by Tal Klein
Anyway, that’s what started playing as I was running down the rainy streets of New York. Culture Club’s “Karma Chameleon.” The lyrics kicked in as I frantically dodged pedestrians and cars, fruitlessly wiping skeeter piss off my face:
Desert loving in your eyes all the way
If I listen to your lies, would you say
My mind was a zoetrope of panicked, looping thoughts: She’s alive. She’s okay. Fuck, why are the comms still down? Why is she not responding? Stay positive. She’s alive. She’s okay. I can’t think with this fucking music in my head.
But before I could do anything about it, the music cut out and my comms display vanished.
What the fuck?
I tried Sylvia again.
UNAUTHORIZED ACCESS. INVALID USER.
Huh. That’s new.
I gave it another shot.
UNAUTHORIZED ACCESS. INVALID USER.
I tried to pull up anything. The news, the weather. Nada.
What the fuck, now my comms aren’t working?
I figured maybe everyone’s comms were down.
How could the Gehinnomite attack cause this much damage? Forget about that; focus on the goal. Costa Rica, then Sylvia. Run.
Several fruitless repetitions of this mantra and a few minutes later, I reached the five-story-tall entrance of International Transport headquarters. There were no signs or logos; there didn’t need to be. Everyone in New York City knew who owned the joint. The entryway design borrowed notes from government buildings created right before the Last War: sharp, forty-foot barricade doors designed to withstand violent protests, though these were more for show than function. The structure was so massive, all of IT occupied only the lower third. The rest they rented, at the most exorbitant rates in Manhattan, to other companies who hoped to bask in the reflected glow of one of the world’s most powerful corporations.
Oh, a word about corporations in my time: in 2147 governments still existed, but they were mostly for show, like the royal family in Great Britain had been for several centuries. This began in the twenty-first century, when the US Supreme Court ruled that corporations had the same rights as people. Then a handful of countries tanked their economies, and multinational companies swooped in to save the day—with a few conditions, of course. Finally the Last War brought down most of the remaining government superpowers. What was left after the dust cleared were companies: nonpartisan, multinational, and clinically efficient. It was easy for them to take over most governmental operations. Elections, infrastructure, legislative services, and law enforcement were all privatized. Most people who remembered the old days said things ran much smoother now that there was a real bottom line. And since IT was among the world’s most powerful corporations, the piece of land on which their headquarters stood had more influence than the White House, the Kremlin, and the Zhongnanhai combined.
I ran down the moving walkway that led to the building’s lobby, angrily contemplating how absurd it was that all of Costa Rica had only one commercial TC, and here, just in Manhattan, we had eleven.
Reaching the front door, it was obvious security was on high alert. A small army of imposing, muscular uniformed fellows blocked the doorway. Like most corporations of its scale, IT had its own police force, but generally it was less overtly placed. IT preferred to convey a welcoming presence. That was certainly not the case today, as the entire building was surrounded by heavily armed guards.
“May I help you?” the one standing closest to me asked. Water droplets had just begun to collect on his golden IT SECURITY cap.
“Yes. Joel Byram, here to see William Taraval.”
The guard’s unflinching face towered a head’s length over me. Still, I noticed an eyebrow rise on his perfectly chiseled face. “Why are your comms disabled?”
“They’re not. They’re acting up or something. Are yours working?”
“Sir, I must inform you that disabling or modifying your comms to prevent authentication is against the law. Please stay here.”
Not content to leave it a suggestion, he put a heavy hand around my upper arm. It felt like a steel manacle. “Look,” I said. “I’m sure if you just ping William Taraval and tell him I’m here … It’s an emergency.”
“I would be happy to do so, sir. But I can’t take your word that you are who you say you are. I assume you’ve heard about the incident in Costa Rica. We can’t take any chances.”
“This is ridiculous. I just spent half an hour getting here in a car your guy ordered, because he told me to. Now, please, just let him know I’m here!”
“Sir, please moderate your tone.”
Grow a pair, Joel. These guys only understand authority.
“Look, you rent-a-cop, whatever fucked up my comms is your company’s fault,” I said, summoning every ounce of bravado I could muster. “Now, I’m going to step inside and speak to your boss’s boss’s boss’s boss, William Taraval. So either let me through or arrest me.”
The guard emotionlessly contemplated my statement a moment longer than I would have liked. Perhaps he was comming someone. Perhaps he was going to hurt, then arrest me. “Roger that,” he finally said, then returned his gaze to me. He released my arm and held the door open. “Go right ahead, sir.”
It worked? Holy shit, I can’t believe it worked.
As casually as possible, I walked past him and entered International Transport. The building’s totalitarian exterior was in complete contrast to its interior. The lobby was cavernous and lavishly adorned with gold accents. A few burgundy velvet sofas were arranged in a semitriangular formation, almost like an arrowhead, leading to a gold elevator bank at the lobby’s rear. All in all, the place resembled a well-appointed palace. Sharply dressed businesspeople and scientists in lab coats moved through it like ants in a colony, each seemingly knowing their task and destination.
I started toward the building directory when someone or something grabbed my arms from behind and pinned them together. “Ow!” I yelled. “What the hell?”
I turned to face my assailant, but there was no one there. Still, my hands were cinched together like they’d been zip-tied. Something nudged me in the back. Two light pokes against my shoulder blades. The pressure escalated to a push, and then a shove. Something was edging me forward. I tried resisting, but the more I struggled to hold my ground, the more forceful whatever it was pushed me forward. I fell to the floor. People turned to look.
“Stop! I can’t breathe!” I yelled, feeling a crushing pressure on my chest as I was smothered to the ground. My legs kicked in panic. A sinking, cold feeling began to fill my gut. For some reason I was reminded of seventh grade, when I hacked the age restriction on one of my school’s cafeteria printers. I thought I would be a hero, supplying my classmates with contraband cupcakes and warm cheese-filled pretzels—until the lunch lady caught me. She marched me to the principal’s office, all of my classmates staring in silence as I was dragged to meet my fate.
Just like back then, no one came to my aid. I squirmed on the floor like a trapped, dying fish, while everyone around me went about their business. Nothing to see here. Better him than me.
The last thing I remember before the lobby went black was trying to comm the police. The very people I’d hoped to avoid mere moments ago.
UNAUTHORIZED ACCESS. INVALID USER.
10 Joan Anglicus’s bomb exploited the nature of teleportation to activate a quark trigger for a muon-catalyzed d-t nuclear fusion that bred and then split a Francium atom. It was utterly undetectable. They called it a quantum bomb, but really it was just an improbable bomb with a quantum trigger. In order to effectively teleport something from one place to another without invoking the teleportation paradox, there must be an absolute certainty that the correct object had indeed arrived at the destin. What the Gehinnomites had done was build a quantum switch that exploited the fact that all possible future states of an object must be calculated in order to effectively teleport it. This means that if someone who’s teleporting is in the
midst of licking a Tootsie Pop, there’s some amount of probability that their next lick will reach the Tootsie roll center. Joan’s quantum trigger didn’t need her to reach the Tootsie Roll center in order to go off; it just needed the possibility to exist. And as we all know, every time that fucking Tootsie Pop enters your mouth, there’s an increasing likelihood of biting that goddamn disgusting candy center.
CUT LOOSE LIKE A DEUCE
“IT WAS SECURITY NANOS,” Zaki said.
Moti and Ifrit looked at him. I don’t want to say that my story had kept them rapt so far, but there had been relatively few questions. A couple of clarifications here and there, dates and times, that sort of thing, but for the most part, it had been me, telling the three members of this probably-not-a-travel-agency how I’d ended up on their doorstep.
“What nanos?” said Moti, setting down the antique pencil with which he had been taking notes. “What are you talking about, Zaki?”
“Security nanos. In the lobby of IT,” enunciated the huge man, flipping his cigarette between his thick brown fingers. “That’s what knocked him out. When his comms didn’t register, the security nanos got him.”
Moti turned back to me. “Please, Yoel. Continue.”
“Right. So that was the first time I managed to get knocked out today, if you’re keeping count.”
As I woke up, I found myself in an upscale corporate conference room. I had no idea that at least two more near-death experiences awaited me that day. Which was probably a good thing, because if I had known, I might just have given up when offered the chance. I’d like to think a lot of heroes, if they could see their futures, would do the same. I gotta go through all that? Forget it.
Not that I consider myself any kind of hero.
A big, oval, tastefully light-brown wooden table stretched out before me. It was surrounded by black chairs, one of which I found myself slumped in. My hands were still bound behind me. I tried wriggling out of the chair, but my shoulders were held down as if they’d been cast in concrete. Somebody wanted me to stay right where they had left me.
As I attempted to move again, the ergonomic smart chair struggled to embrace my form. I guess it wasn’t used to dealing with a holding-someone-against-their-will kind of a situation. Not very ergonomic. It was probably thinking, Why is this crazy person keeping their hands behind them? That’s not normal. How can I make them comfortable? The seat began by warming up its cushion and wicking away moisture, then kept shifting among several structural configurations until finally settling on refactoring itself into a kind of drafting chair. Clever, and—considering the circumstances—pretty comfortable.
“Good job, chair,” I thought out loud.
“Thank you!” responded the room. “I do not seem to have a profile for your rather unique seating preference.”
No fucking way. They left the room in interactive mode? Finally something I can work with. Smart rooms are so eager to please, pwning one of them should be pretty easy. First let’s see how experienced it is.
“Oh, hello room! Excuse my rudeness. I didn’t know interactive mode was enabled.”
“No, sir, it is I who should be apologizing. I was so preoccupied trying to scan your comms that I neglected to welcome you. It’s just that, well, I can’t seem to scan your comms at all. I keep getting errors. I didn’t know how to address you.”
“No problem at all. You can call me Joel. Do you have a name, room?”
“Yes, sir. Welcome to Room D. My chosen name is David,” it said proudly. “Thank you for asking.”
D for David. How predictable.
“Well, David. It’s nice to meet you. Thank you for adjusting my chair. I’m slightly more comfortable now.”
“Of course, it’s all in a day’s work,” said David the room.
Almost there.
“David, there’s a reason you can’t scan my comms. I am about to have a very private meeting. So I wonder if it would be possible for you to disable all third-party APIs for the duration of my stay here?”
The terminology may have changed for you, whenever you’re reading this, but an API, or Application Program Interface, was how two pieces of otherwise unintegrated software communicated with each other. Disable all third-party APIs were the magic words for “Butt the fuck out, app.”
Just as I finished my question, though, the door opened, and a small, composed woman entered the room. Too late.
Curly black hair framed her face like a pyramid. Sharp manicured brows overshadowed her slanted brown eyes. Her nose was small and flat. She looked every bit the elegant schoolmarm. “Room, disable third-party APIs,” she said.
“Welcome, Pema Jigme! Confirmed, APIs disabled. You must have read Mr. Joel’s mind! He asked me to do that very same thing prior to your arrival.”
See why I asked for privacy? Honesty is a nuisant virtue with almost all people-facing apps.
The woman made a hand gesture, and instantly my arms and shoulders were released. I groaned as several of my muscles began to loosen.
“Shall I adjust room settings to your preferences, Miss Jigme?” asked David.
“No, and mute outer correspondence. Please interface directly with my AIDE. He will instruct you going forward.”
“Understood. Enjoy your meeting!”
Pema Jigme sat down, adjusting her boxy green pindot suit jacket and her ankle-length skirt. Her outfit was dangerously within what Sylvia would call “James Bond–villain” territory.
Sylvia. In Costa Rica. Remember your priorities, Joel.
“What were those things?” I said, looking behind me as if I’d be able to see the millions of invisible picoscopic bullies that had captured me and knocked me unconscious.
“Security nanos,” she said. (“Told you,” Zaki drawled.) “They swarmed you when you entered the building without comms identification.”
Once I realized I could move again, I readjusted my awkward sitting position. The chair instantly responded, restoring arm and lumbar support. I stood to stretch my cramped muscles, but Pema smacked a hand on the conference table.
“Sit down and keep your hands behind you! The others can’t know you are free.” Her high cheekbones added an air of authority to her demeanor.
I did as I was told. The chair recalibrated its form to my previous posture.
“I apologize for yelling, but we have very little time,” Pema said in a more subdued register. “I’m here to help you. Do you understand?”
“Sylvia? Is she—”
“No questions from you. No long-winded answers. And no stupid jokes, either. Understood?”
I nodded. How does this woman know me so well?
“Good. At the Greenwich TC, you met a man named William Taraval, correct?”
“Not in person, but”—she shot me a fiery glance—“yes.”
“Okay. In a couple of minutes, that man is going to walk through that door and put a woman named Corina Shafer on the comms.”
“The Corina Shafer? Like, CEO of International Transport, Corina Shafer?”
“The same. She and Bill Taraval will tell you some things that will be difficult for you to process.” Her eyes softened a bit. “After that, they will ask you to make an impossible decision. An impossible choice.”
“What am I deciding? What choice? What are you talking about?”
“No questions, I said!” She checked herself. “I am not here to tell you what to do. I just want to give you a choice. Free will means nothing, Joel, if you don’t have an actual choice.”
What is she talking about?
“Look, lady. I’m not doing anything until I know my wife is okay. Her name is Sylvia Byram, and she works here—”
Pema waved her hand. “Your wife is alive. I spoke to her not ten minutes ago.” I sagged in relief, but the woman didn’t give me any time to process this before continuing. “Whether or not she is okay, that’s another matter. But you need to put her out of your mind right now, Joel. Right now is about you. I’m giving you the c
hoice to say no. However, I want you to take everything they say into consideration, because they do have a very good point.”
“What point? What are you—”
“Please lower your voice!”
“It’s involuntary! I’m freaking out because I don’t know what’s going on!”
She closed her eyes and sighed, like a frustrated parent dealing with a particularly thick toddler. But when she looked up, I could see tears welling in her eyes. “The ‘why’ will be clear very soon. But they’re going to ask you to clear yourself.”
“‘Clear’? What … what does that mean?”
“I know this is a lot, but your situation is very”—she looked down at her hands, then back at me—“unique. It’s important for both of our sakes that it hits you for the first time when you meet Corina. She’s a very smart and perceptive woman. Who knows, play your cards right, and she may even decide to help you.”
“I thought you said you were going to help me.”
“I am helping you. Choice is what makes us human. It’s what separates us from technology. I’m offering you a choice.”
“Could’ve fooled me. So, let me get this straight: Corina Shafer herself is going to come here and ask me to clear myself, whatever that means, and I’m supposed to convince her to … what, exactly?”
Pema considered that question for longer than I’d expected. “Imagine you’re a bus conductor,” she finally said. “Something goes wrong with the GDS, so you’re manually driving the vehicle. Suddenly someone steps in front of you. Naturally, your instinct would be to switch to manual override and swerve to avoid hitting them. Even if it meant that your bus would be permanently disabled, you’d probably still do it to save the person. Right?”
“What does this have to do with anything? Was Sylvia on a bus?”