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It wouldn't appear so, but they were alive.
    Cormac did not see the strange looks he was getting as he walked up the boarding ramp of the delta-wing shuttle. Yes, he was sweat-stained and a little frayed about the edges, but many of them were of a considerably weirder appearance. Perhaps it was his fixed and utterly emotionless expression; a rigidity of control that appeared dangerously fragile. Many would have been interested to hear his internal monologue.
    Runcible AI, lam at the shuttle.
    Still there was no reply. Cormac tried a non-verbal access direct to the AI and it was blocked. This puzzled him. It was almost as if the AI was behaving irrationally, which was, of course, impossible.
    I  need to know to what your inference pertained… Why was it necessary for me to have an emotional response? I do not understand.
    He halted at the small queue waiting at the head of the ramp and gazed out across the acres of plascrete on which stood hundreds of different ships. The AI was just not going to speak to him. Very well, who was he to judge it? There had to be reasons. This was not a gland-oriented human he was dealing with here. He shut down on that line of action and concentrated on the ships he was looking at.
    The designs of these vessels were weird and various, with often no concessions made to wind resistance. It was one of these that had been bringing in weapons for the Cheyne III Separatists, and now he would probably never know which one. It wouldn't be any of the small insystem ships, but it had to be something with under-space engines that could get it Out-Polity, where such weapons could be easily purchased. And what weapons, too. The Cheyne III Separatists were the best armed of their sort he had come across in twenty years. They were rumoured to have obtained something really special, something almost unthinkable. What could possibly be more important than tracking—
    'Sir… Sir?'
    Cormac blinked and turned his attention to the stewardess. With a surge of irritation he pressed his hand down on the palm-reader she was holding. How inefficient human beings were. Whose ridiculous idea was it to staff the shuttles with them? Angelina had mistaken him for an android. He considered that a compliment. Machines always had perfectly logical reasons for doing the things they did.
    'Ah yes, Ian Cormac, I am afraid there has been an error concerning your seat booking.'
    Cormac stared at her bland smile and chromed teeth, trying to connect what she had just said to any kind of reality he knew. He quickly accessed bookings and speed-read down the passenger manifest. There was his name, in the wrong place. He replayed, word for word, the request he had routed through the city AI, as the runcible AI had not been speaking to him. There could be no error.
    'What do you mean?' he asked, when he could think of nodüng else appropriate.
    'You requested a privacy seat. Unfortunately you were assigned to a public section. Your seat is D16.'
    Runcible AI, there is some problem with my seat booking.
    No reply. He tried elsewhere.
    City A I, there is some problem with my seat booking.
    Again there was no reply.
    'Yes…' said Cormac to the stewardess. He took his card and was taken to his seat by a grinning steward. Was this some kind of joke?
    'Here you are, sir.'
    Cormac sat down.
    The city AI made a mistake?
    He looked around. Sitting right next to him was a grey-haired old man in wrinkled businesswear. Some people considered it dignified to appear old; Cormac had never understood why. The man had narrow eyes and a look Cormac felt he ought to recognize. He accessed and bounced. No connection. He tried again and this time got a download before even posing his question:
    The look is Japanese for the moment.
    'Heading for Cereb?'
    Cormac stared at the old man as he tried to figure out what the hell was happening with his link. Had he damaged it? How was that possible? It was inside his skull and he would need to suffer something of