MINDFRACK

by S G King

  35

  Deep within the Xeno commune, time was dragging its heels.

  It was night up on the streets and Logan was hoping to hear from Salvatore, his virtual guardian angel, but it seemed he only popped into his life at critical moments.

  Carrie had finally contacted Wanda and told her she was “home”, but as Logan predicted, it was apparent that she was referring to Dexy’s, or rather Susan Conway’s, foster home, which they knew was located on Staten Island. But she wouldn’t tell them where exactly that was, and had stopped responding to their questions. The official foster systems rebutted their attempts to find the address, stating that all such records would be officially sealed and would require a court injunction to open them – should they find them. Diaz had hunted for information the old-fashioned way, through social media and public records. Every path of investigation she pursued, however, led to a dead end or was prematurely truncated, as though Susan Conway’s past had been deliberately redacted from God’s own history book.

  Wanda had become withdrawn and had deliberately immersed herself in her work; she was currently engrossed in a technical paper she was working on for her postgrad project. She swiped and plucked at phantoms before sweeping them away and sitting back, thoughtful; she took regular sips of tea from a large mug while she repeated the routine. Occasionally, her expression clouded over and she stared into space for a time, before shaking her head and getting back to her work. It didn’t take a shrink to figure why.

  Logan watched her furtively and wondered where their relationship was heading, or whether they even had one. He had no doubt that a strong mutual attraction existed, but it was overshadowed by recent events. How often did people hook up under life and death situations? And it must have been doubly overshadowed for Wanda, having lost Kath in such violent circumstances. He decided to be there for her and let things take their course.

  Logan was broken from his thoughts by an anonymous call.

  As usual there wasn’t a face to accompany the voice.

  “Salvatore?”

  Wanda stopped what she was doing and looked over to him.

  “Yes, I’m here, Mark. I’m relieved you are okay.”

  Did his voice sound different, less monotonous?

  “Salvatore, before we talk – can I bring a couple of friends into the conversation?” Salvatore had always talked exclusively to him. Maybe now was the time that he’d find out whether he was a figment after all.

  “Yes – I can do that.”

  “And keep our location a secret?”

  “Yes. Give me the details.”

  Logan gave Salvatore the details for Diaz’s iSense. It was simple to bring Wanda into the conversation. Now they had a conference call going.

  Diaz’s avatar struck a close resemblance to the awkward and self-depreciating junior lab tech.

  Logan and Wanda had their selfie-cams up, but only supplying rudimentary avatars on the group call, as advised by Salvatore. Salvatore remained a voice.

  “Hello, Diaz; hello, Wanda,” said Salvatore, “I’m glad to meet you.”

  Logan noted that his voice did have emotional content. Gone was the monotonous robotic tone.

  Diaz and Wanda introduced themselves to each other though it seemed a little impersonal, given that it was through their avatars.

  Logan kicked off. “Uh, Salvatore, I know you have done a lot to help me.”

  “You’re welcome.”

  “And don’t think I’m ungrateful or anything, but I think we need to understand who you are …?”

  “Why?”

  Logan felt his reply to be odd. A human would get the point he was making. And so would a 6thgen. He felt confused again and saw doubt in Wanda’s face, and in Diaz’s avatar. Damn, this was awkward.

  “Because it’s difficult to trust someone if you don’t know anything about them,” Logan explained.

  “Oh, I understand. What do you want to know?”

  “Everything,” said Logan.

  “I doubt we have the time.”

  To this Logan simply replied, “All right, let’s keep it brief. How about some background? Can you tell us where and when you were born, and where you are right now?” There was a purpose to what he asked, since Diaz had done a search on the name he’d given her, and there were a lot of Salvatore Costas in the world.

  “I’m sixty-four, and I was born in Queens. I went to school at …”

  Off he went, covering his schooling and his career as a cabbie. He had an astonishing memory for detail, which, Logan feared, supported his theory that he was an AI, and was drawing upon a database of information that someone had set up for “Salvatore”.

  Diaz busied herself and before long gave Logan the nod. She’d found him. The information Salvatore continued to give them got lots more nods from Diaz and they felt more certain Salvatore was real, unless he was an identity theft, and an AI was parading as him – but if that was the case, why?

  Wanda chipped in at this point. “Salvatore, you said you failed your school SATs – badly. You don’t sound anything like a failure in the way you talk and the words you use?”

  “Ha, as I said, the whole story is long. I should tell you I am a savant – and autistic. I have eidetic memory recall, so I have a vocabulary much bigger than yours. But I am not very well educated. I find it difficult to interact socially. One of my teachers said I would be lucky if I got to ride the rubbish cart. I proved them wrong, as I was a cabbie for seven years.”

  Realisation dawned for Logan.

  “You’re a genius?” stated Diaz, her avatar grinning. “That is so cool.”

  “Do they know you’re a savant?” Logan asked.

  “Who?”

  “The people holding you against your will.”

  “I think so. Ade said he had searched for me – needed me for his work.”

  “All right, let’s cut to the chase,” said Logan. “Where are you now, Salvatore – are you a convicted felon? And how are you able to do what you do?” As he asked Salvatore the question, he remembered that the savant had told him previously he was in the GNG building. It still made little sense.

  “A convict? No. I will try to describe what has happened to me over the last few weeks. Please believe everything I tell you …”

  ***

  A head?

  He was a head?

  This was straining the boundaries of what they were willing to believe, yet there was something to his story that did add up.

  Technically, it was entirely feasible, as there had been many head transplants that had been performed across the world to date. It was becoming a standard medical procedure for the most severe cases of traumatic injury to the body.

  This, however, was a sick twist on that medical need. No one, as far as any research hinted at, had kept a head, detached, and “alive”, for the sake of experimentation.

  Salvatore told them who was behind his unthinkable demise.

  George Grist.

  Salvatore went on. There had been others before him, since they called him John Six. It was both incredible and horrific. And he knew there were other laboratories in the R and D section below the GNG tower, though he had only accessed one of them through their security cams. He said he saw things that terrified him, so he stopped looking. When pressed, he evaded their attempts for more detail. They left it at that, fearing he might drop the call. They could only guess at the horrors that existed down there.

  Wanda was clearly shocked at his story and held her hand in front of her mouth. Diaz’s avatar was wide-eyed and lost for words. Logan felt revulsion at what one man could do to another, and was struck dumb by the horror of his story.

  “Why have they done this to you, Salvatore? To what end?” Wanda asked weakly, dropping her hand.

  “I’m not sure, but it has to do with something called ‘total deconstruction’.”

  “Total deconstruction …” echoed Logan. “What the hell does that mean?”

  “I don’t kno
w; but Ade said it will happen to me – soon. It frightens me.”

  “All right – maybe you can try and find out, Salvatore,” said Wanda.

  “I know it has something to do with the Guild.”

  Not again, thought Logan. Everything that had happened of late seemed to circle around and end up with Grist and the Guild.

  Logan changed tack. “Salvatore, did you come across my name in their systems, or maybe it was mentioned by Grist?”

  “It was mentioned in emails.”

  “Now it’s starting to make sense ... One more question, Salvatore,” he said.

  “Go ahead.”

  “Why did you help me?”

  Salvatore didn’t reply.

  “Salvatore?”

  His voice returned, stilted. “This is difficult. I have thought about this … a lot.”

  “What, Salvatore? What is it you want?”

  More silence, and then he said, “I want to die. I tried to control and cut off my support system through Ade’s tablet, but it didn’t work. There is an autonomous fifth-generation system that overrides everything, for emergencies. I was lucky I was not found out …”

  “Oh my God,” said Wanda, quietly.

  Salvatore continued. “At least, that was why I sought you out in the beginning. But then I saw that you were in danger and I wanted to help you.”

  “It’s okay, Salvatore – we understand,” said Wanda.

  “You want someone to do that for you?” ventured Logan.

  “Yes. I know Ade wants me to die naturally. I found his research notes. My brain is already starting to decay – they haven’t solved the problem of keeping a brain alive outside its natural environment for very long.”

  “Just how long?” asked Wanda.

  “I’m not sure – weeks; months, perhaps. His notes state that they aim to solve the problem within five years, less if possible.”

  “But not soon enough for you.”

  “He has lied to me. He wants to keep me going with drugs, to see how long I will remain lucid, sane. Record how my brain deteriorates … and stops. I do not want to live out my days like this. Please help me …”

  There was an awkward silence.

  “Why not alert the authorities,” said Diaz. “Surely they will help you?”

  Wanda nodded her agreement.

  “I have researched head transplants. I would need a suitable donor body. The chances of there being one that is compatible is remote. And in any case why would they save me over someone else with more need – and likely younger? And then there is the time factor. I have been detached for too long a period.”

  “At least you will be freed.”

  “I considered that. Do you not think there would be a media circus surrounding me? And they would be bound by ethics not to euthanise me. They would keep me going for as long as possible … just like Ade …”

  “Tell us what to do,” said Diaz, who’d been quiet for a time.

  “I’m not sure yet. But I have control over many of the systems here. Perhaps we can figure a way – together?”

  “We’ll do whatever it takes, Salvatore, I promise you. But first we need your help.”

  “Anything.”

  “We need to find Carrie, she ran off from the iTatt shop. We think we know where she has gone – but we don’t know the details, if that makes sense?”

  “Tell me what you need and I’ll do my best to help.”

  Logan looked to Wanda, hopeful.

  “But there is something else that I must tell you first,” Salvatore added.

  “Go on.”

  “I must warn you there is someone else who has a similar ability to me – and he is very dangerous. He’s helping them.”

  “Did he find me at the iTatt shop?” asked Logan.

  “Yes.”

  “Are we safe now?” asked Wanda, looking uneasy.

  “He doesn’t know where you are – at the moment. This is a good place to hide.”

  “Do we know much about him?” asked Logan.

  “No – except that he calls himself Pic.”

  36

  Where are you, Detective Kissmybuttanddie?

  Pic smirked and continued his vigilance.

  Turkey wasn’t happy about the situation. Said he needed the playmate yesterday.

  Pic covered his face with his hands and left them there for some time while he thought. He peeked out between his fingers.

  Find you, Detective … then I find that little fuckbot of yours … and then that blackhat Pisswit.

  It was Pisswit that he wanted most of all, for personal reasons, but there was an order to things that he had to adhere to, at least for the moment.

  He dropped his hands and sniffed. Without taking his attention off his 3Vs, he levered himself up and farted.

  It won’t be long …

  His confidence was starting to surface again.

  He’d had setbacks, yes, but nothing, he told himself, he couldn’t deal with.

  He sat up, his posture regal-like, in front of his bank of screens and 3Vs, dressed in his Area 51 alien onesie, which was covered in food stains almost obliterating the words “Roswell – I was a witness” printed across the chest. This was his favourite attire during long hacks at his work console. He wore his choice trainers, without socks, and his lucky, peaked black hat.

  Tick-tock, tick-tock … I’m coming … ready or not …

  He stank, since he hadn’t washed for days.

  In order to avoid interruptions, he’d had food, including rounds of deep-fried pizza slices, cheesecake shakes, and fruitscoop energy drinks, delivered to his front door on a regular basis over the entire period of this demanding assignment.

  He instructed his custom-made blackhat lounger to recline back, while rendering his external smartlenses – Turkey had denied him iSense and the internal sensory kit. His hands flew about, manipulating virtual images at an ever-increasing pace. Such was the intensity of his immersion that his legs were also in the fray. It was as if he were wrestling with an invisible python. His efforts were complemented by his usual medley of grunts, barks, swearwords, and the odd belch. This animation of his limbs was probably the only exercise he received during the entire period of a deep-hack or a prolonged gaming session.

  He froze when his virtual PA, Darth, told him there was a delivery waiting at his door. Reluctantly, he paused his activities, rolled off his lounger and padded over to the apartment’s entrance. Habit made him peer through the spyhole. A delivery-bot stood patiently holding out a box. Pic opened the door.

  “Air-sign please, sir.”

  “Put it down there, slavebot.”

  Pic swiped at the accept icon floating in his head-up. The deliverybot nodded and walked off toward the lift.

  He pulled the box inside and then, exactly three feet to the left, positioned it behind a square pillar. He closed the door and reached for a knife he kept on the small entrance table for deliveries, which were usually fast-food packages. When he cut the box open and saw the contents, he stood back, as though not quite believing what he was looking at.

  He glanced over his shoulder towards the room cam, which was just out of sight from this angle of the vestibule. This particular delivery was unauthorised. His watcher allowed him deliveries of food and other essentials. It’d been years since he’d broken the rules, so he knew that his watcher would give him the benefit of the doubt – if he was watching. He couldn’t go beyond the confines of the door as his ankle bracelet would send an alarm ping. Twenty steps down the outside hallway and the short countdown would begin.

  He picked up some older packages of kitchen sundries that he’d put aside from other deliveries and put them down where the cam could see them. Then, leaving the box where it was, he backed away before turning and slowly getting back onto his lounger. He looked back towards the entrance and regarded the box fearfully, one more time, before resuming his efforts to find Logan.

  He checked the NYPD systems again, in case
they had a heads-up about their absconded employee. Logan was now a fugitive, Pic noted with glee. After his intervention, they had linked him with the murder of the policeman in the patrol car outside his condo.

  He continued to extend his search for Logan throughout the city, using his unique talents.

  One of his favourite methods was to use the NSA’s own resources to listen in on the streams of media meta-data, including phone calls and social sites. His approach avoided having to break through the NSA firewalls, which he could do, of course, but Turkey forbade it, asshole.

  Instead, he had found a way to selectively filter off samples of real-time NSA comms meta-data, at source.

  Comms meta-data was packaged by selected NSA ‘listening nodes’ prior to being formatted, packaged and forwarded on to the vast server farms within the NSA HQ itself. In this instance, the handful of nodes were scattered across New York, like fruit, and he was like an aphid feeding off the sugary stems.

  He didn’t need anyone to tell him his method was pure genius.

  The second method was to use his search apps – which included invoking the new incarnation of Goku. He could replicate it as many times as he wished, but he only required one version running for one task, which was more efficient. It was self-evolving and improving. He’d smashed one of his Manga figurine collectables in a violent outburst when he realised he’d lost everything for Goku v7.0. Pisswit had compromised its neural-net sponge and it hadn’t been backed up for weeks – because of his over-confidence. From now on, the 5thgen spybot would hive away a copy of itself on an hour-by-hour basis – more, if non-trivial changes were detected. If it was destroyed again, the mistakes would be remembered and another, improved, version would replace it within minutes.

  He kept all his apps running in the background continuously while he carried on searching with more traditional and manual methods, including hacking the police drones and other autonomous media drones that existed in their various incarnations everywhere throughout the city and the surrounding outer urban areas.

  Cabs were another source of useful information as they all had cams recording the activities and routing of passengers. He set off his hourly biometrics scan of the centralised yellow cab large-data cache held on the City Government server farm.