“B-CRAM. That must be something new I don’t know.”
“Yes, they are new. A B-CRAM is a best-matching content-accessed memory. These were developed for data-base applications and are perfect for use here, since they can almost instantly find records that match inputs. The B-CRAM automatically does pattern matching of every data entry, in parallel, against a vector of matching ‘weights’ provided to its input. These are the components that store your input-output nerve-reconnection information.”
“Some setup! But even running cool it will still need some electricity. Don’t tell me you will have to open my head again to change batteries?”
“Hardly! Electronic implants, like pacemakers, no longer depend on tricky power supplies that have to be recharged from the outside of the body. That’s all a thing of the past. They are now powered by metabolic batteries that get their energy from blood sugar.”
“Sweet batteries—technology run rampant. So what is it that you want to do now?”
“Run a benchmark sequence. This will take about ten minutes. I want you to see if you are aware of the central processing unit, can tap into it or hear it—or whatever we might call it. You remember that you were aware of the CPU when it was connecting memories. I want to see if you can re-create that awareness.”
“Sounds good to me.”
After a few minutes Brian yawned loudly.
“Anything yet?” the surgeon asked.
“Absolutely nothing. Is it really running?”
“Perfectly. Just started the benchmark run again.”
“Don’t look so depressed, Doc. Early days yet. Why don’t you rerun the session where I did contact it, see if we can re-create the conditions.”
“That’s a good idea—we’ll try it tomorrow.”
“Will I really be able to get out of stir in a week?”
“Physically, yes, as long you do nothing strenuous. No stairs or fast walking, just about the same amount you do here in a normal day. After a while we can increase that. That is the physical side of the trip; your security is another matter. You’ll have to ask Ben about that.”
Would the memory bank in Mexico have the records of his AI work? A lot was riding on that.
17
November 20, 2023
“This is it! I bring you Mr. Good News,” Benicoff said, bursting enthusiastically through the door. Brian closed the book he was reading, Introduction to Applied Excluor Geometry, and looked up, at first not recognizing the other man who came in behind Ben. Three piece dark suit, Sulka tie, gleaming black boots.
“Major Mike Sloane!”
“The same. A necessary disguise, since the high-powered Megalobe lawyers sneer with contempt at our country’s uniform—but look with humble respect at this sartorial souvenir of my civilian years. They’ve come around.” He opened his hand-tooled leather Porsche attaché case and took out a thick wad of paper. “This is it. And it is my positive belief that it is just the contract that you wanted.”
“How can I be sure?”
“Because I checked it,” Benicoff said. “Not personally, but I sent it on down the line to Washington. We’ve got attorneys there that could eat Megalobe for breakfast. They assure me it’s brassbound, you got the terms you asked for, a better salary than expected. And after overhead, development costs and all the usual deductions, you’ll have something very close to a fifty-fifty split on profits. Ready for a little trip south of the border?”
“You bet. After I read through this.”
“Good luck. It’s tough going.”
Mike guided him through the less coherent and densest legalese clauses, explained everything. By the time the lawyer left two hours later the contract was signed, registered and duly filed in the legal data bank. Along with an archaic paper copy locked away in the hospital’s safe.
“Satisfied?” Benicoff asked as they watched the Yeoman seal the safe. Brian looked at his receipt and nodded.
“It’s a lot better than the first contract.”
“Which means that you have a job—when you’re able to go back to work. You did notice the clause about how if you can’t recover your backup files, which are hopefully in TJ, the company reserves the right to employ you or not? Or if they choose to employ you without your backup files, they can fire you whenever they feel like it and you get bupkas.”
“Mike Sloane pointed that out to me in very great detail while you were on the phone. It seems fair. So let’s open that Mexican file and see what’s in it. I suppose you have been thinking about how I’m going to do that?”
“Not just me—Naval Intelligence, the Army and the FBI. Not to mention Customs and Excise. A plan has been produced which has the approval of everyone. Simple instead of complex, but hopefully foolproof.”
“So tell.”
“Let’s go talk in your room.”
“At least tell me when all this is going to happen.”
Ben touched his finger to his lips and pointed to the exit. Only when the door to Brian’s room had closed behind them did he answer the question.
“Tomorrow morning, eight A.M., height of the navy rush hour here in Coronado. And your doctor has approved all arrangements.”
“I’m being sprung! How is it going to work?”
“You’ll find out in the morning,” Benicoff said with sadistic relish. “As of now only a handful of us know all the details. We want no slipups and no leaks. The best plan becomes no plan at all if someone talks.”
“Come on, Ben, give me a clue at least.”
“All right. Your instructions are to eat your breakfast at seven and to remain in bed after that.”
“Some instructions!”
“Patience is a virtue. See you in the morning.”
It was a slow day for Brian, and when he forced himself to retire he had trouble going to sleep. He was worried now. He had always assumed that his backups were in the files in Mexico. But what if they weren’t? How could he rediscover his work on AI without them? Would it mean more sessions with Snaresbrook and her machine in an attempt to get back memories of the future, his past, that he did not really want? The clock said midnight when he called the nurse for something to make him sleep. He would need all the rest he could get for the day to come.
At eight the next morning he was sitting up in bed staring at the morning news and not seeing it. Precisely on the hour there was a quick knocking and two navy corpsmen came in wheeling a gurney. Behind them was the floor nurse and what could have been two doctors, except for the fact that they stood with their backs to the closed door, fingers brushing the fronts of their white jackets. They were both big men and, for some reason, strangely familiar. And were those bulges in the armpits? Brian thought. Or do they do it different these days.
“Good morning, Brian,” the nurse said, laying a roll of bandages on the bedside table. “If you will sit up this won’t take a moment.”
She opened the roll and swiftly and expertly swathed his head completely, leaving just an opening for him to breathe through and a slit for his eyes. Then cut off the end of the bandage and secured it in place with plastic clips.
“Do you want help getting onto the stretcher?” she asked.
“No way.”
He climbed onto the gurney and the blankets were tucked in around him, right up to the neck. They pushed him out into the corridor, an unidentifiable patient in a busy hospital. There were other passengers in the big elevator who carefully looked away. Whoever had dreamed this one up had produced a really good idea.
The ambulance was waiting and Brian was carried inside. He couldn’t see out but knew that traffic was heavy by the frequent stops and slow progress. When the back doors were finally opened and he was gently lifted out, he found himself looking up at the aircraft carrier Nimitz. A moment later he was being carried aboard. Even before they reached the wardroom he heard muffled commands and a distant whistle as the vessel started away from the wharf. Still without a word, the navy personnel left and Benicoff cam
e in, closing and locking the door behind him.
“Let me take that thing off your head,” he said.
“Did you lay on this aircraft carrier just for me?” Brian asked, his voice muffled by the cloth.
“Not really.” Benicoff threw the bandage into a wastebasket. “It was leaving harbor this morning in any case. But you have to admit that it’s a beautiful cover.”
“It certainly is. Now can you tell me what comes next?”
“Yup. But get off that cart first and put these clothes on. We are heading west into the Pacific and carrying on until the ship is out of sight of land. Then we turn south. We will pass west of the Islas Madres, small uninhabited islands that are just below the Mexican border. A boat went out after dark last night and will be waiting for us there.”
Brian pulled on the trousers and sport shirt. They were unfamiliar but fit perfectly. The moccasins were scuffed and worn and very comfortable. “Mine?”
Benicoff nodded. “We picked them up last time we searched your place. How are you feeling?”
“Excited, but otherwise in great shape.”
“Doc Snaresbrook ordered me to make you lie down, or barring that at least sit down during any lulls in this voyage—like this one. But first I want you to put on this rug and matching mustache.”
The wig fitted his head perfectly, just as the clothes had. Well, after all the operations they should know the size and shape of his head by this time. The curling handlebar mustache had some kind of adhesive on its backing; he looked into the mirror and pressed it into place.
“Howdy, pardner,” he said to his image. “I look like some kind of western gunslinger.”
“You don’t look like yourself—which is what counts. Sit, doctor’s orders.”
“I’ll sit. How long will our cruise take?”
“Once we’re out of the harbor and at sea, less than an hour.” He looked up when he heard the light knock on the door. “Who is it?”
“Dermod here. Ray is with me.”
Benicoff unlocked the door and admitted the two doctors from the hospital, now looking very touristy in plaid slacks and sport jackets.
“Brian, let me introduce you. The big guy here is Dermod, the even bigger one is Ray.”
“I didn’t think you were doctors,” Brian said. When they shook hands he realized that the bulk was solid muscle on both of them.
“Our pleasure to be here,” Dermod said. “Before we left Washington our boss said to wish you the best of luck and a speedy recovery.”
“Boss?” Brian had a sudden insight. “Your boss isn’t by any chance Ben’s employer as well?”
Dermod smiled. “None other.”
No wonder they looked familiar. Brian had seen them on the news, in a parade. Big solid men walking next to the President and looking everywhere but at him. Big because they were there to stay between him and any bullets or bomb fragments. Their presence was more revealing than any amount of words about the importance attached to his safety.
“Well—thank him for me,” Brian said weakly. “Don’t think I don’t appreciate it.”
“Doctor’s orders!” Ben snapped. Brian dropped into the deep lounge chair.
“Do you have any idea how long we will be in Mexico?” Ray asked. “We were given no details at all. What we were told about was just the instructions about the hospital and the transferral to the carrier and the boat. And that we were being met onshore. I’m only asking because we have a plane ready to take us back to Foggy Bottom tonight. We leave early tomorrow morning for Vienna.”
“I would say that the operation will take two hours at most. We’re going back a different way of course. Vienna? That must be the conference on AIDS treatment and control?”
“It is—and about time as well. Treatment is improving—but even with the new vaccine there are still over a hundred million cases in the world. The sums involved in just containing the disease are so large that the richer countries have to contribute—for selfish reasons alone.”
Brian found his eyes closing; even with the pills he had not slept well the night before. He woke when Ben shook him lightly by the shoulder.
“Time to get moving,” he said.
Dermod led the way and Ray fell in behind them when they went on deck. The water was smooth, the day sunny. The aircraft carrier was barely slipping through the water when Brian made his way carefully down the steps behind Dermod. The boat waiting for them turned out to be a thirty-foot deep sea cruiser with its fishing poles secured vertically. As soon as he was helped aboard, and the others jumped down behind him, the motors burbled and roared and they swung away around the island, leaving the Nimitz behind. The Mexican coast came into view and they cut around two other fishing boats as they headed toward the marina. Brian found that the palms of his hands were suddenly moist.
“What happens next?”
“Two unmarked police cruisers will be waiting for us, driven by the Mexican plainclothesmen I told you about. We drive directly to Telebásico—who are expecting us.” Ben dug into his pocket and handed over two black plastic boxes, about the size and weight of dominoes. Brian turned them over, noticed the socket each had in its base.
“Memory,” Ben said. “These are GRAMs I told you about.”
Brian looked dubious. “There may be a lot of records in those files, years’ worth maybe. Is there enough memory space in these two to hold it?”
“I should hope so. You don’t really need both—the second one is for backup. Each of them holds a thousand megabytes. Should be more than enough.”
“I should say so!”
The cars were long and black, the windows so heavily tinted that very little could be seen of the insides. The two Mexican plainclothesmen who were waiting by the cars had natural mustaches that were even more impressive than Brian’s fake one.
“The guy in front is Daniel Saldana,” Ben said. “He and I have worked together before. He’s a good man. Buenos das, caballeros. ¿Todos son buenos?”
“No sweat, Ben. Easy as falling off a log. Good to see you again.”
“The same. Ready for a little drive?”
“You betcha. We have been instructed to take you and your friends to a business premise here, and after that safely to the border. I will be pleased to drive you there.” He opened the door of the first car. Ray stepped forward.
“No problem getting three in the back of this, is there?” he asked.
“If that’s the way you want it.”
Ben traveled with the other plainclothesman in the second car. Brian, sitting in the middle of the backseat, felt like the filling in a sandwich. Both big men kept their eyes on the street outside. Dermod, sitting on Brian’s left, unbuttoned his jacket with his right hand—and kept his hand at his waist after that. When they swayed around a turn the jacket gaped open and Brian had a quick glimpse of leather and metal. So it had been a bulge he had seen in his armpit.
It was a brief drive to the industrial area, the typical low and windowless factories of high-tech manufacturing. The two cars drove into the complex and parked behind one of the buildings, entered it through the loading bay. The detectives had obviously been here before and led the way to a small, wood-paneled office. There were two men already there, sitting before a computer terminal. It was uncomfortably crowded when all of them except Ray, who stayed behind in the hall, pushed in and closed the door.
“Which of you is the gentleman with the account?” one of the technicians said, taking up a sheaf of papers.
“I am.”
“I understand that you have forgotten your identification number and password, Mr. Delaney?”
“You might say that.”
“This has happened to us before, but you will understand we must still take every precaution.”
“Of course.”
“Good. Could I please have your signature here—and here. This is your agreement not to bring charges against us if you cannot access your files. It also says that you guarantee you are
who you say you are. Now—all that is left is to make the final verification. Could I have your hand, please.”
He held out an electronic instrument about the size of a portable radio, touched it to the back of Brian’s hand.
“It will take a few moments,” he said, carrying it across the room and plugging it into a larger machine there.
“What is it?” Brian asked.
“Portable DNA matching,” Benicoff said. “Just coming into commercial use. The adhesive on the handpiece picked off a few of your epidermal cells, the ones that flake off all the time. Now it’s matching up your MHC complex with the one on file.”
“Never heard of that.”
“Major histocompatability complex. These are the so-called self recognizing antigens and are completely different for every person. The best part is that they are on the surface of the skin so DNA doesn’t have to be extracted from the cell nucleus.”
“Would you come over here, Mr. Delaney? Please use this terminal. Did you bring some memory—I see, fine. Everything checks out perfectly and we are satisfied re your identity. We have unlocked the security files and obtained your identification number and password.”
The operator plugged in the GRAMs as Brian sat in front of the screen that faced away from the rest of the room. He also passed over a piece of paper. “This is your access number. After you have entered it you will be asked for a code—this is it.”
PADRAIG COLUMBA, Brian read. The two most important saints in Ireland—no wonder he hadn’t guessed it.
“After you enter that you will be in your files. After you have verified that they are yours, control key F12 will download to memory. Verification during loading is automatic. Do you want to enter a new code word—or are you closing this account?”
“I’m closing it.”
“There is a balance due of …”
“I’ll pay that,” Benicoff said, taking out a roll of bills. “I’ll need a receipt.”
The Turing Option Page 18