The Reality Thief (Deplosion Book 1)

by Paul Anlee

  FROM THE MOMENT he received Deputy Director Thornten’s suspiciously casual call requesting this meeting, Senator Fred Mitchell was filled with a foreboding premonition.

  Something’s up. Something ominous. Weighty. High-level NSA Executives like Thornten don’t drop by a newly elected Senator's Lakeway District country home to have a friendly chat. And they wouldn’t conduct routine business out here. This has to be something big, something he wants to keep off the records.

  Senator Mitchell poured himself a generous bourbon on the rocks, and an iced tea for Deputy Director Thornton. He’d convinced Doris to take her mother for lunch at the Golf and Country Club today so she wouldn’t feel obliged to play hostess. The two men sipped their drinks and exchanged superficial pleasantries as they made their way outdoors to the shaded terrace.

  Thornten took a seat opposite the Senator; he left his sunglasses on. Mitchell resisted being drawn in by his own reflection, and took stock of the Deputy Director. He saw a highly disciplined career man sporting the lean, hard body and buzz-cut of a young naval lieutenant, and a pale complexion owing to more years spent analyzing intelligence data than sailing the open seas. Only a few small wrinkles overshooting the reflective lenses belied his true age. Neither relaxed nor hostile, Thornten wasn't giving away any clues. What was he up to that couldn’t be dealt with at work?

  Mitchell nursed his bourbon and waited for Thornten to begin. It was shaping up to be another unseasonably warm December day in the Austin area, with highs expected to be in the mid-70s. The two men gazed out over the garden below, where Fernando was pruning the dormant shrubs and bushes. Sunlight glittered off the lazy Colorado River. Down at the lower end of the property, Fernando’s assistant was placing mulch over any exposed roots of the two brilliant red Shumard Oaks.

  Thornten unrolled his display tablet—a cheap disposable, Mitchell noticed—and called up the transcript. He spun it around and sat back to Mitchell some time to read.

  Ten minutes later, Mitchell leaned back and took a good, long swallow of his drink. He massaged his brow, in an effort to stem his burgeoning panic. How could we have been bugged? Our security was iron-clad. We were so careful with our communications. How did the NSA even know about the gathering?

  “Okay, I presume you'd like something from me. Otherwise, I’d be dead, behind bars, or on my way to some secret debriefing session.”

  Where was the leak? His mind raced through the list of people who either attended or helped arrange the organizational meeting. It wasn't easy. They’d intentionally organized the YTG—Yeshua’s True Guard Church—like terrorist groups.

  Meetings were limited to cells of twelve people, and each person in a Reporting Cell personally recruited the other eleven members of their own lower-level Cells. It was an annoyingly inefficient way to organize a revolution, but necessary. When your own government maintained passive surveillance on almost all public places—and apparently some semi-private ones as well—and when they actively recorded and analyzed all electronic communications, keeping secrets required attention to every conceivable hole in your security.

  Wait a minute. Washington would order the NSA to descend on me in force if solid information about my treason had landed on the appropriate desk. So why is Thornten bringing this to me now, himself, and why out here?

  Did the Deputy Director expect Mitchell to inform on the entire movement to save his own hide? Whether as a traitor to the country or as a traitor to the YTGC, either way, he’d likely soon be dead or in prison. He could feel his life closing in around him, and options being stripped away.

  “Actually, Senator Mitchell, my purpose in coming to you today was not exactly in any official capacity. I’m here to help.”

  “To help? What do you mean? Help how? I thought you were here to…” He picked up his glass and knocked back the remaining bourbon.

  “You didn’t think I was here to blackmail you, did you? Or worse?” The Deputy Director chuckled and removed his glasses. “No, not at all.” His steady gaze looked sincere. “That tablet and its duplicate in my office safe contain the only two copies of that transcript and the supporting recordings. I hope that after our meeting today, we’ll agree to destroy both of those copies.”

  “I don’t understand.”

  “Fred, may I call you Fred? Like you, and many others in that meeting, I’m also deeply troubled by the corruption festering at the core of our once great nation. We've lost our way through a combination of non-existent morals, excessive immigration, multiculturalism, secularism, and a pathetic foreign policy.

  “I used to believe I could do something about it once I reached the heart of the beast. I was so naïve. Even for the top positions of the administrative machinery, Langley and Washington remain intractable. And all the while, that nasty rot is eating away at our nation’s heart. It has to be stopped.”

  Mitchell was dumbfounded. He desperately wanted another drink. “Mr. Deputy Director,” he began.

  “Please, call me Chris,” Thornten interrupted.

  “Chris, I’m kind of dry at the moment. Can I refill your iced tea while I pour myself another?”

  “Please. But, you know, I think I’ll join you in something a little stronger, if it’s all the same to you.”

  Mitchell stepped to the bar inside his study, poured Thornten a bourbon, and refreshed his own.

  “Mr. Deputy Director, Chris. I have to say, I don't know how to respond to what you just told me. I’d think you were running some kind of a sting operation, if I hadn’t already seen that transcript.”

  “But you have seen it.” The two men returned to the patio, where they stood examining the lawn and river below.

  “Yes, I have. You have everything you need to charge a US Senator, an Army General, and probably a number of other influential and powerful people with treason. Instead, you waltz in here and tell me you’d like to join us. Now, what would you have me make of that?”

  “What you make of it is that, like you, I am a true patriot. And that, like you, I also see no future for this country as it is.”

  “I still don’t understand how a camera got into that room. The security was even better than it is here in my house, and I never fear speaking what I truly believe when I’m home.”

  “Read the top of that transcript again.”

  “This bit about quadruple-redundant neural recordings made by Spyders? What on God’s green Earth are those?”

  “I could be charged for treason just for letting you read that one line,” answered Thornten. “Fred, you are now privy to one of this nation’s newest Intelligence collection tools. Only a handful of individuals with Top Secret clearance know about this. These Spyders are literally spiders, real spiders that are genetically and electronically engineered so that we can use their nervous systems as programmable recording devices.”

  “You've got to be kidding me.”

  “No, not at all. There’s an MIT spin-off company in Boston, run by that genius kid. You know, the one with the nano computer lattice thing in his head. Well, his company developed a way to connect nano-scale electronics with the brains of insects, if you can believe it. NSA appropriated it, and now we have the ability to walk one of these bugs into any room, and have it sit there and record everything that goes on.

  “We don’t need to send radio transmission, lasers, or anything else into the room. We preprogram our bugs to walk in, record, and then walk out, completely undetected and ignored by all. We download their recordings offline. It’s the most effective listening device we’ve ever used.”

  “Genetic engineering is a blasphemy against God’s creatures,” Mitchell said.

  “Yes, it is. And it’s just another sign of how far this Administration has strayed from what decent, upstanding, Christian folk would agree to. It’s not enough the government lets foreigners overrun our country. Now they’re approving and funding companies to make abominations of God's creations.”

  “Chris, if this gets out, it could bring t
he Administration down.”

  “Yes, it might,” agreed the Deputy Director. “Outrage in the South would be enormous. But I’m not so sure the Yankees are going to stand with us on this. Anyway, what good would it do? Whoever replaced them would just cover up the whole thing and carry on as before, same as always.”

  “But aren’t you part of that system, too?”

  “Well, I used to think I was. I was just as surprised and disturbed as you to learn about the Spyder program. I would never have approved it. But when Director Brundy ordered me to use it to listen in on your organization, well, I couldn’t very well refuse on moral grounds, could I?”

  “I guess not.”

  “As it turned out, the whole operation was quite…serendipitous, you could say. I was inspired by what your movement is trying to accomplish and by the enormous support you’ve drawn to your cause. I can see the writing on the wall, and I don't like what I see. I’d like to offer my help so that your goals can be achieved with a minimum of bloodshed.”

  Mitchell was stunned but elated. He never could have imagined in his wildest dreams that a top NSA executive would come to his home to offer his allegiance to their plans for an independent New Confederacy. A few minutes ago, he’d been contemplating the end of his dreams for a better, stronger, more moral South, and the end of his freedom. Maybe even the end of his life. Now, he was thinking of ways that this powerful insider could help make their dream become a reality.

  “Chris, you can’t imagine how glad I am to hear you say that. What do you have in mind?”

  “Well, I’m happy to let your executive committee decide how I might best assist you. For the moment, I envision continuing to monitor your group’s activities but making sure that the recordings, transcripts, and analyses do not get into the wrong hands. Only my own hand-selected analysts download and transcribe the recordings. They send them directly to me, and me alone. My official reports on your activities have covered up anything serious on your part.

  “It sounds like your people will be ready to start activating your plans shortly. You should know that over the past few decades, my group has developed a variety of tools designed to cripple enemy information and communication systems for up to forty-eight hours. These tools can be used equally well against certain designated systems in America. I would presume that impairing the coordination of those who would oppose the New Confederacy would be a useful weapon when the time is right. Would it not?”

  “Yes, most helpful.”

  “And I would hope that anyone who could deliver such useful tools might find a respectable position within the Administration of that New Confederacy?”

  “Yes, I’m certain that could be arranged. Chris, thank you. You’re a Godsend. Where do you hail from, anyway? You sound like a Southern boy to me.”

  “Originally from Florida.”

  “Raised Florida Baptist, I’ll bet.”

  “Yes, sir. Tampa Bay.”

  “Well, I’m sure the rest of the Executive will be as happy to welcome you as I am. I’ll call a special meeting to introduce you next week if you’re available.”

  “This group has been my top priority for the past ten months, and it will continue to be so until my Director decides otherwise. Just because I’ll be working to help you rather than expose you is no reason for me to change that priority, is it?”

  The two men laughed, both relieved at how well the meeting had gone. Mitchell extended his hand to make it official. “I propose we toast the beginning of a wonderful association.”

  “To the New Confederacy?” Thornten proposed.

  “To the New Confederacy.”

  21

  DARIAN LEIGH AND HIS FATHER took a table in the sunken patio of a Newbury Ave café.

  Paul put in their order then sat back, appreciating the beautiful May afternoon. Pedestrians strolled along the eye-level sidewalk, luxuriating in the sunshine as they checked out the lunch options along the avenue.

  Many of the passersby, like him, had been recently laid off from their jobs, but the full economic shock of The Great Secession had not yet eliminated their dining out budget.

  Most were still in a state of denial. Like naively hopeful children of divorced parents, they clung to the belief that Congress and the White House would find soon some way to reverse the shattering of the union or, at the very least, construct a new federation to cooperate on issues of joint interest, like defense and the dollar. They held this futile hope in spite of the fact that over half of the elected Representatives and Senators now represented constituencies that were no longer part of the United States of America.

  Lunch arrived and Paul dug into his generous chicken salad sandwich. Darian, unusually subdued, barely picked at his food. Paul's exaggerated eye-rolling, lip-smacking and appreciative comments with each bite of the bistro fare, drew nothing in return. He had learned some years ago that once Darian became preoccupied like this, he would not be enticed into the conversation until he was good and ready.

  Paul turned his attention back to the food, the weather, and the people, resolved to accept the silence for as long as Darian needed.

  “They’re classifying my thesis Top Secret, sealing it from the public.”

  Paul stopped the French fry halfway to his mouth. “What? They can’t do that!”

  “Apparently, they can.”

  “Did they say why?”

  “Not explicitly. But I know it’s for military application. Dad, when I designed the neural lattices that would fit into the brains of birds and mammals, even insects, I was thinking along the lines of how cool it would be to be able to direct their activities remotely by computer. You know, something like a monkey to clean up around the house, to help shut-ins and disabled folks. Maybe program house spiders to limit flies and mosquitoes in a managed way. And just think of all the applications in manufacturing and service industries! But the military and Homeland Security has other plans. Big surprise, right? I should have seen that one coming.”

  “Other plans? Like what?”

  “All the usual things, I imagine: spying, diffusing bombs, replacing drones, you name it. Uncle Nick told me they've used my work to develop something they call a ‘spyder’—that's spider with a ‘y’. Spy-der. Obviously, there would be military applications. Everything ever invented can be used for peace or for war. They're only tools. What makes them good or bad is the user's intent. Why would my dendy lattices be any different?”

  “I’m sure the government has its reasons.”

  “I don't know. I'm just disappointed, is all. Okay, maybe a little ticked off. Why couldn't they at least give my intended applications a chance, and classify only the military uses? They don't have to lock everything down. Everything, Dad. The whole works, even my thesis. They said it's too dangerous to make public.”

  “That’s ridiculous.”

  “I agree, but there’s nothing I can do about it.”

  “Well, at least you’ll still get your degree, right?”

  “Yes, I'll get the degree, but they won’t let me publish anything, not even an abstract. There'll be some innocuous title and then a little notation saying the work has been classified. That's it.”

  “I guess Nick and David will be happy. If your work's classified, they don't have to worry about competitors for a while. And, no doubt, it would lead to some huge contracts from the military for the company.”

  “If they want to work for the Department of Defense for the rest of their lives, they can have it.”

  Paul wasn't sure how to respond. He was proud of his son, and excited for his future. But if the government stopped Darian from publishing, that was bound to put a serious dent in his academic profile. And how far did their control run? What if his son wanted to continue his research outside the government? Could they stop him from pursuing his work altogether if he didn't partner with them? Darian was so exceptional, unique really, that Paul worried about how he would get on in the world.

  On the flip side, acc
ommodating the military's interests could open up some insanely generous funding possibilities for Neuro Nano. They'd finally have some steady income, maybe even the means to pay out some dividends before long. Now that Paul’s own employment situation was uncertain, he held considerably less disdain for the government’s deep-pocketed spending and the opportunities that went with it. “Have you thought about what would you like to do after you graduate from MIT?”

  Darian let his mind be lulled by the stream of pedestrians, all completely oblivious to his struggles. “I’m thinking of doing a second doctorate.”

  Paul picked up another fry and chewed slowly and thoughtfully. “Okay, that’s a surprise. I thought you were done with school.”

  “This would be in synthetic biology. MIT said they'd fully fund me if I ever went back and, with all the lab work involved, it would feel more like a job than school, anyway.”

  “What would you work on?”

  “I’ve been thinking that Mom never really got to finish her work. In her design, the dendies require a non-biological seed so the synthetases can replicate from the template. I’m thinking I’d like to see if the whole system can be built from scratch, starting from a strictly biological basis.”

  “I’m sorry, but about all I got out of that is that you'd like to continue the dendy work you mom started, is that right?”

  “Yes. I don’t think I’m quite finished exploring everything of interest in that area yet.”

  “Wouldn’t that work also get classified?”

  “Maybe I won’t publish everything I’m working on.”

  “Listen, son, you’re only seventeen. Be careful what you say. Sure, you have a couple of MIT degrees and a solid academic reputation, but you don’t want the government taking too much of an interest in you. They might just decide to classify you, and I don’t think you’d like the restrictions they would put on your work or your life.”

  Darian pulled the pick from his unfinished club sandwich and poked at the bread.