The Last Firewall

by Hertling, William

She’d put it off long enough. Now it was time for the experiment.

  She broadcasted this time, sending data to open implants instead of receiving, imagining the act of waving her left arm.

  Simultaneously, up and down the street, dozens of people’s left arms rose into the air and waved.

  She stared in shock, covering her mouth as she let out a surprised scream. People stopped and stared at themselves, wiggled their arms, then shrugged it off and continued on. One man cursed at the cup he’d dropped, splattering coffee on his clothes.

  “Sorry,” Cat whispered. But she felt a broad smile cross her face. She’d never been so powerful before.

  She found her boots and rushed outside. Standing in the middle of the sidewalk, the morning commuters flowed around her like water around a rock.

  She emptied her mind with a meditative mantra, then felt around in the net: these implants were open, these others closed. Some were anonymous, and some public. The more she did it, the easier it became. She was shocked to see how many people had their interfaces wide open, completely unaware of their privacy settings.

  On impulse, she picked a man coming toward her. If she could control someone, could she also see what he saw?

  She reached inside his implant, found the data connection to his visual cortex, and with a lurch, snapped to the man’s vision. Stunned at first by the perspective change, she saw a girl in black hair and jeans, then realized she was seeing herself.

  She felt disoriented almost as soon as she’d made the connection. Struggling to assimilate the man’s vision, his sense of balance and self, she fought nausea and dizziness. Still looking through the man’s eyes, she saw her own body sway and start to fall.

  She rushed forward to catch herself, inducing another wave of motion-sickness. With a final wrenching dislocation, she cut the connection and snapped back to her own body, finding herself looking up at the man who’d caught her.

  “Thank you.” Her voice sounded weak, even to herself.

  “Are you all right?” he asked, looking around, clearly wondering what had happened. “You seemed like you were gonna pass out.”

  “Yeah, fine, I guess.” She took a deep breath. “Just lost in my implant.”

  “You might wanna sit down next time.”

  “Good idea. Thanks again.” She looked down at his hands, still wrapped around her body. “You can probably let go.”

  He laughed awkwardly. “Right. Well, hope your day gets better.”

  After he walked away, she looked around self-consciously. She glimpsed a fat man staring at her from the noodle shop across the street. She turned to a mirrored store window, and pretended to fix her clothes. He kept studying her, so she reached through the net, but he was blank, totally without an implant.

  Hairs raised on the back of her neck as she fought to stay calm. Down a few doors was a coffee shop, so she bought a drink and sat on a stool, taking the bystander’s advice.

  Closing her eyes, she reached through the net, looking around in the Vietnamese restaurant. She found the owner had an implant, and explored it, looking for an opening, some way to use his vision without controlling his body.

  She felt something, an edge. Whatever she was doing, it was intuitive, not conscious, so she went deeper into a meditative state. She felt the edge again, exploring it until she flicked open the man’s root interface, giving her access to everything. She went straight for his eyes and ears. As her vision swapped out for his, she felt her real body begin to sway. She grabbed firmly onto the counter, but the transition was less disorienting this time.

  She was inside the noodle shop, seeing and hearing from the perspective of the owner. He spoke in a language Cat didn’t understand, presumably Vietnamese, to his wife. He glanced out at the fat man she’d seen and walked over.

  “You want anything else?” he asked, in English.

  “Tea. Green tea.” The man answered without looking away from the window.

  The owner glanced down. A handheld computer sitting on the table displayed a photo of Cat with blonde hair and her real name. The owner went back to the kitchen, and she carefully cut the connection.

  The fat man knew who she was, and was watching her. He must know she lived here. She had to abandon the apartment, and leave now for Mexico.

  But she’d come downstairs with nothing, and the siren call of her backpack and money was strong. How much time did she have? Was he by himself? Why hadn’t he tried to grab her?

  Cat started to perspire, every nerve coming alive and screaming to run. But she forced herself to think. She’d beat that gang in Portland, and evaded police and security in both San Francisco and LA. Anyone after her would know this, and attack in force. Ergo, if he wasn’t coming after her now, then he was alone, and she could go up to her room and get her stuff.

  She walked back to her apartment slowly to avoid tipping him off. Upstairs, she stuffed clothes and dozens of payment cards into her backpack. She snapped the necklace into three parts, spreading them among the pack and her pants, and taping the last piece inside her boot.

  Pulling the backpack over her shoulders, she took a last look. Her hot plate and a dozen cans of food lined up like soldiers on the dresser. She’d forgotten her toiletries, so she grabbed them and struggled to fit them in the backpack. In a short time, she’d gone from nothing to more possessions than she could bring.

  Downstairs Cat slid out the back door, heading for the subway. She paused before she’d gone a block. He didn’t have an implant, so he almost certainly couldn’t be police. And she was damn sure she could take one out-of-shape guy in a fight. So there was nothing stopping her from asking him what he wanted.

  Her mind decided, Cat circled the long way around two city blocks to avoid being spotted, then came up the alley where the restaurant was located. When the garbage started to smell like noodles, she was in the right place.

  She stepped through the open back door into a kitchen filled with boiling pots of water. The wife was spooning noodles into a bowl, while the husband read. They went to speak, but Cat broadcast the word “Police” in twelve languages in netspace. “Stay here please,” she said in a low voice.

  The fat man was the only customer in the front, still staring out the front window. She attempted a standard ninjistu silent walk, but the click of her boots gave her away, and he turned to look. She took the last few steps at a run and kicked in the rear leg of his chair. He toppled backward, arms and legs flailing and knocking the table over. Noodle bowls and ceramic cups skittered across the floor.

  Cat took a couple of quick steps back, out of his reach. “Who are you?” She stood in a ready stance, feeling the comfortable pressure of her knife sheath where it was slipped into the back of her waistband.

  “Shit.” The fat man tried to scramble to his feet.

  Cat stomped his hand with her boot, then jumped back.

  He yelped and stayed on his back this time while he cradled his hand with his other one.

  From behind her, she could hear Vietnamese curses coming from the kitchen.

  “Who are you?” Cat repeated.

  “Tony. Tony Fisher. Why’d you do that?”

  “Why are you watching me?”

  No answer.

  Cat moved to kick Tony in the thigh. It’d be painful, but the chance of damaging him was minimal.

  As Cat got close, Tony’s arm snacked out and grabbed her ankle, pulling her off balance.

  Cat let him pull and moved with it, falling toward his body. She rotated on the way down, and smashed him in the face with her elbow.

  He ignored the blow and reached up with both arms to grab her, but she rolled away. Tony scrambled after her, and even as she climbed to her feet, he got one hand on her backpack. He yanked backwards.

  He was too strong and heavy to pull against, so she let him heave. Ducking down, she shrugged one arm out of the backpack, and punched in the general direction of his balls, but hit a meaty thigh instead.

  Tony grabbed her by
the hair and stood up, one giant hand on her backpack strap, and the other holding tight to her hair. “You are a fucking pain in my ass. No wonder Adam didn’t want us to go after you alone.”

  Cat screamed as her hair pulled out of her scalp. But now she was facing him, and she wouldn’t miss again. She kicked for his groin and hit square this time. He let out an oomph and let go. Off-kilter, she fell, landing on her back, forcing her breathe out in a whoosh. She rolled away, ignoring the pain and got back to her feet to look at him. He stood bent over, clutching his groin.

  Cat stepped forward and kicked again, a hard front snap to his face. The boot sent his head pinging back, and he fell hard on his butt. His hands went up to cover his nose, a trickle of blood descending down his face.

  “Who is Adam?”

  “I’m not telling you shit.”

  “I’ll kick your ass all day,” Cat bounced lightly on her toes, ready to attack as needed.

  He looked down at the blood in his hand, speaking to himself. “I thought this was going to be easy.”

  “Last chance,” she said. “Tell me who Adam is.”

  He looked up at her. “Sorry, but your heart isn’t in it. If you were really going to hurt me, you’d have done it already. You might kick my ass, but my boss will kill me. So I’ll just take the beating.”

  Cat was stumped. The big man was tough under all that fat, and while she could defeat him in a fight, she wasn’t prepared to torture him. What the hell was she supposed to do?

  “Adam,” she said, “is going to be pissed I spotted you and you let me get away. So how about this? Give me some information and I’ll take off. You can pretend this didn’t happen. Or don’t tell me anything, and I’ll make sure Adam knows it was your fault I ran.”

  Tony looked up, squinting from behind his bloody face.

  Cat grabbed a napkin from a nearby table, wadded it up, and threw it to him.

  He picked it up off the floor and pressed it to his nose. “Adam wants you because you have special abilities. You can do something to the net he can sense.”

  Cat didn’t think any human would recognize what she was doing. “Is he an AI?”

  Tony was silent, then nodded.

  “What does he want me for?”

  Tony shrugged. “I don’t know. He needs helpers.”

  “Where can I find him?”

  “I’m not telling you anything else.”

  “How do you talk to him?”

  “Computer.” He gestured to the handheld. “But you won’t be able to. He only talks to people he wants to.”

  “All right. I won’t say anything if you won’t.”

  Tony shook his head.

  Cat looked down, checking her clothes to see if she had any blood on her, but she was clean enough. Back in the kitchen, the wife was scolding the husband. Cat reached into her pocket and pulled out two black payment cards, $1000 cards still in their wrappers, and pressed them into the husband’s hand.

  30

  * * *

  SLIM PARKED AT THE LA AIRPORT, the tan Honda blending in with the generic cars around it. At the rental counter he picked up a Bugatti aircar, swallowing hard at the price. The high-performance exotic cost more per day than he and Tony lived on in a year. But Adam’s budget was essentially unlimited, and he specified the fastest vehicle available. Sitting inside the Bugatti, Slim put his hands on the leather controls for a moment, then reluctantly told the autopilot to park next to the Honda.

  Still early for his meeting, he found a pub inside the terminal. He watched travelers in the mirrored wall behind the bar while he sipped an expensive tequila he had chosen for the price. With Adam paying, why not?

  Looking at his reflection, he adjusted his slicked back hair, then straightened his collar. He liked the way the suit made him feel respectable. Unfortunately, he’d had to forego the necktie ever since a wimpy banker had managed to grab hold of it, nearly strangling him. Luckily Tony clubbed the banker over the head with his own briefcase, then pulled out a butterfly knife and sliced the tie in two, just before Slim passed out.

  Since then he went with an open collar. The tribal necklace he’d taken from the Enforcement team woman peaked out from beneath his shirt. He pulled it out, rubbed the wood carving, put it back.

  He thought maybe his hair was thinning a little on top. There were black market nanites that could help, but he had to stifle an involuntary shudder at the thought. The biggest risk of nanotech was the possibility that the microscopic robots would replicate endlessly, converting everything around them into a soup of gray goo. Of course, the naysayers claimed nanobots would do that to the whole world, but the military had been using them for years and it hadn’t happened yet.

  Maybe he would investigate the hair nanites. He pulled out the pocket computer to look it up, but was interrupted by a throat-clearing behind him.

  “Samuel Scribe?”

  Slim looked up at the bar mirror. An insectile robot stood behind him, six tentacle arms waving in the air, bulbous eyes mounted on a too small head. Slim spun around, holding up the handheld computer. With the screen superimposed over the robot, he saw the ID matched one of the mercenaries.

  “Jesus, they let you on a passenger plane?”

  “I can compact myself for storage when necessary.” With a clatter of metal gears, the bot retracted tentacles, head, and legs, and became a rectangular box three feet tall and two feet wide. It sprang apart again, stretching to its full seven foot height, the whole process happening in seconds.

  Slim looked up at the bot again, taking in the waving arms, eyes, and height. “You are one ugly motherfucker. Call me Slim.”

  “OK, Slim. By my calculations the other members of the team will be here shortly. We took different planes.”

  Slim looked the robot up and down again, uneasy at the thought of working with it. He gestured to the bartender for another tequila.

  “How do you like it here in Los Angeles?” the robot asked.

  Slim sighed inside. He didn’t particularly care one way or the other about AIs, unlike some people, but then again, he didn’t really see the point of chatting with them. Couldn’t the thing just wait there patiently? “It’s fine.”

  “I like the sunshine.”

  Slim leaned forward and peered closely at what passed for the robot’s face. “You like the sunshine?” He didn’t bother to conceal his disdain.

  “Yes, I find it warming.”

  For Christ’s sake. The damn thing was a machine. Slim reached back, scooped up the shot and downed it. “Yeah, fucking warm, alright.”

  He was rescued by the arrival of a man and a woman, ex-military from the way they walked, British from their teeth and complexion. They approached and smiled at the robot, getting the faraway look of people using their implants. Then they turned to Slim. “Samuel Scribe?”

  “Thank God, you saved me here from Mr. Conversation.”

  The woman took rapid steps forward, and before Slim had time to react, he found her fist pressed hard against the soft underside of his jaw, trapping him against the bar. “We served two tours with Helena. She saved our lives more bloody times than I can count and a hundred of you wouldn’t be worth one of her. Treat the lady with respect.”

  Slim moved his head away and rubbed his neck. A fucking woman machine. What made one AI choose to identify as male and another female when there was nothing to differentiate them? He said nothing. There was no understanding AI.

  “Look here,” the man said, “we have to work together and we might as well get along. Let’s start over.” He held his hand out. “I’m Brett.”

  Slim shook, felt obvious callouses, and though he didn’t get his hand crushed there was an implied strength in the man’s grip. “Slim.”

  “Alright, Slim. You got transportation and gear?”

  “Yeah, two cars. The gear needs to be divvied up.”

  The woman grunted grudgingly. “Beverly.” She had a fat space between her two front teeth, and her nose had ob
viously been broken at some time, but she was still pretty.

  Slim smiled. “Nice to meet you, Beverly.”

  Helena waved two tentacles. “Olivia will be here in thirty seconds.”

  The three mercenaries looked in the same direction as a tall, dark-haired woman walked up. She clasped Brett’s hand in a firm shake, touched extremities with the bot, and finally embraced the other woman. The two exchanged a long kiss, and Slim looked away. There went any chance with either of them.

  “Who’s the wanker?” the newcomer asked in an Australian accent.

  “Samuel Scribe,” Beverly answered, “our local contact. He goes by Slim.”

  Slim nodded to the woman.

  Her gaze slid across him without the slightest acknowledgement. “Let’s go.”

  The others nodded, picking up the small duffel bags they had come in with, and walked away.

  Slim gritted his teeth and stood up. He didn’t like these people and their attitude. But they were just grunts for hire, with no idea who or what Adam was. He’d put up with them until their job was done.

  He caught up with them, then led the way to the parking garage and the two cars. The black and silver Bugatti glinted painfully in the sun. By comparison, the tan Honda groundcar next to it was so unnoticeable as to almost disappear.

  “Who’s taking the aircar?” Slim asked, pulling out his pocket computer to transfer the digital keys.

  “Send them to all of us,” Brett said. “Both sets of keys.”

  Slim swiped at the handheld, sending the keys to everyone.

  Brett opened the Honda’s trunk and Beverly took care of the Bugatti. Brett slid the cardboard box inside close and folded back the lid. He pulled out the trademark stubby profile of H&K stun guns. He checked the action of the first and passed it to Helena, who made it disappear somewhere inside her mechanical body.

  Slim looked around, but there was no one else in sight. They had nerve pulling out guns in broad daylight.

  Beverly mirrored Brett’s actions, passing the first stun gun to Olivia, and taking the second for herself. She dug into the second box, pulling out a Ruger 12 mm Magnum pistol. “Armor-piercing rounds?”