Resonance

by D. B. Goodin

  I shouldn’t!

  He expanded the folder anyway. He knew he had no business looking at these, and his curiosity went well beyond checking for file integrity. Several pictures of Alice were displayed in small thumbnails. He couldn’t be sure until the photo stack was expanded, but he thought he noticed that the thumbnail images contained a lot more skin than any of the others. The second he tried to open one of them, a female voice jolted him so much that he almost fell out of his seat.

  “You’re not Alice! Who are you?”

  “I’m helping her, you must be Doris,” Simon responded.

  “It looks like you’re helping yourself. Access denied, starting visor lockdown protocol,” a female AI voice said.

  “Is that Doris?” Alice said, walking into the room.

  Oh shit! Simon thought.

  “Err, I was just . . . checking the file system integrity of your visor. Your AI must have activated,” Simon blurted.

  Simon removed the visor; Alice looked at him and held a hand out. He handed her the visor. Nigel was behind Alice; he had a curious expression on his face that Simon couldn’t read.

  “Hey—were you going through my photos?” Alice said.

  Simon’s mouth went dry, his throat clinched, and his heart raced, but he said nothing. Alice used several hand gestures, and then said, “What were you doing in my private photos folder? Visor integrity my ass! Someone should check your integrity . . . perv.”

  Simon headed for the door.

  “Hey, where are you going?” Alice said.

  “I . . . I’m sorry I was looking at your photos, but I was just—”

  “Just what? I don’t accept your apology, and I’m glad that Doris is looking out for me.”

  Simon didn’t know what to say. His phone chirped.

  Saved by the bell, he thought.

  Simon checked the messages on his phone, which read:

  * * *

  Need immediate forensic analysis for system breach.

  Come now.

  Report to Mark Olaf.

  * * *

  The messages were from a system mailbox. He would need to either call Mark Olaf or the MuseFam helpdesk if he wanted to retrieve the contents of the messages.

  “I have to go—my day job calls.”

  Alice put her visor on and mumbled something unintelligible. Nigel rubbed at his neck and mouthed the words “go now” to Simon.

  Simon made a hasty retreat from the room.

  Mark Olaf was enjoying the view from MuseFam’s 70th floor lobby. The sun was setting, and the lights of Midtown Manhattan shone brightly. However, the beauty of the scenery did nothing for his mood. The last thing he wanted was to manage fallout from a data breach, but that was part of his job. He had called in Simon, his lead investigator, to examine the evidence. Simon was late as usual, but at least he had responded.

  Is he seeing someone? Not likely—nerds of his caliber often start relationships later in life, Mark thought.

  Simon was in his late twenties. He was most likely moonlighting. Mark hadn’t given Simon any details about the breach, but he had given the word to lock down all remote access until his team contained it. Mark knew that the sales department would look to him for answers soon; those guys worked all hours of the day, and with the recent product announcement coming, the remote sales force had to be ready.

  “Good evening, Mr. Peters,” the receptionist said.

  Mark turned to see a harried-looking Simon Peters trotting into the MuseFam lobby. Simon didn’t seem to notice him. The MuseFam lobby was huge; there were several compact rooms for impromptu conferences on either side of the reception desk. There were also several waiting areas with couches, chairs, and refreshments in alcoves near the edges of the lobby. Mark’s current positioning would make it difficult for visitors to spot him from the elevator.

  “Simon, over here,” Mark said.

  Simon looked in his direction, then hurried over to greet him.

  “I came as soon as I could.”

  “Let’s discuss in a secure area,” Mark said.

  Simon followed Mark through the double doors behind the reception area and down a long hallway. He stopped at a nondescript door with a glass plate on the wall. He placed his hand on the glass, and the door popped open. The room beyond was a featureless square, just large enough to set up two card tables and folding chairs. Nothing in the room was permanent.

  “What is this room? I’ve never been in here before,” Simon said.

  “This is the most secure room in the entire building. No electronic signal can penetrate these walls,” Mark said.

  Simon put his satchel on a table and took a seat. Mark sat across from him.

  “What got breached?”

  Mark didn’t respond to Simon’s question, but asked one of Simon instead.

  “What do you think are the most vulnerable attack surfaces for the MuseFam network?”

  Simon thought for a moment before giving any answer.

  “Any ingress or egress point that includes mobile devices.”

  “Right, that is the classic answer, but what is the actual answer?”

  Simon stared at Mark for a long moment.

  “I don’t know what you are going on about. If we are in a breach situation, why aren’t we working the problem?” Simon insisted.

  “I have members of the incident response team working on it, and you will be on it soon enough. Since you are a lead forensic investigator, I expect you to think outside the normal realm of possibility.”

  “Insider threat is another attack vector.”

  “Correct—that’s what I think happened here. We received an alert concerning unusual network activity from a remote satellite location.”

  “Has any data been removed?”

  “We are still determining that, but for now we are keeping any findings on a need-to-know basis. Anything you find will be reported directly to me. All computers used in the investigation will be air gapped. Nothing is allowed to enter or leave this room without my authorization. Shall we get started?” Mark said.

  “When do I get the new equipment?”

  Mark’s phone chirped; it was Brenton.

  “I need to take this, get started now,” Mark said as he left the room.

  “Yes sir,” Simon said bitterly as he took the laptop out of his bag.

  “Hold please,” Mark told Brenton. “I need to find a private room.” He ducked into one of several private phone conferencing areas. “I’m private,” Mark said.

  “I got your text about the breach. Tell me that the M2 project hasn’t been compromised,” Brenton said.

  “I can tell you that the intruders knocked on the wrong door, but found nothing. M2 is at another facility and is not directly accessible from the outside.”

  “Good. We have a lot riding on that project—we can’t have any leaks about the second phase of the machine automation project. We are hosting the CityWide Concert, and no one can find out before the announcement,” Brenton said.

  “I have my top man working the problem, and the facility hosting M2 is secure.”

  “It better be!” Brenton said as he disconnected the line.

  Jersey City, 5:03 p.m.

  Mr. Wash, the infamous local DJ of the underground all-human music scene, examined his collection of pheromone perfumes. The perfume levels always needed to be checked before leaving his apartment; he couldn’t risk letting them out of his sight. He glimpsed at his reflection in the side of a mirrored case that held his perfumes. Bags had formed under his eyes, and his once-strong muscular face looked gaunt.

  Washy, baby, you are looking peaked. Time for some rest. Maybe a small vacation.

  Each of his bottles were color-coded to match whatever mood he wanted the crowd to react to. His concoctions and his custom musical tracks always made for a memorable evening for everyone involved. The color of each perfume bottle meant something different. Black resulted in aggression, while red stimulated arousal. None of t
hese “extras” would affect any of the robots, which were becoming popular in the club scene these days; just the humans. Although he mainly played at all-human clubs that screened and bounced robots, some slipped through every once in a while.

  Need a way to hack them, because my raves are legendary, and I need them to stay that way!

  He pulled up his itinerary. I’m scheduled for Hoodoo’s—that place is always fun. Isn’t that club all-human? He checked the notes and nodded with satisfaction.

  “It appears that the manager of Hoodoo’s has requested the red,” Mr. Wash said to the empty room, chuckling. He leaned back and smiled as he selected the red bottle.

  Legendary tonight shall be.

  An hour later, still in his high-rise apartment, Mr. Wash admired the view of the Manhattan skyline; it was spectacular. Rays of fading sunlight reflected off the taller buildings as the lights of the smaller buildings illuminated.

  I love seeing the sun set over Manhattan. Time for Hoodoo’s!

  Another hour later, and Mr. Wash was exiting a driverless taxi. The robot attendant helped him offload several large cases from the taxi’s trunk. There was no one outside to help him load the bulky cases into the club. He opened a smaller case containing several large oval-shaped devices that resembled large, thick drink coasters with lights near the edges. He took six of them and placed them on the side of each case. An audible thumping sound resonated from each case after he had closed them again. Wearing his visor, he activated the ovals. A low humming sound emitted, then each case raised several feet off the ground.

  “Follow me, my children,” Mr. Wash said.

  Using the oval companion module installed in his visor, he selected the “follow” option, then sauntered into the club’s band member entrance. The floating cases followed him inside. He heard the beat of synthetic music as he entered the club.

  Mr. Wash set up his equipment on the primary stage. There were only a few patrons in the club; it was still early. Most people didn’t show much before eight, anyway. A tall, skinny man wearing round glasses and a bow tie approached him.

  “Mr. Wash? I’m Arnold, the club manager. Here is the set list for the evening.”

  Mr. Wash examined the list; it comprised easy listening music suggestions, and some mild rock and roll.

  “Hey, is this a joke?”

  “No, Mr. Wash, I assure you it is not. I need you to play the music and enhance its potential. I also need you to spray with the red.”

  Mr. Wash responded by giving Arnold a steely eyed glare. Arnold looked away from his gaze.

  “Can you perform this request or not?” Arnold asked.

  “I can, and I will, but know this—there are complications with using the red. Some people may be erratic, others irritable, but most will be horny. But before that can happen, the proper music needs to be applied.”

  “Well, I need you to make do with the list I’ve given you. Mix the music as you see fit, but you must play from this list,” Arnold said.

  “Most of the music on here has less than twenty bars, and some don’t even have that much. I’m a DJ by trade, not an easy listening public radio dude. I live and die by the beats I play.”

  Mr. Wash rubbed his face with a massive hand as he looked over the music list, and then asked, “How old is the crowd tonight?”

  “Older than me,” Arnold said.

  This guy must be older than my uncle, and he’s pushing seventy. Damned, that’s old.

  “Well then, make sure they take their supplements, because once I deploy the red, they’ll all be in bed.”

  Arnold smiled, then left Mr. Wash to his preparations.

  I’ve been to some strange raves, but never one like this, and I’ve never used the red on people so old, Mr. Wash thought.

  Mr. Wash finished his preparations as people began filing in. He turned on some set-up music. He always enjoyed something with a beat; if tonight was going to be a low-keyed geriatric rave, at least his set-up music would be right. Mr. Wash put on some old-school techno music. He closed his eyes and focused on the beat of the music. He danced as he unpacked. Mr. Wash was not small, but he danced with grace.

  For the red to work, he needed to prepare the delivery system. He shed his jacket, and his strong ebony arms flexed as he ran the tubes for the mists of his red pheromone. Instead of walking to the other side of the room, he seemed to glide. When he turned, his dreadlocks twirled.

  An older woman stepped up to Mr. Wash and started dancing in time with the music. Mr. Wash made a modern dance move, and the old woman matched his steps.

  She must be a professional dancer.

  An older man joined them. He seemed to glide with the woman. Mr. Wash admired the man’s footwork. It was perfect.

  After his preparations were complete, Mr. Wash put on his headphones and started his mixing process using the uninspiring music that Arnold had provided.

  I have my work cut out, but I will make this music shine after all.

  He constructed the tracks based on the number of bars so the tempo would sound correct; he didn’t want an amped-up partygoer to lose the effects of the red because the beats were out of sync.

  That would not do at all.

  When Mr. Wash had at least an hour’s worth of usable tracks, he played one of them to test the crowd. The song started with an eight-bar measurement, then increased to sixteen bars. The track started with some techno voice accompaniments. Mr. Wash put his visor overlay on. He saw the crowd in a fresh light. His visor was tracking and measuring body movements, and he received alerts when any of the subjects were out of sync with the music; at this point, Mr. Wash would apply some peer pressure via a shout-out to the crowd, or he would give them subtle clues by telling them to shake it a little to the left, right, and so on.

  If I didn’t know any better, I would think a group of 50-year-olds were dancing, not the crowd I see before me. Mr. Wash zoomed in on some dancers, and according to the non-verbal AI built into his visor, he estimated the average age to be eighty.

  This is not possible—these people are human, right?

  At half past nine in the evening, Mr. Wash danced in place as he put his facemask on. It would not do to sample his own product and do something strange with one of these patrons.

  I think it would traumatize me if I woke next to a woman or a man twice my age, so precautions must be taken.

  Using his visor control, he released the red into the crowd. He checked the mist concentration levels; they were perfect. No one without a visor would be able to tell that the mist was deployed due to his smoke machine and lighting effects. The crowd breathed in the mist. Seconds later, everyone in the club was on the dance floor. Mr. Wash escalated the tempo of the music. His audience touched, kissed, and experienced Mr. Wash’s red in unison.

  They are taking to it faster than I would have thought possible.

  Soon the crowd moved in a single motion in time to his music. Before long, the crowd shed their clothes—and the rest of their inhibitions.

  I wonder how much stamina these old folks have?

  “You are beautiful, dark angel,” a woman’s voice said. Mr. Wash could barely hear her over the music and headphones. His visor processed the voice, and pointed him to the person who had said it. Mr. Wash looked up and saw something he was not expecting. A woman in her early thirties was dancing in place before him. She had shed all her clothes. She was moving in rhythm, but she was also trying to penetrate the gaze behind his visor from below the small stage.

  She’s a little too young for this crowd. Does she work here? Why isn’t she wearing a mask? A minute or two later, Arnold appeared, also without a mask. He removed all of his clothes, and then took the woman by the hand. The two began dancing, then slipped somewhere out of sight. Mr. Wash laughed. There was always something new that happened each time he applied the red.

  Boy, I love it when I’m right. This new concoction gets through masks. He smiled, everything now under control. This is already a nig
ht to remember!

  4

  The next morning

  MuseFam Research Facility, Trenton, New Jersey

  Brenton Morris entered the research facility. The reception area was large enough to seat a dozen people. It had a shabby industrial appearance, and the decor looked at least fifty years old. I hate coming down here, but I need to oversee this project, Brenton thought.

  Morton Howser, one of his top employees, met him at the reception desk. “Mr. Morris, I’m in charge of the M2 project,” he said.

  “How many people know what the actual purpose of the project is about?” Brenton asked.

  “Besides us, there are the senior engineers, designers, programmers, and several testers. Twenty to thirty people, give or take.”

  That’s too many!

  “Which group is in charge of the AI components?” Brenton asked.

  “Oh, that would be central control—I think the manager’s name is Rex.”

  “Bring me to this Rex fellow.”

  Brenton followed Morton down a long hallway until they reached an elevator. Morton put his right thumbprint on a small pad next to the elevator panel and pressed the “SL7” button. A female voice reverberated through the elevator.

  “Good morning, Dr. Howser. Sublevel seven is a restricted area. What is your command override code?”

  “Little lost bot,” Morton said.

  Brenton laughed.

  The elevator moved downward for at least an entire minute before opening to a dim hallway; lights switched on as they proceeded down it. After another set of biometric scans, the men were in the middle of a large circular room. The room reminded Brenton of a spaceship, or what he thought one must look like.