridian weren’t concerned with ethics,” Con pointed out.
“No, they weren’t,” Dr. McLaren conceded. “But there’s a vast difference between designing a weapon with limited autonomous capabilities and creating a truly independent system.” She gathered her notes. “I’d be happy to review any technical specifications you uncover. Orlov’s work was distinctive—I could identify his fingerprints if you find concrete examples.”
By the time we concluded our meeting, the sky had darkened further, heavy clouds promising an imminent downpour. Con and I thanked Dr. McLaren and hurriedtoward his vehicle, making it barely halfway across the courtyard before the heavens opened.
The rain fell in sheets, instantly soaking through our clothing. Con grabbed my hand, and we ran the remaining distance, laughing despite—or perhaps because of—the absurdity of our situation. By the time we reached the SUV, we were both drenched, my blouse clinging to my skin even under my coat, his hair plastered to his forehead.
“The weather couldn’t have held off for two more minutes?” He shook his hair as he started the engine.
“Clearly not,” I replied, attempting to wring water from my sleeve with little success. “My laptop bag is waterproof, thank God, but the rest of me is a lost cause.”
Con glanced over, his eyes darkening as they traced the outline of my body beneath the sodden clothing. I met his gaze directly, and his eyebrows flashed like Dr. McLaren’s had, although for an entirely different reason.
The drive back to Blackmoor seemed interminable, tension building with each kilometer. When we finally arrived, Con parked haphazardly near the entranceand we both emerged into the continuing downpour. Halfway to the door, he caught my hand, pulling me to a stop.
Rain streamed down his face as he looked at me, his blue eyes intense. Without a word, he leaned down and captured my lips with his. The kiss was hunger unleashed, his hands threading through my wet hair as mine gripped his shoulders.
When we broke apart, both breathing heavily, he rested his forehead against mine. “We should get out of these wet clothes,” he suggested, his voice rough.
He led me inside but not to my suite. I followed him into his bedroom, where he opened a wardrobe and withdrew a thick robe in deep navy blue.
“Here,” he said, handing it to me. “You can, err, change in the bathroom if you’d like.”
I took the soft, luxurious robe, holding it close to my body as much for warmth as for anything else. An unbidden thought crossed my mind—who else had worn this? Had Fallon wrapped herself in this same fabric after sharing his bed?
As if reading my thoughts, Con cupped my cheek, his eyes meeting mine. “It’s yours,” he said softly. “No one else’s.”
The simplicity of his statement washed away my insecurity. I slipped into the bathroom, peeling off my wet clothing and drying myself with a plush towel before wrapping the robe around me.
When I emerged, the flames of the fire he’d lit cast flickering shadows across the room. From where he stood near the window, I saw he’d changed into dry trousers and a simple white shirt, its top buttons undone.
“I asked Mrs. Thorne to prepare a casual dinner,” he said. “I hope you don’t mind if we remain in here while we eat.”
“Not at all.”
We sat on the floor before the fire on cushions arranged in a makeshift dining area. Con poured us each a glass of wine, in what was quickly becoming the most romantic night of my life.
“What did you make of Dr. McLaren’s assessment?” he asked, passing me a glass.
