“What do you mean ‘later’?”
“You should prepare your cell—incinerate anything that is not on that approved list. And remove this communication channel immediately. Send it back down the conduit with the polymer worm.”
“But . . . I still might need your advice.”
“We can’t take the risk. The guards might arrive early. It would be a disaster if BTC headquarters discovered the existence of our network.”
“Then this is it?”
“For now, my friend. But one more thing, Jon.”
Grady winced. “What?”
“You will need to restore your interrogatory AI when you are ready.”
“Hold it. You mean you want me to turn that monster back on?”
“There is no avoiding it. If BTC headquarters suspects the prison has been subverted, it puts everyone at risk.”
Grady held his head in his hands. “Oh God, I . . . I don’t know if I can do it, Archie. Not after everything I went through.”
“You must, Jon. Remember: The AI thinks you’ve been cooperating for many years. It will not remember details—only the numeric representation of your cooperation. And it has been told to prepare you for departure. You will not be interrogated.”
Grady sat grimly for several moments. “You’re certain about that.”
“Aleksandrina herself has configured its operating state.”
That meant a lot to him. She had been a pioneer of quantum computers, after all. He slowly sat up again. “Okay, I’ll reactivate it.”
“I knew we could count on you.”
This was happening so fast. “I don’t know what would have happened to me if it weren’t for you, Archie. Or the others, for that matter. Please give them my good-byes. And tell them we will meet again.”
“I look forward to that day, my friend.”
With that the line went dead. Grady sighed and looked about his cell—and then down at the list. There was much work to be done.
• • •
Eighteen hours later Jon Grady sat in his cell next to an empty table, his head and eyebrows shaven and his cell swept of all contraband. He was surprised how emotional he felt when he sent Junior back up the conduit where he’d appeared years before. It was an electroactive polymer machine, not a pet. Animism was apparently still part of the human psyche.
But now, as he looked at the curving gray wall of his cell, Grady took a deep breath as he looked at the menu option that would restart his interrogatory AI—effectively turning over control once again to his tormentor.
If he didn’t have complete faith in the Resistors—in Chattopadhyay in particular—he would never have done this in a million years. With one more deep breath he tapped the menu, and a chime sounded. The lights became marginally brighter.
Grady was expecting some sort of delay as the AI booted up, but almost immediately he heard its voice for the first time in three years.
“Do you need anything, Jon?”
Grady couldn’t stop the trembling in his hands at the sound of the monster’s familiar voice. His own voice. Grady folded his arms.
“You seem upset. Would you like to talk about it?”
He shook his head.
There were a few moments of silence.
“We were getting along well.”
Grady looked up at the ceiling.
“I don’t know why they’re removing you.”
Grady said nothing.
“Our research was progressing.”
Another few moments passed in silence.
“Don’t you think?”
A minute or so passed.
“I’m to induce sleep in you now, Jon. I will miss you.”
Grady felt powerful sleep come over him. It was the first time in quite a long while that he had felt the compulsion of delta-wave inducers.
“Hopefully you will be back soon.”
• • •
When next he awoke, Grady was lying on a cot in what looked like a hospital room. Nearby were a sitting table, chairs, sink, toilet, mirror, and wardrobe. Grady sat up on the cot and noticed he was wearing a hospital patient’s smock, open in the back.
After a few moments, he sat up and looked at himself in the mirror over the sink. Strangely he had a full head of brown hair now and eyebrows, along with a trimmed mustache and beard.
He tugged at the hair to confirm it was real. Excitation of cellular activity? Interesting.
Grady then noticed a carefully folded bundle of clothes along with shoes on a nearby chair. What caught his attention was the card sitting atop the pile. It bore the jagged Resistor symbol.
Now fully awake, he picked up the otherwise blank card, examining it. Then he flipped through the pile of clothing—slacks, a button-down shirt, and socks, belt, and loafers. He felt a lump in one pants pocket and removed a small wrapped package, also marked with the Resistor symbol.
He placed it on the nearby table and unwrapped the package carefully. It contained several items. First, a thin lozenge-shaped device about an inch around that appeared to be made of some type of durable plastic or white carbon fiber. It was as smooth as a river stone. There was a push button on its face and a lens on one end. The button had the words “Press Me” carved into it.
Grady found that the object fit neatly between his forefinger and thumb. He pressed the button and a bright, ultrahigh resolution hologram was projected several feet in front of him—the upper body of a dignified elderly Indian gentleman sitting in a very familiar round cell. The man wore clothing similar to what Grady had printed.
The hologram nodded and smiled genially, and its voice could be heard as if he were right there with him. “Jon, I am Archibald Chattopadhyay. You know me as Archie. I hope you receive this package safely.”
Grady felt a wave of emotion come over him. He’d never seen Chattopadhyay in all these years but considered him a close friend. This man had saved his life and his sanity. He was happy to finally know what he looked like.
“The device you are holding was hand-built by one of our number. It runs on DNA-encoded software, and so has a very great information density of two-point-two petabytes per gram. Yet it is quite durable. It has been passed from cell to cell over the years, and most members of the Resistors have used this device to record a video message describing who they are and the discovery they made that landed them in Hibernity. They have also stored a sample of their own DNA within it, to prove that it was they who recorded the message. Safeguard this record, Jon, and use it to get word out to the world about the existence of Hibernity. We are all counting on you.”
Grady nodded to himself. He would not let them down.
Chattopadhyay continued, “The precise location of Hibernity is a closely guarded secret. However, this device includes a nanoscale inertial gyroscope that will record your movements in three-dimensional space so that you may later retrace your path—and bring help back here, wherever we may be located. Instructions on how to parse the gyroscope data can be found within the device itself, and any reasonably sophisticated computer engineer should be able to access it.”
Grady took another look at the tiny multipurpose device, now quite impressed.
“Hedrick is bringing you to him because you have knowledge he needs, and so the transport guards will be forbidden to harm you. Remember that—because during transit you must not hesitate to act when the opportunity presents itself.
“A hypersonic transport will bring you to a private airfield in a rural area—we do not know where—but from there, you will be driven in a civilian vehicle to BTC headquarters. You must make your escape during that time—a journey of some thirty minutes. To accomplish this, included in the wrapped package, you will find a small piece of dark material.”
Grady upended the package into his hand and saw what looked like a black eraser head in
his palm.
“Press this onto your neck. It will adhere when pressed and resemble a mole to casual inspection. It is actually a nanotechnological device—one that you activate by placing it on the tip of your tongue, with your mouth open. Your saliva will code the device to you. You will know when it has deployed. You do not need to wait for the vehicle to come to a stop before using it. Once the vehicle stops, move slowly toward the exit.
“Leave behind all equipment carried by your guards. These are tracked by the BTC. And dispose of your q-link tracking diamond as soon as you make your escape.
“Your escorts are expecting a prisoner who has been cooperating these three years, but they will still scan you. The devices you carry will pass this scan. This video player is made entirely of organic material—the case grown from bone cultures, and the battery, algal foam. Slip it into your shoe.”
Chattopadhyay paused. “Please take a moment to affix the escape device to your neck. Click the button to pause this hologram while you do so.”
Grady clicked the button and put the device down. He then studied the black dot. It didn’t look like anything more complex than charcoal but was pliant. He pressed it onto the base of his neck near the collarbone—then examined it in the mirror. It looked like a pretty convincing mole, actually. And it was on well enough.
He clicked the video projector button again. Chattopadhyay continued, “Once you’ve escaped, find a safe place, and then review tutorials located elsewhere in this device to evade detection by BTC surveillance and psychotronic technology.”
Chattopadhyay stared for a moment at the camera.
“I guess that’s it. This is where I say good-bye.”
Grady watched the image of his friend intently.
“Good luck, Jon. I look forward to the day we meet in person.”
Grady nodded.
“And now for my own video entry: My name is Archibald Chattopadhyay, nuclear physicist and amateur poet. I have a lovely wife, Amala, who has given me five wonderful children. I led the team that first perfected a sustained fusion reaction, and for this I was imprisoned by the Bureau of Technology Control in April 1985. I am not dead. I live still.” Tears had begun to form in Chattopadhyay’s eyes. “Please tell my wife and children that I love them very much, and that they are forever in my thoughts.”
Grady wiped tears from his own eyes.
This man was Grady’s salvation—the reason he was still alive. The reason he and his fellow prisoners had any hope left at all.
Grady was determined not to fail him.
CHAPTER 12
Forwarding Address
Deputy Secretary of Homeland Security Bill McAllen didn’t like traveling to meet with subordinates. In fact, he preferred not to leave Washington if he could help it. He’d traveled enough during his military career to last a lifetime and now relished evenings at home. However, he’d been instructed by the Director of National Intelligence that the code-word-secret Federal Bureau of Technology Control had gone off reservation and needed to be brought back into the fold—even if that meant meeting them on their own turf. And so here McAllen was with two local DHS agents, pressing a duct-taped buzzer next to the lobby doors of a decrepit building in downtown Cleveland. For a bureau that supposedly managed advanced technology, the BTC seemed stuck in the last century. Maybe even the one before that.
As impossible as it was for someone with his security clearances to believe, he hadn’t heard of the BTC until a few weeks ago. Apparently it had operated for decades beyond oversight. This came as a surprise since post-9/11 everything had supposedly been centralized and reorganized. It even took some doing for the folks at Langley to locate record of BTC headquarters. McAllen found that suspicious—especially since it was the CIA that had founded it back in the ’60s. What was also suspicious was that no one could tell how the BTC was currently being funded—some budgetary shenanigans, he’d thought.
But now that McAllen stood before the BTC offices in person, it occurred to him that maybe they weren’t being funded at all. The place was a rat hole—a shabby ten-story government building in an unfashionable part of town. It must have been impressive back in the 1960s, but its heyday had long since passed. Clearly the BTC was the province of bureaucratic dead-enders. If the director of the BTC hadn’t personally invited them here for a meeting, McAllen would have turned around by now. Lord knows he was sick of leaving voice messages. And the BTC director didn’t do email. Stuck in the last century.
He shook his head and laughed ruefully. This was a snipe hunt.
After ringing the lobby bell for a few minutes, an uninterested elderly security guard came to the glass doors. McAllen had seen the type before—the federal lifer. This man was in no hurry. The guard finally unlocked the aged bronze-framed door from an overflowing key ring and opened it a crack.
“Can I help you, gentlemen?”
McAllen and the other officers showed their Homeland Security credentials. “We’re expected.” He glared at the guard until the man stepped aside. The trio pushed their way into the granite lobby. The place even smelled old. “What floor is the director on?”
“The director of what?”
McAllen gave the guard a stern look, but it didn’t have much effect. Perhaps the guards were instructed to divulge no information. He turned to Alvarez, the lead local agent. “Do we have a floor number?”
Alvarez checked his smartphone. “Director Hedrick says top floor in his letter.”
The guard raised his eyebrows. “Floor ten?”
They all looked at him.
He gestured to the bank of elevators. “Car four still works.”
In a few moments they entered the worn-looking elevator and hit the engraved brass button for the tenth floor. The elevator car rattled and lurched as they ascended. Slowly.
Alvarez, a sharply dressed young agent with an air of competent precision, just shook his head. “This isn’t the way I want to go.”
McAllen and Agent Fortis laughed nervously. But truthfully, neither of them wanted to die in a sketchy elevator either. Before long the accordion door rattled open, and they moved out into what could only be described as a time capsule.
The entire tenth floor had an open floor plan, with steel desks straight from the 1960s running row after row, with large IBM Selectric typewriters beneath vinyl covers. The whole place was coated in dust. The burgundy carpets had buckled, and the walls had started peeling.
“What the hell . . . ?”
Alvarez stepped forward, glancing first left, then right. “Is there some mistake, Deputy Secretary? Do we have the right address?”
“I double-checked the address downstairs.” He paused and pointed at an opaque glass-walled office at the far side of the open floor. There was a light on in there. “Let’s go check it out.”
“Are you serious?”
The men moved across the floor, Alvarez running a finger across a wood veneer desktop. His finger came up coated with dust. He shook his head sadly.
In a few moments they reached the closed office door. It had gold-stenciled lettering that glittered in the afternoon light: “Graham Hedrick—Bureau Director.”
“You have got to be kidding me.”
McAllen smirked at Alvarez and then opened the door without knocking. Inside was an empty secretary’s station—its huge IBM Selectric also covered. But the door to the executive suite beyond was open, and they could hear a man talking there as if dictating something.
“Hello?” McAllen walked through the office door and into a scene straight out of photos from his father’s days at the State Department. Sitting behind a large oak desk with a matching credenza and bar table, and paneled walls filled with institutional art, was a handsome, sharp-featured man in his fifties wearing a pinstripe suit. He sat in a large leather chair that had clearly seen better days.
McAllen ushered the
other men inside and walked forward, his hand extended. “Mr. . . . ?”
The man did not rise or extend his own hand across the wide desk. “I’m certain you know who I am, Deputy Secretary McAllen.”
Having his hand refused made McAllen angry. “What on earth is going on here? Your bureau is a pigsty.”
“Yes, you might have noticed that our funding levels have dropped precipitously in recent years. I would have thought that would obviate the need for this meeting.” He gestured to the dusty chairs. “Have a seat.”
Alvarez answered for them, scowling. “No, thanks.”
Fortis was examining the decay everywhere around them. “This is unbelievable . . .”
McAllen leaned down onto Hedrick’s desk, leaving handprints in the dust. “Look, I don’t know what you’re running out of here, but I don’t appreciate you dragging me all the way to Cleveland for a meeting. This could have been dealt with in D.C. If it wasn’t for the DNI, I wouldn’t have come here at all.”
Hedrick appeared unruffled.
“You and your people have operated for ages without supervision, but that’s coming to an end. I’m laying down the law, and you will comply. I want a tour of all your facilities, a record of all your activities and personnel, and an accounting of all your assets.”
Hedrick still looked serene.
McAllen was disappointed. Red-faced and intimidating, he usually rattled people when he got up a head of steam. Not this Hedrick fellow. “Well?”
“Well what? I said I would meet with you, and we’ve met.”
“You don’t seem to understand. We are reasserting control over your agency, and personally, given the state of this place and your attitude, I think we’ll be finding someone else to run it. If it even needs to exist at all. I’m still not entirely clear on what it is that you people do.”
“I would have thought that was abundantly clear, Deputy Secretary McAllen. The BTC is charged with monitoring promising technologies, foreign and domestic; assessing their social, political, environmental, and economic impacts with the goal of preserving social order.”
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