The Deplosion Saga

by Paul Anlee

  Why not us?—Kathy wondered. Did our enhanced dendy virus protect us, or were we intentionally excluded?

  The pair ran to the individuals in the nearest seats and pulled their heads forward away from the lattice induction plates in the headrests. They raced from chair to chair, trying to break the spell that had been cast over the room.

  Their efforts had no effect.

  A gurgling, choking sound came from the far end of the room. Virgil Hartland was in obvious distress. They ran to his side but could only watch helplessly, as the man began to drool and thrash about in his chair.

  What on Earth? Has he been poisoned? What is going on?—Kathy sent.

  Using their lattices, they pushed past the conference security’s firewalls to access the internet, and frantically compared symptoms of known toxins. They found a single match, but neither of them could figure out when and how batrachotoxin might have been administered to the Secretary. There were no poisonous toads in the vicinity and no visible method of transmission.

  As Hartland died, the leaders, representatives, and advisors in the room began to stir.

  The security guards rose from where they had fallen, in time to see Greg and Kathy standing over the dying Secretary Hartland. Struggling to recover from their own paralysis, the guards roughly pushed the two scientists aside and administered aid to the convulsing man.

  Four others gripped the couple’s arms uncertainly as they all looked on.

  Hartland could not be resuscitated.

  18

  Greg and Kathy didn’t struggle against the confused guards holding them in place.

  “Oh, let them go,” spat PM Hudson. “They had nothing to do with this.”

  The men holding the scientists hesitated but released their hold.

  Kathy rubbed her arms where the grip had been a little tighter than necessary.

  “No, we had nothing to do with this,” Greg confirmed.

  “Of course not, but what do you think happened?” asked the Prime Minister.

  “Someone hacked the inSense equipment,” Kathy answered.

  Hudson pointed to Hartland. “That wasn’t caused by a hack.”

  “No, it wasn’t,” Kathy replied.

  “We think we might know what caused it,” Greg jumped in. “We just don’t know how.”

  “Would you care to share?” Hudson scowled at him. She was tired of mysterious half-answers.

  “It looks like batrachotoxin,” he replied and, before the PM could raise her eyebrow any further, he added, “It’s a poison found on the backs of certain toads. But we have no idea how it was administered.”

  PM Hudson pulled a cell phone from her pocket and entered a code. She directed additional security agents be sent to cover the entrance.

  “No one leaves this area without a strip search,” she told them. Her eyes flitted to Kathy and Greg, and she waited impatiently for them to answer her unspoken question.

  “Uhh…it would have to be a needle of some sort,” Greg answered. “Not a big one. It would only have to hold a few drops.”

  Hudson nodded at her Security Chief, while speaking into the phone. “Look for a needle and syringe, a small one,” she said. “Once everyone’s been searched, come in here and rip this room apart. I want that needle found.” She waved Greg and Kathy forward. “Start with these two.”

  Guards escorted the pair to adjacent rooms, conducted a thorough search, and released them into the lobby.

  As they sat, waiting for the others to pass through the same demeaning process, they exchanged their thoughts on the assassination.

  Do you think it’s possible his death was induced by his lattice and not by poison?—Kathy sent privately to Greg.

  I don’t see how that could happen, not in a normal inSense lattice—he replied.

  We need to get the coroner to run an MRI as part of the autopsy. That’ll tell us whether Hartland’s lattice had extended into the autonomous nervous system—Kathy suggested.

  Causing an induced heart attack or cytokine storm? Yeah, that might do it—Greg knew they were grasping at straws. I can think of a few ways to make that happen. Ruling ourselves out, and not counting Darian and Larry, that leaves one prime candidate for the murder.

  The Reverend!—Kathy agreed.

  They reviewed the meeting in the lattice archives.

  He was behind the security shield inside the conference room. He could have transmitted the whole thing—Greg noted. Do you think he has the capability? I mean, technically, using his lattice?

  I didn’t hear a single ping from him, though—Kathy pointed out.

  No, me neither—Greg admitted. Could the lattice induction chairs have been compromised before the meeting?

  It’s theoretically possible, but I’ve never heard of anyone attempting it. Besides, Security would have to be colluding with the person on several levels.

  Mm. Then again, this Alum character doesn’t sound like just anyone.

  No kidding. What was that all about, anyway?—Kathy asked.

  I don’t know why he’d take such an active role now. The last anyone heard from him, he was happy making prophecies.

  Uncannily accurate prophecies—Kathy reminded him.

  Sure. Now we know why. He was probably behind the deaths.

  At least he appears to be on our side. Sort of.

  Well, there is that—Greg allowed. I wouldn’t want to have someone so ruthless against us, in addition to all the passively-resistant political types.

  He’s not making us look too good, is he? Not with that kind of brutality. Kathy frowned in distaste.

  No. At this rate, I wonder how long it’ll take this group to start accusing us.

  Us?—she asked.

  Think about it, Kath. We were the only two unaffected by Alum’s attack. Even the Reverend looked like he was captured by the induction plates.

  We have to convince them we had nothing to do with it, Greg! What if we could prove the chairs were compromised?

  Greg shrugged. Maybe. We need to get some independent experts in here to look for viruses in the chairs’ operating systems.

  Agreed. I’ve already put out the call to the people at Neural Nano. Their team should be here in less than an hour. Kathy rubbed Greg’s arm. We’ll figure this out—she reassured him.

  Greg sighed. I can’t think of anything we can do before they get here and coordinate with the police. We’re gonna have to leave this in their hands until they call on us.

  Kathy shared his sigh. I’m sure the international agencies and every police force of every country that sent a delegate will be hell-bent on tracking down Alum in short order.

  She exhaled a short sharp breath, almost a laugh. I’m not even sure who to root for. The man might have just saved our entire species by forcing agreement across the board. Face it; we never could have done it ourselves, not even with the PM’s help.

  Yeah, but is it going to hold, or will he be back to enforce it? I have to tell you, that guy really scares the crap out of me. And from the sounds of it, I don’t think he’s done with us yet.

  Me, neither—Kathy said, and grimaced. I’m pretty sure that’s one thing we can count on.

  * * *

  A host of police and security officials jostled for control of the room. Photos were taken. Officers and experts came and went. The meeting room was sealed off with bright yellow tape proclaiming the area a crime scene, and a fresh security team was installed at the door, deflecting questions and barring re-entrance.

  The attendees gathered in the lobby. They spent the first half hour conferring with their people while officers took their statements. They were not a happy group.

  Yet, every time someone thought to raise an objection to Greg and Kathy’s proposal, the fear in their comrades’ eyes quickly overruled and hushed any dissent.

  Greg and Kathy had to pretend they knew nothing of the change in attitude toward their ideas.

  People shot suspicious glances at the two Pacifica scientis
ts, and encouraged others to stick to the proposal. They would find this Alum who threatened to hold the world hostage. In the meantime, they would give every appearance of cooperation to prevent further deaths. They would do so slowly, though, without making any overly large commitments unless absolutely necessary.

  A shaken Reverend LaMontagne made his way into a chair near the edge of the lobby. A group of advisers, equally distraught, sat silently near him. The Reverend had already informed the New Confederacy President, who had promptly sent his own team to investigate.

  “Are you okay, sir?” Greg approached the delegation from the New Confederacy.

  LaMontagne looked up. “Yes, thank you,” he replied. “Still in a bit of shock, I think. I’ll be alright. It may take a bit longer before our nation can recover from this horrible tragedy. Virgil Hartland was a good man and a loyal friend.”

  Greg doubted that but kept the opinion to himself. He nodded vaguely.

  “I hate to appear opportunistic, but has President Mitchell said anything about the proposal?”

  The Reverend regarded him with mixed emotions. “How could I recommend otherwise at this point? It seems that this Alum, whoever he is, is holding a gun to our heads and demanding compliance.”

  Greg feigned surprise. “I didn’t think people were regarding the proposal positively. Alum must have been very convincing.”

  LaMontagne scowled. “Convincing? I don’t know. But he got a response, alright. The President is furious. Hell, everyone is furious. Leaders do not like having their hands forced, especially not at a personal level.

  “President Mitchell has to deliver the standard official response: ‘We don’t negotiate with terrorists.’ But, for the record, I was already in favor of your proposal. I believe it can be pulled off. The whole scenario is daunting and terrifying to imagine, but I truly believe it is necessary for the salvation of mankind, and I told the President so. Once he calmed down, he was able to see the wisdom of it. You can count on us to support Project Vesta to the best of our abilities.”

  Prime Minister Hudson made her way to Greg’s side, with Kathy alongside. “Well, it seems we have broad agreement to comply. For the most part, it was given reluctantly.

  “You should be aware that even those who were already inclined to agree with your proposal did not react positively to Alum’s coercion. They’re determined to get out from under it. Nevertheless, they will study your ideas in detail and prepare enabling legislation. I hope their resentment doesn’t get in the way of efficient completion of their tasks. We have so little time as it is.

  “We’ll meet again in three months. At that time, we’ll either have Alum in our hands or we’ll move forward.”

  “We’re deeply sorry that the meeting was so violently hijacked, Madam Prime Minister,” said Kathy.

  The PM didn’t bother to make eye contact to address her. “Yes, that was most unfortunate. So long as you two had nothing to do with it, we can put it all behind us for the moment. Let’s concentrate on what we need to do to move Project Vesta forward.”

  “I can assure you, Ms. Hudson, we were in no way involved in this; we know nothing about any of it,” Greg said stiffly. “We have our suspicions about how the murder may have been carried out, and we will cooperate fully with the police during the investigation.”

  The PM regarded Greg with icy detachment. “That will have to suffice for now. Arrange with the PMO to see me sometime next week. We’ll assess some of your specific proposals, and see if we can’t make it more comprehensible to us mere mortals. Now, if you’ll excuse me, I have some more nerves to calm.” She strode off across the lobby.

  Greg took a deep breath. “I guess we’re on.”

  19

  Greg sat at the head of the bed in a loose half-lotus position, preparing to lose his mind.

  Kathy was away. Whether “still” or “again” was hard to say. Since the G26 had approved the Vesta Project in Vancouver a few months ago, the two of them hardly got to see each other any more.

  According to her calendar, she was in Shanghai helping to plan the megafactory that would churn out a million Cybrids a year for the next twenty years. Then, she was off to Tokyo, Mumbai, and Houston the following week. After that, she’d meet up with Greg in Vancouver and they’d return to Shanghai for the ceremony celebrating the completion of the first Cybrids.

  As Chief Engineer, she oversaw the teams setting up to manufacture Cybrids and the specialized rockets that would transport them to the asteroid belt. At last report, she’d already had designs in hand for the specialized RAF generators for the rocket propulsion and mass sequestration.

  Greg was made Head Scientist in charge of Exotic Matter, which translated to, “anything to do with generating Reality Assertion Fields.”

  One of the key selling points of the G26 cooperation agreement had been that humanity would see upfront benefits from RAF technologies used in the project. This week, he was walking the world’s leading physicists through potential RAF configurations for clean energy production.

  When he wasn’t designing technologies for the Vesta Project or the citizens of Earth, Greg continued to study the Eater. He still hoped to find some way to halt and reverse its inexorable growth. Though he and Kathy were fully invested in the asteroid colonies, it would be infinitely better not to lose the other 99.9% of humanity the project wouldn’t be able to save.

  Greg’s work took him deep into the parts of his own concepta that were most closely associated with Darian’s memories and the physics of reality.

  Following Darian’s own thinking so closely in these areas made Greg particularly susceptible to the thought fragments his mentor had placed all over the internet. It was a battle to think and to maintain an independent personality at the same time.

  Kathy didn’t seem to be as badly affected, maybe because she’d been able to cut off Darian’s transmissions to her mind faster than Greg, the day their boss disappeared. Maybe it was because her work was less intricately involved with the science and more with its application. Maybe it’s because she’s female and her brain’s wired differently. He really had no idea.

  He was, episode by episode, learning to deal with the daily battles between his own remembrances and those of his mentor. It was a little easier now that he had a vague understanding of what was happening to him. But he still occasionally found himself halting midsentence in a conversation while a dinner-time chat between Darian and his father a decade ago replayed before his senses as if they were right there in the room with him.

  To the other scientists in his group, the seemingly random fugue states were a pressing concern. Greg could tell he was rapidly losing their trust. Like I don’t see you whispering!—he fretted. If only you knew what I was dealing with. If you had to function through this, you’d cut me some slack.

  He’d booked three days away from the lab and education duties. Enough already. If I don’t figure out how to better integrate Darian’s memories with my own, it’s going to erode my credibility and authority, and jeopardize the whole bloody project. And if this project fails, nobody survives.

  He was exhausted, but ready to confront the intrusive memories and attempt to integrate the fragments of Darian that were still resident in unexpected places on the web.

  He hoped his own personality was strong enough to remain dominant. What if I can’t do it? What if I lose to Darian’s personality? Would I become Darian? Wouldn’t Kathy be in for a rude surprise if someone who looks like me but acts like Darian welcomes her home!

  Greg had been thinking about this a lot lately, ever since Darian attempted to download himself into their minds.

  What part of us is really “us”? The question, usually best contemplated over beer, had assumed an urgent importance to him these past few weeks. Is our identity tied up in our body, the way we look, move, and feel? Or is it connected to our brain? What if we keep the same wetware but run a different program on it? I guess that wouldn’t be completely the same brain; so
me synaptic connections would have changed.

  Kathy’s team members were pondering similar questions as they prepared the way for human uploads into the Cybrids. Would the Cybrids receive a copy, or would something original be transferred? Did imprinting the memories, beliefs, and tastes of someone onto a Cybrid lattice create a new person or just copy an old one? What kind of rights could, or should, that personality have?

  Kathy modeled the knowledge and beliefs, the concepta of a person, separate from their memories, preferences and experiences, their persona. It was a tidy way of thinking of it, and of organizing the structures in the Cybrid brains.

  It wasn’t a completely accurate representation of the messy human mind, but it was close enough for a working framework. Right now, that was all they had time for.

  Is there something else, something non-physical we haven’t captured—Greg wondered. Perhaps a soul is the essence of who I am. The thought made him chuckle. Darian certainly didn’t believe so, never had.

  Darian’s memories have been trying hard to imprint themselves on my brain. If his soul were out there, he’d only have to bump my soul aside and take over my body. But if his memories and preferences can find a place beside mine, inside the same brain, will it change me? Are we nothing more than memories and preferences? Is my desire for chocolate over strawberry ice cream a defining part of me, the real me?

  Greg sighed, seeing through his mental meanderings for what they were. Procrastination. Drifting like this—cosmic navel gazing his grandfather used to call it—was bringing him no closer to any meaningful answers. He was delaying the inevitable confrontation. In a few minutes or a few hours, it would all be over, anyway.

  Trying to accommodate another whole person inside his head, was uncharted territory. Sure, there were many documented examples describing multiple personalities and dissociative identity disorder throughout the psychology literature. The condition was generally ascribed to a failure to integrate various aspects of identity, memory, and consciousness into a single complete persona.

  What if the condition could be resolved with a simple boost of processing power?