Frostlands

by John Feffer

  Now it seems that CRISPR is behind the latest attack on Arcadia. That may be surprising, but not half as much as Zoltan’s actions.

  “I wanted to test their capabilities,” he explains to me after I express my shock at his confession. “And we gathered great intel.”

  “So did they!” I practically scream at him.

  “Yes,” he says patiently, as if talking to a child. “They learned how impregnable our defenses are.”

  “That’s what we think,” I say, “out of our own arrogance.”

  “Their arrogance is far greater,” he assures me. “Now we have one of their drones, one of their AIs, and a window into their digital capabilities. Not bad for ten minutes’ work.”

  “Why are you telling me this? You knew I’d be furious.”

  “I told you because you were about to figure it out on your own,” he says coolly. “And now we can work together on this, just as we’ve done on your computer simulations.”

  He doesn’t want my help. Zoltan wants my silence.

  In the last year, Arcadia has divided into two factions. The Traditionalists want to concentrate on self-defense, which requires latest-generation 3D printers, devices that are not cheap. To acquire such technology, we’d have to forgo our plans to expand the community by 10 percent. We’d have to earmark all our surplus food and possibly cut back on caloric intake for half a year. Then a team accompanied by Rupert and his monkey knapsack would have to make the risky journey to Montreal to make the trade. The new printer would allow us to upgrade our arsenal and, as a side benefit, upgrade Rupert as well.

  Zoltan, as the leader of the Disrupters, argues that Arcadia simply doesn’t have the resources to defend itself against a determined and wealthy enemy, that we will always lose any arms race. Until recently, all we had to worry about were the scruffier operators. Last year, though, thanks to my ex-husband Julian, we came to the attention of CRISPR International. It had officially hired him to produce a report on the state of the world. In fact, it really wanted to use him to get to Benjamin, our son-turned-mercenary, and prevent him from distributing one of CRISPR’s life-extending technologies as widely as possible.

  Zoltan has presented a plan to the Community Council to work with a group of paramilitary hackers to bring down CRISPR. He believes that the best defense is a good offense and that, as the weaker party, Arcadia has to rely on asymmetrical warfare. I’m not convinced of the Traditionalist position, but I think Zoltan’s plan is worse. If we prance around the flanks of CRISPR, it will put all its considerable weight into crushing us. It’s frightening enough to be in the ring with a powerful bull. It’s far more dangerous if you act like a picador as well and enrage it.

  The two factions in Arcadia have remained deadlocked despite several all-community meetings. We’ve neither taken steps to acquire the 3D printer nor contacted the hackers. I’ve been privately happy that this deadlock has not escalated into outright conflict. The last thing Arcadia needs now is another schism.

  “Did you set your plan in motion?” I ask Zoltan.

  He stares straight into my eyes and says, “Absolutely not.”

  “Then why do you think they just attacked us?”

  “Because of you, Rachel.” Do I detect a mischievous twinkle in his eye? “Because of your research.”

  “And how could they have learned about it? Even here in Arcadia, the only person who knows is you.”

  He directs my attention to one of the screens behind him. “Do you know a Bjorn Amundsen?”

  “The Norwegian glaciologist.”

  “And you’ve been corresponding with him.”

  “He’s the leading expert on methane hydrates.”

  “Are you aware of the paper he just published on the topic?”

  I glance at the screen. “It looks useful.”

  “He footnoted you.” Zoltan swipes the screen. “There.”

  I examine the footnote. It merely nods in the direction of my research. I marvel that Zoltan knows the latest advances in my field of expertise. “It’s a footnote, Zoltan.”

  “And you don’t think that CRISPR International checks out footnotes?”

  “It’s an obscure scientific paper.”

  “They have the highest-powered computers scanning every scintilla of published material every second of the day to identify threats and opportunities.”

  “You’re saying that CRISPR International launched an attack on the basis of a single footnote.”

  Zoltan shrugs. “You of all people should appreciate the importance of footnotes. Anyway, that’s my best guess. And it will remain my best guess until you supply me with a better one.”

  I do have a better guess, but I’m not going to tell Zoltan because it involves him. Instead, I reveal only part of my hand: “Here’s my guess. You’re going to announce that CRISPR was behind today’s attack. And then you will renew your proposal to ally with hackers to bring down the most powerful corporation in the world.”

  Zoltan is nodding. “And you’re going to support me this time.”

  “Because of the footnote?”

  “Among other things.”

  I need to buy time to finish my project. My project is more important than Zoltan’s crazy scheme, more important even than Arcadia.

  “Okay, Zoltan, but we’ll need to build a stronger case. Today has exhausted me. Let’s meet tomorrow to work this out.”

  Zoltan looks pleased. He thinks that he has turned an otherwise weak pawn into a key player in his attack. He can afford to be magnanimous.

  “Of course, Rachel. I apologize for throwing so much at you at once. Let’s meet for breakfast. Will eight AM be too early for you?”

  “Let’s say lunch.” I stifle a yawn. “I think I might be sleeping late tomorrow morning.”

  Zoltan readily agrees. I note the glint of pity in his eyes, the pity that the young have for the old.

  As for me, I’m not tired at all. I’ve plenty of energy for the two tasks ahead of me. I need to fix Rupert’s stuffed animal. And I’ve got to take a short trip via virtual reality.

  Chapter Five

  Transcript of conversation between Rachel Leopold and Emmanuel Puig, director of the World Geo-Paleontology Association.

  Brussels, December 15, 2051

  Rachel Leopold: This is safe?

  Emmanuel Puig: I have the assurance of my IT people.

  Rachel: I have to be sure that this is 100 percent safe.

  Emmanuel: Look in the top left corner of your security screen. I’m now signing us both up for a third-party verifier. There, you see. All clear.

  Rachel: Okay. Thank you. And thank you for meeting me here in Brussels. My daughter and her children will come to this park in fifteen minutes.

  Emmanuel: It’s a pleasure to meet you face to face after all these years. Well, avatar to avatar. You’re exactly how I imagined you.

  Rachel: Really? I was in a hurry today, so I just used the default avatar for “seniors.” I believe that what you’re looking at right now is Judi Dench. She was one of my favorite actresses back in the day.

  Emmanuel: Oh, my apologies. I should have chosen George Clooney. But you’re looking at the real Emmanuel Puig. Well, minus a few things that I’ve airbrushed out.

  Rachel: We don’t have a lot of time, so let me cut to the chase. You contacted me last year after my husband’s death. I apologize for not responding. Are you still putting together his… materials?

  Emmanuel: Yes. Your son Gordon generously shared the full version of your husband’s final report with me. It was very helpful for my latest book, which just came out this year. I can send you a—

  Rachel: It’s not necessary. What are you going to do with Julian’s report?

  Emmanuel: I’d like to publish it one day soon. It will be an important contribution to the field he founded. I was even thinking of calling it Splinterlands as an homage to his original masterpiece. Of course, since I will provide annotations, I’d naturally like to ask you some quest
ions about…

  Rachel: Later. Right now, I’m interested in something else. As you know, Julian sent me a coded message along with the report. So that I wouldn’t get fooled by CRISPR.

  Emmanuel: It was quite clever of him.

  Rachel: Well, a stopped clock is clever twice a day, I suppose.

  Emmanuel: You’re still angry about…

  Rachel: I don’t have time for regrets. What I do want to know is this: do you think he also sent coded messages to our children? Or do you think there are coded messages in his report?

  Emmanuel: About?

  Rachel: About CRISPR.

  Emmanuel: What kind of coded messages?

  Rachel: Well, for instance, do you know where he was when he sent those notes to the children and me?

  Emmanuel: He spoke of the capital of the Northern Territory, so I’m assuming he was in Darwin. The former Australia.

  Rachel: Do we know where in Darwin?

  Emmanuel: CRISPR maintains a complex in the hills above the city.

  Rachel: Is there any possibility he might have sent more detailed information in code about the location?

  Emmanuel: For what reason? He was dying. He didn’t think anyone would be able to find him before he… passed away.

  Rachel: This is just a guess. The coded message that he sent me, the verse about the narrow gate and the wide gate, was from Matthew. From the Bible. There’s another verse, just after that one, that I used to quote all the time. I even mentioned it once in congressional testimony.

  Emmanuel: I am not familiar with the Bible.

  Rachel: It goes like this: “Everyone who hears these words of mine and does not put them into practice is like a foolish person who builds his house on sand. The rain comes down, the streams rise. The winds blow and beat against that house, and it falls with a great crash.”

  Emmanuel: That sounds like the opening of his report. Your house in Washington. During Hurricane Donald.

  Rachel: Exactly. That was what first caught my attention. But now I think he was referring to a different house. The house of CRISPR. It’s just a guess. I think he knew that CRISPR International would continue to be a threat to his family. Perhaps he wanted to give me the tools to bring that house down with a great crash. Could you take a look at those materials of his and see if there’s anything in them that looks like a code? A strange phrase. An alpha-numeric string.

  Emmanuel: I’m not a cryptologist, but I’d be happy to see what our IT department can find.

  Rachel: Can we meet at the same time tomorrow in Yinchuan City?

  Emmanuel: You’ll be visiting your son Gordon?

  Rachel: I appreciate your help, Mr. Puig.

  Emmanuel: Anything I can do, Ms. Leopold. In exchange, perhaps…

  Rachel: Yes?

  Emmanuel: A report. When you are finished. A report for me. I’m thinking of producing a series of…

  Rachel: Of course. If there is time.

  Chapter Six

  My daughter is trying hard to look happy about my unexpected visit. Aurora has a poet’s introversion wrapped in a sociologist’s dyspepsia. She doesn’t smile a lot.

  Still, she attempts a joke on seeing my borrowed avatar. “Mother, you don’t look like yourself these days!”

  My grandchildren air-kiss me on both virtual cheeks with no hesitation. They haven’t seen me since they were infants and everyone over the age of eighty no doubt looks the same to them. My Judi Dench avatar is as good an image of a grandmother as anyone else in this shapeshifting age. They’re teenagers now, and both sport the latest fashion. Emil is a Mondrian from head to toe, a jazzy assortment of colorful boxes. Étienne is the night sky, constellations wrapping around his arms and legs. Needless to say, I don’t get it: kids change their bodypaper as frequently as they change their clothes. Some even make money as living billboards. What’s wrong with the skin they’re born in?

  They politely report on their incomprehensible lives— much of it virtual—and then take their leave to mingle with the other young people milling around us. Soon they’re playing some game that, in mixing the seen and the unseen, has them leaping and cavorting like mad mimes. I can’t help but see it all as a tremendous waste of energy.

  Aurora and I are sitting on a park bench in South Brussels, where my daughter has lived much of her adult life. The park is in the middle of the Zone Verte, the only truly safe sector of the city.

  It’s not my first time using VR. I took several return trips to Antarctica to look at conditions on the ground. (Once I would have said, “conditions on the ice,” but that’s no longer accurate.) This is, however, my first time VRing to an urban setting and actually interacting with other people. I feel like an apparition—in a city packed with ghosts.

  It was bad enough when I visited Brussels in person after the births of Étienne and then Emil, extravagantly expensive flights that Arcadia gave me as a thank-you for my service. I’d become completely unaccustomed to the rhythms of a city: the frenetic rush to jobs, to meetings, to shops, everyone as urgently focused as if they were fleeing a disaster. I vaguely remembered doing this myself years before, when I lived in Washington, DC—until I realized I was only running in place.

  The most baffling feature of that short trip to Brussels was the multiplicity of screens. Every square foot of public space was dominated by moving images—music videos, deodorant advertisements, trailers for the next Star Wars installment. Most appalling were the offers to VR to current at-risk areas of the world to watch them disappear beneath the waves. I’d grown used to the pace of life in Arcadia by then, where we were largely unplugged from the relentless effort to “capture eyeballs.” In Brussels, I felt as if my eyeballs were swatted around like squash balls before being returned, the worse for wear, to their sockets.

  Now, on this VR excursion, I can see that everything has been raised by a power of ten. As if the city weren’t crowded enough, avatars glide around, gawking, in an endless stream. I wish I knew how to turn on the unsee function. I’m assaulted not only by the sight of all these virtual tourists but by the virtual ads that target them. “Come to the Zone Rouge!” screams one as it unfurls just above the playground sandbox. “See live death!” The scene that unscrolls beneath the headline is so disturbing I have to look away. I try to focus on Aurora, but I’m distracted by a talking orangutan that interrupts our conversation with a pitch for the latest chemo pills. Aurora finally offers me instructions on how to turn off the ads so we can talk in peace.

  After the orangutan disappears, I ask, “Everyone is healthy and safe?”

  “You can see how happy Emil and Étienne are, and Maxime is doing fine.” Though she’s still trying to smile, I can see that Aurora is anxious about something specific. “So, to what do we owe this unexpected pleasure?”

  Ah, she must think I’m going to give her some bad news. Why else would I show up with less than a day’s notice?

  I hasten to reassure her. “I’m fine, and Arcadia’s fine. Really, you ought to think of joining me there.”

  Relieved, Aurora rolls her eyes. It’s not the first time I’ve tried to persuade her to move the family to Vermont. My daughter hates slipping into old arguments.

  “We’re about to expand,” I tell her. “The new annex will house another twenty-five people. As an Original Member, I can get all four of you on the waiting list. But I’ll need to know now.”

  “Really, mother, and what would I do in Arcadia? I’m sure that you have a great demand for sociologists.”

  “You could continue your research. As long as…”

  “As long as I do something productive. Like weed the garden. I can’t do that, mother. I’m hopeless. Put me down on a desert island and I’d be dead in a day. Same with Maxime.”

  Her husband is a medievalist with a fondness for park-our and kinetic neuropop. It’s hard to imagine him fitting into our quiet community. Still, I persist.

  “It’s something you could learn. The children, too, of course. Think of them
. What do you imagine Brussels will look like in ten years? The Zone Verte will have shrunk to a couple of blocks. All that frenzy, all that loneliness packed into a space the size of a football stadium.”

  Aurora’s patience evaporates. “I’m not interested in going back to nature, mother. Yes, from your perspective, this is an anarchic society, but we’ve learned how to live here.”

  “Live?” I look around. “With screens everywhere? With talking orangutans?”

  “You’re too focused on the surfaces. It’s what takes place hidden from view that matters.”

  “The poverty? The violence?”

  “The scrubbers that clean our apartment. The fully automated factories that produce everything we need in the dark, twenty-four hours a day. This is modern life. I refuse to go backward. I refuse to join you in the fourteenth century. Here, we are free to think.”

  “Arcadia is hardly the Dark Ages,” I say, summoning up images of our weaponry, our computerized defenses, our imperfect Rupert. “We keep up with the times, but we also eat real apples, not the seaweed simulacra you’re stuck with. And we can think for ourselves, thank you very much.”

  Aurora sighs with exasperation, as though she’d failed once again to describe a rainbow to a blind person. “At this point, we’re used to mock chicken and fake broccoli. It’s all sufficiently nutritious. And when real apples are beyond reach, fruit leather seems just as good as the original. Honestly, I think the kids would prefer the simulacrum.”

  “We have an orchard that produces twelve different kinds of apples,” I tell her, and then proceed to sing the praises of each variety. “Imagine introducing Emil to the Honeycrisp and Étienne to the Fuji…”

  I didn’t, of course, come all the way to Brussels to talk about apples. Nor am I interested in repeating the arguments my daughter and I have had so many times before. What I’m doing, though Aurora doesn’t know it, is establishing my cover story just in case anyone is watching. I have to assume that someone’s always watching.