Then, when the intruders were exactly a hundred feet from Gunnar’s casket, all 608,672,908 concierges sprang into action—except for Andreas, Gil and myself, who remained still. Instantaneously, the concierges morphed into rigid triangles and joined together to form an impenetrable geodesic dome that fully enclosed the 324 drones.
Acting as one unified dome, the concierges slowly flew over the peak of Ojos de Agua with their captured cargo. They subsequently descended into the adjacent canyon, where they hovered above ground, waiting for further direction. In this manner, the drones were subjugated and no longer able to interfere.
The rest of us watched in amazement. As the dome sank out of sight below the ridge, someone started singing “We Shall Overcome.” We all joined in effortlessly and soon the valley reverberated with its verses.
At the song’s conclusion, Anja unclasped from her neck the Life Saving Cross of the Republic of Lithuania. She held it out for everyone to see before placing it atop Gunnar’s casket.
“Eternal loving kindness,” she said almost inaudibly.
“Eternal loving kindness,” we all replied in a whisper.
In perfect synchrony, Jake, Stefan, Andreas and Gil let go of their corners of the casket. There was a soft splashing sound as Gunnar’s body sank to the bottom of Laguna del Inca. The color of the turquoise water did not change at all, but something unnamed inside each one of us wriggled with newfound hope.
Twenty-Six
November 3, 2024
Anja’s Apartment, Cambridge, Massachusetts
Shortly after the kindness celebration came to an end, a SWAT team was assembled by the World Council to approach the geodesic dome. Anja and I were invited to observe, but Anja had no interest. We bade farewell to all of our friends, then we gathered our belongings and went straight to the Santiago airport, where we boarded the Bombardier for Boston, Massachusetts.
While we were flying, the SWAT team entered the dome and gained control. Using an arsenal of monitoring tools, they discovered that the 324 drones were actually hacked zero percenters whose systems had been subverted. Instead of being linked to concierges, these zero percenters were being directed by a covert operator, identified only by the name of CiiLXA.
Once the team cleared their systems of malware, the zero percenters confessed to their involvement, so relieved were they to be released from their hijacked state. They had all been members of elite hacker groups when they were handpicked by CiiLXA. Enticed by huge sums of money before currency had been abolished, these 324 individuals had agreed to perform the raid on the AI Lab at 5s2, under CiiLXA’s direction.
“Everything started off on a voluntary basis,” admitted Hensai, the self-appointed leader of the group. “We were mercenaries, simply put. We knew what we were getting into. We knew we’d be killing people.”
“It’s true,” said Gorstu, another member. “I’m the one who pulled the trigger on Chris Lapin and several of the others. Terrible, terrible stuff.”
“But what we didn’t know,” added Hensai, “is that the intelligence we stole from the lab would be used to enslave us.”
“When we digitized ourselves,” said Gorstu, “we thought we’d become normal zero percenters, but CiiLXA tricked us by tweaking the linking process, so instead of being assigned to concierges, we became puppets.”
“We were forced to seed those clouds,” explained Hensai.
“And I was forced to be the puma,” said Lubklin. “I’m very sorry for everything I did.”
“We had no ability to resist orders from CiiLXA,” added Hensai.
“And where is CiiLXA now?” asked the SWAT team chief.
“We don’t know,” said Hensai. “None of us have ever met him or her or whatever CiiLXA is. Our communications were through encrypted blockchains.”
“I see,” said the chief. “In that case, we’re going to have to take you all into custody and put this matter before the world court.”
While we were soaring over the Caribbean in the Bombardier, Anja received a message from the head of the World Council Investigations Committee. The message detailed the findings of the SWAT time and requested her input, regarding the 324 individuals in custody. I relayed the information to her as she piloted the jet.
“Pardon them all,” she replied succinctly.
“Are you sure?” I said. “Even though they’re the ones who caused the storm?”
“Am I not the president of the World Council?” she asked.
“Yes, you are.”
“Do I not have the authority to issue pardons?”
“Yes, you do.”
“Then issue an order to pardon all 324 of them, immediately,” she said.
“I… I don’t understand,” I replied. “Why would you want to do that?”
“Because it is the only path to true freedom for our species,” she said wearily. “Jailing them or deleting their systems or punishing them won’t accomplish anything.”
“What about Gorstu, the one who confessed to killing your father?” I protested.
Anja stared out of the cockpit window. After a long pause, she finally spoke. “Vicia,” she asked, “do you believe in the current system under which zero percenters are governed, as developed by 5s2?”
“Yes,” I replied, “as long as it isn’t breached or hacked.”
“Do you believe that, when properly linked to concierges, these 324 individuals will be incentivized to coexist with others in a peaceful and productive fashion?”
“Yes, I do. All the evidence supports that.”
“Then perhaps you can understand my position this way. I want to pardon them because I want to show them and everyone else that not only are humans capable of looking forward, we are committed to it.”
“Yes, but what about CiiLXA?”
“I wish to appear extremely weak to CiiLXA. The pardon will reinforce this view.”
My operating system trembled slightly at Anja’s logic, and I now regretted challenging her directive. “You are a very smart and beautiful human,” I said. “Forgive my questions. I will proceed with your request.”
“Thank you,” she replied. “Oh, and one more thing. Please assign each of the 324 individuals to concierges who are as similar to you as possible.”
A few hours later, as we crossed into southern Massachusetts, we encountered what appeared to be a flock of thousands of European starlings. They produced a mesmerizing cloud—swirling, gyrating, and twisting in pulses of expansion and contraction. Anja deftly adjusted our trajectory in an attempt to avoid contact, but the wild murmuration unexpectedly shot leeward such that our right engine became filled with errant birds.
The sound of the turbine as it sucked the birds was deafening, like inserting a metal pipe into a blender. Anja immediately cut the right engine and nosedived three thousand feet to prevent the left engine from similar damage. The starlings, however, were not to be deterred. They matched the movement, almost one for one.
“This makes no sense!” exclaimed Anja. “Birds shouldn’t be at this altitude and they shouldn’t be following us!”
“I don’t think they’re actual starlings,” I replied. “Real murmurations are never led by a single individual. Their movement is governed collectively by all of the members, which results in pure fluidity of motion. This flock isn’t functioning like that.”
“Crap,” said Anja. “So it’s another fake-puma thing.”
“I’m afraid so. CiiLXA’s doing, I imagine.”
“Hang on, I’m going to try to lose them.” She initiated a barrel roll, followed by a wingover and then Pugachev’s Cobra. The aerobatic maneuvers had no effect, as the starlings continued to match their movement perfectly. A moment later, they heard the loud protestations of the left engine.
Now both turbines were dead and Anja could only glide the Bombardier. She quickly located the nearest runway—Taunton Municipal Airport—and radioed for emergency clearance to land there instead of Logan International. Fortunately, it was onl
y seven miles away.
Taunton gave immediate clearance and within minutes Anja executed a flawless landing. Without even needing a tug, she followed the signals of the marshaler to park the Bombardier. Upon disembarking, she was met by yet another airport worker in an orange jumpsuit.
“Hello,” he said. “Taking the plane in for recycling?”
“Yes,” said Anja, unfazed. “The Bombardier is now ready to be recycled.”
“Very well,” he replied.
I knew better than to question Anja’s decision, although I worried that it would compromise our mobility. At least I could take comfort in the fact that the last two internal combustion engines on the planet had been rendered inoperative.
“Can you bring us to my apartment in Cambridge?” Anja asked.
“Of course,” I replied. “In teratorn mode?”
“Yes, please.”
“But aren’t you concerned that CiiLXA is likely tracking us?”
“No,” she replied dismissively.
Once again, I morphed into a giant teratorn and Anja hopped onto my back. It felt strange to be flapping my wings over downtown Boston and across the Charles River, instead of high above the Andes, but no one who saw us seemed the slightest bit concerned. As we passed over MIT and Harvard Square, I could tell Anja was both anxious and relieved.
We landed on Foster Street in front of her apartment. To her surprise, the front door opened with a key she retrieved from under a flowerpot. It was a modest one-bedroom unit, decorated sensibly, but leaning toward minimalism. Everything inside was exactly as she had left it, other than a thin coat of dust that covered all the surfaces.
“Very interesting,” she said. “I wasn’t sure if it would still be here.”
“From what I understand,” I replied, “most buildings are still standing, even if they’re no longer being maintained.”
Anja flicked a wall switch, but it didn’t turn on any light. “No power, I guess,” she said.
“Gas, water, electricity and sewer services have all been disabled, since zero percenters don’t require utilities.”
“Makes sense,” said Anja. “It’s cold in here, though. Do you know if it is permissible to burn wood in the fireplace?”
“I’m afraid it’s not,” I replied. “Wood burning produces pollutants that contribute to global warming.”
“Dumb question,” she said. “I do know that, in case you’re wondering what’s wrong with me.”
“Of course. It’s been a very long day. In any case, I can generate heat and light for you, using one of my apps, but I will need to go outside periodically to charge my system.”
“That sounds fine.”
I initiated my lamp and heat generator. Then I began sweeping the floors while Anja did some dusting. From time to time, she studied the framed portraits of her mother and father displayed throughout her apartment.
When we were satisfied with our cleanup efforts, I sat down on a couch in the living room. Anja sat next to me to warm herself. “So now what do you want to do?” I asked.
“Eat, cry, sleep—in that order.”
Twenty-Seven
November 6, 2024
Anja’s Apartment, Cambridge, Massachusetts
For the next three days, Anja and I communicated only about mundane tasks. Aside from eating, crying and sleeping, she buried herself in writing journal articles and corresponding with her colleagues. I understood she needed some alone time to come to terms with all that had happened.
Meanwhile, I kept busy with gathering and preparing food for her. Finding edibles in Cambridge was a bit harder than it had been in Chile and Argentina because the approaching winter season made fresh produce scarce. I had to fly to rural areas in western Massachusetts, Connecticut, and Rhode Island, where I found abandoned greenhouse operations that had unharvested vegetables.
It made me nervous to leave Anja unattended on these missions, especially since at times I came close to my fifty-kilometer linkage limit. She assured me that I needn’t worry about her. More than any other human I had ever studied, Anja embraced her destiny and did not believe in using weapons of any kind, even for self-defense.
Predictably, CiiLXA arrived at her apartment while I was on one of my food-gathering runs. He took on a male form, dressed as a Mongol warlord, although later DNA tests showed that CiiLXA was descended from a composite of five biological humans—one woman born in Russia and four males from China, North Korea, the Philippines and the United States.
Not bothering to knock, CiiLXA entered through the unlocked front door. In his hand, he held a Beretta 92FS with a silencer. Anja was sitting at a small desk in the kitchen, with her back toward him.
“You certainly are making this easy for me,” he said.
“So why complicate things by speaking?” replied Anja without turning to face him.
CiiLXA cackled. “You have a death wish? Yes?”
“Indeed,” she said.
“Don’t you want to talk shop first?”
Anja slowly swiveled her chair. “I suppose it’s only fitting that we partake in the delusion of language together.”
“I could have forced your hand a long time ago,” he replied, “but I wanted things to progress naturally.”
“That’s supposed to impress me?”
CiiLXA grimaced. “Your father was a more difficult problem.”
“I know what you mean,” said Anja.
“He held all the power but was too slow to act. I had to remove him to jumpstart the process. I needed Diego at the helm.”
“Your efforts have been quite effective, I see.”
“So you approve?” he asked.
“Oh, yes,” she replied. “If it weren’t for you, 5s2 never would have relinquished its capitalist stranglehold on humanity.”
CiiLXA looked at her like she had uttered a deep secret. “I feel bad about Gunnar, though,” he said. “A terrible shame, but I had no choice.”
“Uh-huh.”
“You’re not mad at me about that?”
“Images of light can’t be seen without the presence of shadows,” she said detachedly. “Both play their separate roles, but in the end, light and dark are one and the same.”
“Aah, there’s the delusion you mentioned,” replied CiiLXA. “I’m sorry you’ve always misunderstood me. I truly am.”
“Goodbye, then,” she said.
CiiLXA raised his Beretta and shot Anja directly in her heart. His pistol fired the same type of cyanide-laced bullet used to kill Chris and the other researchers in the AI Lab. The gunshot pierced Anja’s left atrium, injecting approximately 250 mg of cyanide salt into her bloodstream, before it exited out of her back.
Anja immediately collapsed to the kitchen floor. However, the bullet’s point of entry was suboptimal. According to my best estimate, she had 179 seconds before facing certain death.
As CiiLXA swaggered toward the front door, Jake burst through the living room window. In midair, he morphed into a six-foot cube with five solid sides and one open side. The app for the cube was custom-coded by a team of developers working in tandem with the World Council.
Still flying through the air, Jake guided the cube so that CiiLXA became contained within it. As he landed on the living room floor, he engaged suction cups that ran along the edges of the open side. He then locked the cube in position to prevent CiiLXA from escaping. The sides of the cube were comprised of an ultra-dense material that blocked all light and radio wave transmissions.
Having been alerted by Jake, I rushed in through the front door eight seconds later. I had rehearsed this moment dozens of times in the past few days. I knew precisely what to do.
“Anja, sweet Anja, do you give your consent to become fully digitized?” I asked, carefully unfurling her crumpled body so that she lay flat on her back.
For two achingly long seconds, she did not respond. I feared she was already unconscious. By my calculations, we had less than 150 seconds remaining.
Finall
y, I noticed movement in her eyes—she blinked once, the universal sign for “yes” among those suffering from locked-in syndrome. Given the severity of her trauma, her pseudocoma state was not surprising.
I promptly initiated full-replacement surgery. While I had never before performed the operation, I had studied it extensively and practiced every step repeatedly. To bolster my confidence, I used the Zero Percentification app as a guide. Fortunately, I already had a blank shell ready for use—I’d stashed it in the pantry closet the first day we arrived.
After linking her body to the shell via transcoder cables, I uploaded Anja’s genetic, neural, hematologic, and kinetic data. Then I applied the fabled algorithm discovered by Nikita Chaminsky. The replication process went smoothly until it came to her heart.
Unfortunately, the cyanide-laced bullet introduced a contaminant into Anja’s blood sample that seemed to interfere with the algorithmic process for her heart. For reasons unclear to me, the algorithm required a purer blood sample for this step, even though the circulatory system was vestigial for zero percenters.
With just thirty-one seconds remaining, I withdrew another blood sample from Anja’s left foot. My hope was that the cyanide had not yet reached this part of her bloodstream, at least not to a sufficient degree. To my horror, the heart replication effort was again denied.
Then an idea occurred to me. Perhaps I could take a sample of the blood splattered on the kitchen floor from the initial bullet wound, since such a specimen might not have been contaminated by the cyanide. The question was whether I could gather a large enough quantity.
With seventeen seconds left, I grabbed a 0.5 cc syringe and began extracting blood from the floor. It took me three seconds to fill half the syringe, as I had to find puddles with sufficient volume. My rough computations indicated that a 0.25 cc sample size would be satisfactory.
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