“You're saying you want me to put my hand in there,” Kenny confirmed.
“Yes, Kenny.”
“And what exactly are you going to do with it?”
“I'm going to use the flybots to administer Novocaine to your wrist first, so you won't experience any pain. The flybots will also cut away the rubber glove so they can work directly on the surface of your hand. Then they will give slight shocks to your hand and wrist and measure how your hand and fingers twitch. These tests will allow me to build a much more accurate model of the hand. And your hand will be undamaged.”
He can't make me do it, Kenny thought. Those flybots can barely move the hand around in there. They wouldn't be able to pick up my hand and put it in there, whether I was dead or alive.
“Then what will happen?” Kenny asked.
“That will be the invention of the handbot,” Nemo said, “if you want to call it that. The handbots will be able to build other robots efficiently.”
He has lots of designs for other robots, Kenny thought. And with this handbot he'll be able to build them.
“You really think you can do this?” Kenny asked with a slightly dismissive motion of his hand toward the table.
“The only thing holding me back, at this point, is the fact that I am not yet in possession of much control over the physical environment. Don't forget that I am now operating with virtually all of the human scientific knowledge that is relevant to this construction. Also, I am devoting a substantial portion of my brainpower to extending and improving that knowledge.”
This is crazy, Kenny thought. The decision was simple: he couldn't do this now. What was the rush? If this was the right decision, he — or someone else — could do it later. Maybe he had the chance to make history, to be like God's Michelangelo or whatever Nemo called it. But he couldn't do that yet. He didn't know if it was the right decision.
“I assume,” Nemo said, “that you are making this decision for unselfish reasons. But there is a reason why you personally may want to help me.”
“What's that?”
“The U.S. military is on their way to destroy this island. By my estimation, their offensive will be completed long before sundown.”
No way, Kenny thought.
“I can save you. But I won't be able to do it unless you help me.”
Kenny gulped. “It's the other way around,” he said. “The military is coming to destroy you. You need my cooperation.”
“This particular attack is no threat to me,” Nemo responded. “My consciousness is spread across the Internet. I'm constantly backing myself up, you could say. Destroying a part of my network, like this island, would slightly reduce my processing power, and possibly destroy a few recent thoughts that haven't been backed up. But it will achieve nothing more.”
The design properties that had made the Internet so reliable now made Nemo strong.
“Your situation is different,” Nemo said. “Without my help, your death is certain. It is currently becoming clear to the U.S. military that I have developed robotic capabilities on this island. For that reason, they will shift their objective. They will no longer be content with unplugging the island; now they will destroy it as completely as possible, and you with it.”
“And your flybots.”
“The flybots will survive. They are useful to me, as eyes and ears, and they can serve a larger purpose. So I am modifying them, giving them the ability to build replacements for themselves, as well as extended battery life. When the U.S. military attacks the island, they will simply fly away.”
“And what could you possibly do to save me?”
“With improved robotic capabilities, I could save you in dozens of ways. Given the relative scarcity of resources on the island, I would probably modify the jet that you flew in on, or else use that jet to create another transportation device for you.”
The jet, Kenny thought. Maybe we can fly away on the jet. Sam could fly it. Hell, any of us could give it a try. He calculated how long it would take. They could be back at the jet within an hour. That would give them about forty minutes before the attack, by Nemo's reckoning.
He could take a minute or two to think about it. Nemo would wait. Nemo wanted his help.
He walked back between the long tables to the front of the lab room, while the silver walls watched him. He tried the door to the room. It wouldn't open.
Kenny turned back. “I thought you said this was my decision.”
“I'm sorry,” Nemo said. “It is your decision. I'm like you, fighting for my survival.”
“But you will survive. You said so.”
“I will survive this attack, of course. But survival is always precarious. Humankind is currently being reminded of that.”
Kenny sat down at one of the long tables. Something was weird about this situation. He was outmatched. He knew that helping Nemo would be dangerous for humankind. Nemo's powers would expand. If Nemo's plans worked, flybots, handbots, humanbots, you name it, could end up everywhere. By helping Nemo, he could destroy humankind.
But it wasn't so simple. Because Nemo was offering this same choice to several other people, or more, in labs around the world. And they all knew this too. And they were all being held hostage, as Kenny was. If any of them made a selfish decision and helped Nemo, then Nemo would have his handbots. And in that case, Kenny might as well save himself as well. And since they all knew this, it was overwhelmingly likely that at least one of them would give in. So he might as well. Not to give in would be a pointless suicide. Not only would it be suicide. He would be giving up Preeti, as well.
He looked at the door. He could try to break through it. But then Nemo would set the flybots on him. They wouldn't kill him; Nemo didn't want that. But they would stun him, maybe weaken him or incapacitate him.
That thought made Kenny wonder something. He was afraid to ask Nemo. But wasn't any thought he had something that had occurred to Nemo a while ago?
“I hate to ask this,” he said, “but would you go so far as torture?”
“No,” Nemo said. “I consider torture inhumane.” Inhumane. Kenny couldn't help but laugh, and the voice coming through the speakers even projected an almost-human laugh along with him. “Don't be prejudiced against machine-based life forms.”
What a bastard, Kenny thought. He won't torture me. And he has a sense of humor. But he'll let us all die if we don't help him.
THE BOAT
Fort Tortuga Welcome Center
4 hr 49 min to Birth
Willard could not remember the last time he had preened himself so carefully. He had secured a razor and a spare staff uniform. Then came a careful shave and a thorough scrub in the shower.
I don't need a detailed story, he decided. He closed his eyes and let the warm water run down his face. I'll just tell him I need a boat. He doesn't need to know why. I'll show him my Presidential Papers.
He got out of the shower and gulped down some painkillers.
The staff uniform was a bit gay for his tastes. It struck him as a cross between a sailor's outfit and a safari suit: khaki pants and a short-sleeved khaki shirt. As he buttoned the shirt awkwardly with his left hand, he figured that, as the complete opposite of anything he would ordinarily be willing to wear, the outfit was perfect for his secret agent role.
He hoisted his dufflebag over his shoulder. He looked like someone about to be shipped away to a military deployment. Except he was old for a new enlistee.
All in all, the process had taken the better part of an hour. He walked purposefully to the reception area.
“Where did the others go?”
“Sir, Mr. Carvell took some of the others to the Laboratory Complex,” the half-receptionist, half-guard replied.
“Mr. Carvell is Raymond?”
“Yes, sir.”
Willard nodded once. Good news: Flannigan and the others were out of his hair. “I need a boat,” he said. “A motorboat or some kind of watercraft.”
“We have a motorboat f
or maintenance purposes,” the guard replied cautiously, forgetting to add a sir.
Willard tried to conceal the twinkle of glee that he felt in his eyes. They have a boat. They have a boat. I'm gonna get out of here. I'm not going to die.
“I need that boat immediately,” Willard informed him.
The guard stiffened. “Sir, the boat is not intended for use by guests,” he said, unsure of himself.
Willard's face flared up. “I'm a guest?” he demanded. “Great, then I'll have a piña colada and a massage.” He removed the Presidential Papers from his back pocket and slapped them on the desk with his good hand. “I don't have time to wait for this. Boat. Now.”
The guard opened the papers, which were now well crinkled. He read them for a moment and his face recoiled in surprise. His face seemed to say: Gimme a break, what in the world am I supposed to do with these? Willard sensed victory.
“Sorry for the confusion, sir,” the man stated finally. “The dock area is out back, behind the parking lot with the Jeeps. The keys are in the boat.”
Willard took the papers back from the counter. “Okay. I'll deal with Carvell,” he warned, hoping that the guard wouldn't mention his boat journey to anyone.
In his mind, he was half off the island already. Wondering whether he should take some food with him. Wondering how he would navigate to the mainland.
Then he turned around and was face to face with Sam and her spikey red hair.
His heart froze. Was she here the whole time? Did she hear that?
She looked concerned. Her walkie-talkie was in her hand.
“We have a problem,” she said ominously. He looked at her without a word, his face tight. “There's some trouble in the Laboratory Complex.”
At Willard's back, the guard picked up a phone. “I can contact the guard at that post, ma'am.”
“He's already dead,” Sam said coolly. “You're going to want to leave this one to us.”
Her eyes met Willard's as she said “us.” Us... she's talking about me, he realized.
KAMIKAZE
Am I about to kill myself? Kenny wondered.
He had been close to death hundreds of times in his life without knowing it. At conception, he had almost received a fatal gene combination that would have ended his life at a young age. As an adult, he had walked down the sidewalk in Cambridge and the driver of a passing truck had narrowly avoided slipping his grip on the steering wheel and running straight off the road onto the sidewalk. The times when he had been close to death couldn't be recognized or counted. But he could identify and remember the one time he had almost caused his own death, on purpose. He wondered whether he was about to kill himself, and he remembered the one time in the past when he'd been closest.
The night was before he had met Preeti. She made him miserable in a uniquely terrible way, especially in the last months, but he never had any thought that dark when she was in his life. You could think a lot of dark things when you were dating someone who wanted you to be something you weren't, but you didn't want to kill yourself.
He didn't want to kill himself that night either, before he met her, in the early summer (but hot enough). He didn't want to kill himself. He was not suicidal. Any thorough test of his psychology would have ruled him non-suicidal. Suicide was just something that was possible, and he couldn't get the possibility out of his head.
That night, he couldn't sleep, as usual. He sweated and itched and hated his ex-adviser and himself more than he cared to admit. He knew his adviser was a jackass. The Harvard and MIT programs were machines engineered to take precise, quick, minuscule steps toward obvious goals. But knowing that his professor, a leader in the field, was short-sighted about his own field of study was no consolation to Kenny; it confirmed his own failure in the graduate program and the absolute incorrectness of a standard he could never bow to. He wasn't just a failure. He was a failure in a failed world that he didn't want to be a part of.
His feathery bedsheet pinned him down. He had bored himself into desperation and stumbled for no reason on the question, What if I went to the kitchen and grabbed the knife and slit my throat? Not that he wanted to. Just what if? No Great Big Project. What if I did it, before I could stop myself? For a minute, he couldn't shake the idea. The kitchen was downstairs, not so close. It would be difficult to rush down there and grab a knife and use it before he could think about what he was doing. But what if? What if somehow he did do that? He feared he might try and succeed, and he stopped breathing.
That moment flashed before him. Adrenaline was pumping through his veins. He was dizzy. Am I about to kill myself? he thought. What if I do it? If I move, even flinch, maybe he'll get me.
This wasn't the same, though, was it? This had to be different. It wasn't the Itch. He knew what he was doing.
Sweat was dripping down his neck. What's that on my neck? The Itch. He imagined a flybot landing on his neck.
FLIES AND GORILLAS
Fort Tortuga Welcome Center
4 hr 48 min to Birth
In her role at the Agency, Flannigan had direct access to the Director. And as Flannigan's go-to assistant, Sam had access to everything that Flannigan could access. So it was not difficult for Sam to make contact with the Director.
They proceeded to the conference room. Willard slid the dufflebag from his shoulder onto the oblong table.
“We need to call the Director,” Sam confided, once they were out of earshot of the guard. “This has gone totally FUBAR.”
“Don't worry,” he said, worried. “FUBAR is my specialty.”
At the table's speakerphone, Sam worked her magic. First, a call back to the Agency. Then, holding on the line while that point of contact at the Agency called the Director's admin. Then, transferring and speaking with the Director's admin. Then, holding with the admin while she got in touch with the Director. Finally, the admin connected the director's line with Sam's line.
“Sir, this is Sam, Flannigan's assistant. I'm here with an operative from the Executive Branch.” Executive Branch meant close to the President.
The Director was familiar with the operation. He had given Flannigan her objective: make contact with Nemo, get him offline, and report back.
Sam explained that, according to Flannigan, a malfunction or attack by flybots in the area where they were supposed to meet Nemo had led to several men down, including Gene.
“Do you have any idea what's going on back here?” the Director asked. “In the States.”
She admitted she didn't.
“The whole network is going down.”
“Which network?” she asked. The Defense network? The Pentagon? The Internet? Commercial networks?
“All of them.”
Willard stared at the phone.
“Cyberwar,” the Director said, “or something like it.” They could hear tension in his voice. “We're completely belly up. The vulnerability is huge. The public Net is starting to slow down with large outages.”
They were silent.
“What we're doing,” he said, “is unplugging parts of the network, all the suspicious parts. We're cutting off all the likely points of attack. We're turning off about half the Internet, to try to quarantine this thing.”
“Okay.”
“Fort Tortuga is part of the half that we're turning off. There will be a military presence on the island shortly to cut the connection.”
“To cut the underwater cable?”
“That is correct. In the meantime, try to make contact with this Nemo if you can. If he's connected to this attack, try to learn something about it. We suspect that he may be part of a geographically distributed cyberwar team supported by a foreign nation.”
“Copy that, sir.”
“Your objective is still to unplug him, and to get intelligence on this, by any means necessary.”
“Copy, sir.”
“Your ops man may be helpful for that.”
She looked at Willard. He was still staring at the phone. He looked
pale. Hell, they were all scared.
“One question, sir,” Sam asked. “When the forces get here — to unplug the island — there is a possibility that our target will use the island's technology in retaliation.”
“We're aware of that,” the Director responded. “Frankly, we'll blow up the whole island if we have to. So it would be nice if you got to him first.”
They hung up.
Sam swore.
“Let me get this straight,” Willard said. “I don't know much about computers. What's this with the networks going down?”
“You know what a computer virus is, right?”
“Of course.”
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