8
STARTING in the low range of 125 to 134 kilohertz, I describe what my SIN is transmitting based on the digital twin app on the laptop.
“And up around 13.45 megahertz,” I add. “Also, UHF at 800 to 915. Plus, frequencies in the 2 to 4 gigahertz range, plus S-band, which is pretty insane. In other words, I’m Pigpen, the character in Peanuts,” I summarize. “Only the dirty cloud that follows me everywhere is electromagnetic, meaning I’ll constantly get in my own way.”
My own signals will interfere with those I need to read if I’m to evaluate my environment accurately. Security checks will be undoable. Forget trying to get into places that have to defend against intellectual theft and spying. And that’s almost any facility or headquarters I access in my line of work, whether it’s NASA, the Secret Service, the CIA, Scotland Yard, top secret military installations.
“Should Carme and I have an MRI, a CT scan, then what?” I go on describing what seems completely untenable. “Even if the sensor, the nano-radio or an antenna is no bigger than a sesame seed, one of these days someone’s going to detect it.”
And what happens to us? I ask, and Dick doesn’t have an answer. Will Carme and I end up in prison? In the OR, on an autopsy table with people chopping us up to remove our electronic stuffing? Dismembering and dissecting us for our secret pieces and parts? I continue painting the grimmest of scenarios.
“We have a kill switch,” he shows me on the laptop we’re sharing. “Similar to what happens if your phone is lost or stolen, you can remotely wipe it clean. If need be, we can render your SINs inert, basically dissolve yours and Carme’s injectable networks. But not without wreaking havoc in ways that frankly are unknown.”
“If our cover’s blown, there may not be time to save us. Not if we get hauled away or shot first,” I finish my second muffin, and if only my interest in food had a kill switch.
“No one should detect you,” Dick continues to assure me.
We have an invisibility cloak, he promises, our SINs constantly capturing and replicating the noise floor of any environment we’re about to enter. The software manipulates internal transmissions to mimic our surroundings.
“Signals hiding behind other signals,” he explains. “Electronic masking. Like an octopus changing colors and shape-shifting to blend with the ocean floor. Which reminds me, I have a few new pieces of equipment for you to try.”
The bed jostles as he gets up. Retrieving his backpack from the coffee table, he pulls out several generic plastic cases, showing me an oversize black Fitbit-type bracelet like the one Carme had on at the Point Comfort Inn.
“A CUFF,” he says. “A Common Ubiquitous Fish Finder, one of your dad’s acronyms.”
Dick fastens the CUFF around my right wrist, the composite material cool and smooth against my skin.
“As common and omnipresent as an Apple Watch, a fitness tracker, doesn’t look different from what most people are wearing,” he says. “But it’s your command center, a tether to artificial intelligence, to your search engines, air traffic control and a spectrum analyzer.”
He informs me that my CUFF is a direct link to software running on the host processor, a quantum computer. My new bling is water- and shockproof within reason, he says. It will do fine in microgravity but can’t be worn under a pressurized spacesuit.
“I prefer you sleep with it on, rarely taking it off,” he adds. “If you do, it shouldn’t be far from reach if you can help it.”
Also, it’s best if I wear it on my right wrist, and he assumes I’m okay with that since I’m almost ambidextrous. It connects to my other equipment, and next he shows me photochromic light-adapting sports glasses like the pair I noticed inside room 1. My Performance Enhanced Eye Protection System, or PEEPS, he explains, which can be worn with or without my new smart contact lenses, the Smart Photovoltaic Invisible Eye System (SPIES).
Both the glasses and bracelet are surprisingly featherweight and sleek, definitely not made of titanium or carbon fiber but rather a nanotube-loaded composite that’s airy light. A material that’s electrically conductive and can endure extreme environments, I have a feeling.
Probably graphene or something similar, and it could be my imagination that I sense a vague vibration around my wrist. A barely perceptible current thrumming through my blood vessels and bones, my scar gently tingling.
“Obviously, they’re not disposable,” I decide about the SPIES bathing in their conductive solution.
“No, you don’t change them daily and toss them out, please,” Dick says.
Soft and curved, the contact lenses look like nothing special at a glance, made of transparent elastic nanomaterials spun into a network of metal nanofibers and microelectromechanicals including stretchable antennas. The SPIES monitor various bodily functions such as eye movement, glucose levels and potential diseases.
Dick explains that I’ll be able to augment perception with synthetic vision, virtual reality, and not knowing where to begin, I ask the most basic questions. When do I wear one thing or another or everything at once or not at all? And what happens if something is lost, stolen or gets too close to the microwave oven?
“PEEPS and SPIES serve different functions but also many of the same,” he patiently explains, and what he’s really saying is I’ll be winging it by the seat of my pants.
“How is all this stuff powered?” I have the covers pulled up to my neck, refusing to get up until I have the means and privacy to dress.
“By motion, similar to a self-winding watch,” Dick places my gun belt, tactical knife, my bulletproof vest on the bed. “Also, photovoltaic,” adding they convert solar energy into electricity.
“In other words,” I decide, “all of my bionic equipment will stay charged if I use it.”
“Kind of like everything else in life,” he opens the closet door wide, rolling the IV stand out of the way.
Clothes hangers click against the metal rod, and from my undignified vantage point under the sheets I watch him help himself to everything about me just like he always has. Picking up my personal effects in no particular order, could be my Jockey briefs, sports bra, my gun, tampons, it makes no difference to him.
“When all is said and done?” Dick places cargo pants, a tactical shirt on top of the growing pile. “You and Carme haven’t been given equipment like this so you can leave it in a drawer. Everything will stay charged and functional as long as you’re wearing it.”
If that isn’t practical or possible, he continues his briefing, there’s always the option of recharging my special gear like the Personal Orbs Not Grounded (PONGs) that Dad and I have been working on for years in the barn.
When the flying spherical drones aren’t in use, they roost on a Perch Recharger (PRCH), the potted Norfolk pine we converted into a docking station and living light fixture.
00:00:00:00:0
“NO NEED to keep your PEEPS and SPIES constantly within reach,” Dick hovers by the chest of drawers, several pairs of my socks in hand. “But best to keep your CUFF close by at all times if you possibly can. However, should you end up separated from it or any device that links you to the host processor, there are other alternatives.”
“Such as?”
“Doing without,” he drops my socks on the bed. “Relying on your own resources.”
“That sounds like sudden death on a cracker,” I give him the unvarnished truth.
“Moral of the story, Calli, don’t get too dependent on your bionics. You’ve got to stay fit, sharp, resourceful and self-reliant,” as if it’s that simple. “You’ve got to be able to build a fire or a fort, to survive any way you can.”
“And when people notice my new accoutrements, what am I supposed to tell them?” and mostly I’m worried about Fran.
“An early Chris
tmas gift from your mom and dad,” Dick scripts. “A combo smart watch and fitness tracker. And all-purpose sports glasses that also serve as eye protection on the firing range.”
“You know as well as I do that Fran will be suspicious. She’s well aware I’ve been here for days. She’ll notice I’ve got new gear. In fact, she notices everything, and that only makes my day to day more difficult since I work with her, and she’s a relative, our neighbor, an old friend.”
“More challenges for you to handle, and I’m confident you’ll do just fine,” powering up my PEEPS, he hands them over so I can try them on for size. “Now go ahead, touch the CUFF,” he instructs. “Doesn’t matter where. Sensors recognize your fingerprint and other biometric measurements, and you should be connected.”
“I definitely am,” I reply as password-protected data streams by in gently tinted lenses that turn different shades of gray depending on the lighting.
Skimming news updates, weather reports, and I have the weird sensation that I’m inside a glass cockpit filled with displays. Or surrounded by a mission control of data walls that never stop updating automatically.
“The PEEPS and SPIES are synced with the CUFF. But what is the CUFF synced with?”
“Your phones, computers,” Dick says. “With any device capable of connecting to the host processor, a quantum computer as I’ve said, one that aggregates and integrates data from all over creation, and does it faster than comprehensible.”
“How do we prevent any of my devices from syncing with everything around them?”
“That’s what you have AI assistance for.”
“What you’re saying is Carme and I can get into anything hackable,” I hold up my arm, studying a bracelet that doesn’t look remarkable.
“And some things presumably not hackable,” he says, suggesting outrageously that we won’t have the usual hassles with passwords, encryption, firewalls.
“Wow this is disturbing. My email, text messages and other private communications are all right there,” I describe what I’m seeing in my PEEPS. “I’m into NASA servers, can access everything without logging in. Or if I’m logged in, I can’t tell. There’s no indication of it.”
Far more important than what I see is what I don’t, such as alerts or other indications that new electronic visitors have been introduced into Dodd Hall’s noise floor. The spectrum analyzers Dick and I carry around with us, and even my new CUFF, fail to detect so much as one device that shouldn’t be here, much less the network of them under my skin and inside my skull.
“According to this, my SIN doesn’t exist,” and I’m amazed and alarmed beyond belief. “Electromagnetically, it’s invisible, as if I’m not here,” and this is as good as it’s terrible.
“Your transmissions are undetectable by normal means,” Dick carries over my tactical boots.
“All fine and dandy until someone extremely close, a best friend, a family member, a partner, is implanted with a similar SIN,” I remind him. “And we have no way to tell because the transmissions are as masked as ours.”
“One of many dangers,” as if he’s not the one who’s caused them.
“Are Carme and I able to detect each other?”
“Not until you beat the software.”
“That doesn’t sound very fair.”
“Get dressed, please,” he says. “We need to head out soon. There’s a lot to do, and time is of the essence.”
“Turn around, and don’t look,” taking off my PEEPS, I set them on the bed. “How did I end up with so much stuff?” reaching for my underwear. “It’s like I’ve been here for weeks.”
“You know Penny the caretaker,” he says, and that’s my mom to a T, always making sure people have everything they might possibly need.
Dick wanders off while I begin getting dressed, all fumbles, fidgets and nervous flutters. I sure hope he’s not stealing glances in this direction, mindful of cameras in the ceiling and gosh knows where.
“If the government just yanked the plug on the Gemini project,” I hurry out of my scrubs, “I’m assuming there’s a connection between that and the recent unanticipated complications you’ve been referring to.”
“Due to an unfortunate situation, the Gemini project is now critically vulnerable to hacking,” Dick says stunningly as I hear him getting something out of the refrigerator. “That’s assuming the missing chip ends up in the wrong hands as opposed to being misplaced, lost, accidentally thrown out . . .”
“Excuse me for interrupting but what missing chip are we talking about?” as I think holy shhhh . . . !
“The Gemini Original Directive chip,” he says what I don’t want to hear. “The GOD chip, which as you might infer from the name includes the software, the hosting processor, the memory.”
“In other words, a copy of the project’s entire quantum computer?” to my amazement and horror.
“Built on a chip no bigger than the head of a match,” and he sounds almost boastful as he offers the broad strokes of phosphorous electrons and nuclei sandwiched between layers of silicon.
The resulting qubits are stable, no longer overly sensitive and easily excitable, he points out proudly. Meaning they don’t need to be chilled to absolute zero. Or –273.15°C (–459.67°F), requiring cumbersome cryogenic equipment and shielded enclosures, vacuum pumps and other hardware that bring to mind a satellite fashioned of gold and copper. Not exactly appropriate for your average office or home.
“Quantum computing on a chip is similar to what happened to mainframes,” Dick glibly goes on. “What used to require huge rooms of big machines now can be managed on desktop servers.”
“This is bad, really bad,” which sounds about as trite as anything I’ve ever said, alarms in my head strobing fire-engine red.
DANGER! DANGER! DANGER . . . !
“I assume this GOD chip was locked up somewhere?” I zip up my cargo pants.
“Of course, and when George was in the safe a week ago, he realized the chip was gone,” Dick informs me, and I remember what Carme said at the Point Comfort Inn.
Something about Dad. That he already feels bad enough.
“And this missing GOD chip is what Neva was looking for when she showed up on Vera’s doorstep?” I button up a long-sleeved black tactical shirt, clean and lightly ironed, acting calm and collected as my life flashes before my eyes.
“Yes, presumably that’s what she was after,” Dick says. “And still is. And she’s not the only one who would go to war for this technology.”
“Then she must have had reason to believe Vera was in possession of it,” and I can imagine Carme entering the Fort Monroe apartment after the fact, searching for the missing chip like mad.
“We believe Neva thought Vera had it there,” he confirms. “Or had it on her person.”
“And how would Vera have gotten it?”
“The kid with the burner phone,” Dick says.
9
“VERA YOUNG ingratiated herself with Lex Anderson, and it would seem the kid’s the missing link,” Dick says, and it’s not a new story, my dad’s greatest weakness the son he’s always wanted.
I wasn’t thrilled to arrive home a few Saturdays ago to find my father and Lex walking around the farm with portable antennas and signal analyzers. On a cyber foxhunt, Dad explained with a big smile when I asked about it later.
All to say, he’s been awfully busy passing on to Lex many of the same things my sister and I were taught when we were coming along.
“What about remotely scrubbing the GOD chip as a last resort?” I suggest. “You know, a kill switch of some kind?”
“If only it were that simple,” Dick says, unzipping a compartment of his backpack. “We’ve got a long way to go in terms of coming up with every c
ontingency,” and Carme and I are screwed is how the cookie crumbles.
No one will be in a hurry to eradicate decades of expensive research and development. It’s not a decision the commander of Space Force or anyone would consider lightly, and I ask if the burner phone has been traced to the point of purchase.
“The Hampton Hop-In,” Dick tells me, and I think of the unfamiliar clerk and pearl-white Jeep Cherokee I noticed 4 mornings ago.
I pull on my boots as Dick carries over a replacement ID badge, activated and good to go.
“As you’d expect,” he says, “the kid claims he had nothing to do with the cyberattack. Not the missing GOD chip either.”
“Please explain how the hell-o he knows about the missing chip to begin with,” I exclaim.
“You can ask him yourself,” he replies, walking over to the SIPRNet desk. “You’re talking to him later today,” he unplugs a phone from its charger.
“That’s news to me,” I feel invaded again. “Obviously, I knew I would talk to him at some point,” I make sure to add. “When I felt the timing was right in the investigation,” I rub it in. “Which wouldn’t be this minute,” in case Dick’s forgotten it should be up to me to decide.
“Fran’s bringing him to your headquarters, and you’ll talk to him there at 1700 hours,” Dick states rather than asks. “He’s under the impression that you’ve already interviewed him, not face to face but over the phone,” and obviously Carme got to Lex before I could.
“When was this?” I inquire, resisting a tidal surge of upset emotions. “And did she introduce herself as me? Because impersonating a federal law enforcement agent is a felony. Not that we care about breaking the law anymore.”
“Yes, Carme represented herself as you. Three days ago, and Lex was very angry and scared. He had little to say at the time. But agreed to come in voluntarily and give his written statement.”
Spin (Captain Chase) Page 7