by Guy Garcia
The day came when their hard-wired baby was ready to be born. Film crews from Japan and France flew in to cover the launch party, which featured live video chats with people in other cities via grainy black-and-white feeds that were hailed at the time as miraculous. By the third case of champagne, the user base was over twenty thousand and climbing. There was alchemy in the way that electrical pulses and glowing pixels could be almost instantly transformed into product, and some pals with a shared vision of watching movies and sports on their computers were suddenly actually in business.
A year later, Duggan married a reporter who had come to interview the budding entrepreneur for his hometown daily, the Chicago Tribune. Duggan was a freshly-minted millionaire, on paper at least, which in those days was as good as the real thing. He bought a loft in Soho on easy credit and a black BMW with custom plates that spelled DOT COM. NexTube seemed to be at the top of every heavy hitter’s acquisitions list, and Duggan’s platinum payday was just a few notarized signatures away. Then the Internet bubble went pop and wiped it all away. Suddenly, all the partners in his company had their own personal lawyer, but Duggan still didn’t see it coming. A new CEO was installed, and the board stopped returning Duggan’s phone calls. His marriage lost its valuation too.
Duggan retreated to Chicago in a self-righteous exile of indignation and denial. Then an acquaintance asked him out for a drink. Did he know, his friend asked, that the US government was looking for experienced programmers and paying top dollar for their services? There was even a fast-track training program that would give him the equivalent of a PhD in computer science and an FBI security clearance to boot. That night, well into his third Jack and soda, he laughed away the offer. But after a few more weeks of glimpsing his future through the bottom of a shot glass, he called his friend back.
At first, Duggan welcomed the rigor and distraction of his federally funded re-tooling. He sincerely believed that freedom and creativity on the Net couldn’t exist without justice, and that justice required that certain basic rules of cyber conduct be enforced. Then came 9/11, and Duggan once again felt the window for a better world slam shut. At the same time, the rampant lawlessness of the Net and the hideous virility of the latest viruses were demoralizing. Even in the tight-lipped corridors of the NCSD, he heard rumors that the United States and its allies were collaborating on a more powerful follow-up to Flame, Olympic Games and Stuxnet, early-generation cyber weapons that had penetrated the vital industries of enemy nations, collected information and delivered it back for analysis and further manipulation without the targets ever knowing. Murderous apps that had slipped their leashes and renegade strings of computer software were roaming the Internet like packs of wild dogs, or festering like sociopathic orphans that had somehow developed a need and ability to evade destruction or capture.
Were government-commissioned cyber-attacks acts of war? Sure. Was it a problem that military viruses had gotten loose by accident or been intentionally released by hotheaded allies, thereby accelerating a cyber cold war, an arms race of killer computer viruses, each more destructive and insidious than the last? Of course. But what, Duggan had finally concluded, was the option? Was this better or worse than guns, bombs, or bio weapons that rotted people’s organs from the inside? Was there an online equivalent of a suicide bomber? Meanwhile, there was always the possibility of newer, stronger malware, like Conficker, a program that had already infected an estimated five million computers in thirty-five countries, turning them into unwitting slaves and linking them together into a turbo-charged botnet, a massive web of processing power that rivaled the world’s fastest and strongest supercomputers and seemed chillingly capable of defending itself against all attempts to stamp it out.
These days, patrolling the Web for enemy hackers and anarchists made Duggan feel like a sheriff trying to keep order in a once booming town that had degenerated into a sprawling slum of misguided nerds, amoral swindlers, anarchists, and paranoid autocrats. Decent folk were cowering behind their firewalls, ducking to avoid getting splattered by spammers, praying that justice and parental controls would prevail and make cyberspace safe again for women and children. It pained Duggan to see the Eden-esque promise of the Web’s early years defiled by doubt and distrust, the dark pools gathering behind the high-resolution display of a billion handheld devices. Everything and everybody was for sale, whether aware of it or not. Everybody’s opinion mattered, whether it made sense or not.
Duggan was trained and licensed to carry a sidearm, but most of the bad guys he was after did their dirty work with a trackpad or a mouse. He knew that a shadow war was already being fought by blackhat battalions that used attachments instead of guns, aiming not to kill the enemy so much as to delete it. The next Pearl Harbor would not be delivered by a naval fleet or a massive air strike; it would produce no riveting images of flaming ships and wounded men leaping into the Pacific; there would be no day of infamy to rouse the population. No, it would come silently through the same wireless conduits that powered your dishwasher, brewed your coffee, and brought you the evening news. First the air conditioner would turn against you—and then the fridge, the lights, and your car. You’d fumble in the dark to find your phone so you could call for help, but the device would be useless because the satellites and radio towers that power such things would have been disabled. Since mass communication as we know it would be nonexistent, it would take hours, maybe days or weeks, before the true scope of the disaster was known. Airlines, railroads, utilities, and financial networks would all be crippled or destroyed by camouflaged code aimed at the same machines that make modern life possible and tolerable. And if all that weren’t enough, it was also conceivable that the true source of the catastrophe would be impossible to trace, that those responsible for so much suffering and destruction would remain faceless, nameless, and, in their own minds at least, blameless.
It rankled Duggan that even those who knew better, the corporations and agencies whose systems had been repeatedly infected and hacked, chose to cloak their losses in willful denial, like rape victims who couldn’t bear the shame of going public. But what really worried Duggan wasn’t the mounting evidence that individuals, groups, and entire nations were plotting a black swan event, a cyber-attack on the United States that would dwarf 9/11 and usher in a new Dark Ages. What kept him drinking after last call and staring at the ceiling in the predawn hours was the disconcerting prospect of scanning a crowd of people glued to their phones without knowing which one was about to enter the five-digit passcode that could bring a government to its knees.
3
Tom took a deep breath as his fingers hovered over a computer keyboard and pressed ENTER. Amazing how the same simple command that he used to freeze the blood of his corporate clients could also be configured to unleash artful mayhem on a perfect summer day. One by one, a half dozen micro video cams switched to record mode, the glowing RECs indicating that the operation was being dutifully collected and cataloged for future reference and recruitment purposes. Tom knew that there would be Fourth of July fireworks at San Antonio’s Woodland Park, but his mission at this moment was to initiate shock and awe during the bright procession of the red, white, and blue children’s parade.
Tom surveyed the live feeds on his computer screen, each one focused on a different part of the parade route. They even had one set up on the promenade at River Walk, which would be packed with shopping-fatigued families and tourists gobbling their lunches as they took surreptitious snapshots of twenty-first century Texans: sinewy, bronzed couples flaunting their youth by the lake; soda-amped kids clenching bouquets of helium balloons; cart vendors hawking tacos and freedom dogs—while actual canines strained on their leashes to get a sniff of each other. None of them had the slightest inkling that dozens of subversives lurked in the trees and in the restrooms, behind the concession stands and in plain sight, waiting for the moment to step forward and reveal their true colors. A crowd was beginning to coalesce along the p
arade path: buzz-cut jocks in cargo shorts and flip-flops; suburban moms in droopy hats and sensible shoes; retired servicemen rolling up in their wheelchairs for a better view. And most importantly, TV crews from KSAT, WOAI, and KABB, overdressed and looking bored as they sipped bottled water and waited to tape a holiday spot for the five o’clock news.
On video cam one, the vanguard of the caravan came into focus: two clowns, a huge US flag stretched between them, skipping down the path, surrounded by squealing children and barking canines. Papier mâché busts of former US Presidents lumbered along on bunting-draped flatbeds. Not far behind, a high school marching band took its best shot at “America the Beautiful.”
Eighty miles away, in a nondescript residential section of Austin, Tom’s mother appeared in his room holding a tray with a turkey sandwich and potato chips. “I made you lunch, m’ijo,” she said.
Tom nodded without taking his eyes off the monitors. “Thanks, Mom. Just leave it on the table, okay?”
Sonia Ayana put the food down and shook her head disapprovingly. Tom’s lair was in the back of the house, separated from the rest of the dwelling by a long hallway with a bathroom that he had also claimed for himself. His walls were lined with several rows of bookshelves crammed with audio and computer equipment; outdated CDs, DVDs, vinyl records, and video games; assorted swag from free networking events; software programming textbooks; stacks of back issues of Wired; and dog-eared paperbacks of Cat’s Cradle, Neuromancer, and The Catcher in the Rye. In the center of the room, elevated on a plywood platform concealing power strips and cables, was a U-shaped command module of metal worktables piled high with CPUs, laptops, and high-definition LCD monitors. A doorless closet, an unmade bed, blackout shades over the windows, and a Steelcase mesh swivel chair completed the cyber-geek decor.
Sonia started to say something but checked herself. What was the point? When he was online, she didn’t exist; nothing existed except the computer. She worried that Tom’s obsession would rob him of a real life. How would he ever meet a girl if he didn’t have a job that took him outside the house? How could a grown man be content to sit indoors by himself all day and most of the night, unshaven and wearing the same clothes, the pale light from the screen commanding his attention like a demonic blue flame. She had managed well enough without a husband, supporting herself as a seamstress at a local clothing store, raising Tom as best she could, but the growing likelihood that she would never see a daughter-in-law, let alone grandchildren, wounded her with guilt that she had failed him as a mother. If only she had understood what was happening sooner, if she had been able to recognize the signs, she might have steered him onto a different path before losing him to the toxic attraction of that maldita machine.
Tom looked up from his cyber command center, alarmed to see his mother holding a sheet of paper, her eyes brimming.
“Mom, what is it?”
“It’s your tía, Lupe.” Sonia blotted her tears with an embroidered handkerchief. “I told you she was sick, so I sent her to the doctor like you told me. Now the bill came. And it’s twelve thousand dollars.”
“I thought she had insurance.”
“She does, but the insurance company won’t cover it. They sent Lupe a letter, but she couldn’t read it. I’m trying to help her, but they say the policy is no good.” Sonia took a step forward and held out the letter. “She’s a widow, all alone. She can’t pay this. Necesita ayuda.”
“Why didn’t you tell me sooner, Ma?”
“I don’t like to bother you when you’re in your room doing your electrical work.” Tom winced at her choice of words. To this day, when friends or relatives asked Sonia what Tom did for a living, she told them her son was an electrician. He had stopped trying to correct her. “If Chevo were here,” she lamented, “he would know what to do.”
Tom could feel a familiar pressure expanding in his chest. Chevayo Ayana was his father, the pneumatic engineer who disappeared in Alaska when Tom was five, who knew how to drill for oil through frozen mountains, and whose loss had torn a gaping hole in the lives of his wife and son, a vacancy so deep that sometimes Tom felt that his mother would be devoured by it. Just hearing the way she uttered his father’s name was like a poke from a sharp stick. He took the letter from his mother’s hands.
“Don’t worry. Tell Lupe I’ll take care of it.”
“How M’ijo?” Her expression was equal parts curiosity and concern. “Promise me you won’t do anything dumb.”
“Don’t worry, Mom. They’re the ones who just did something stupid. But right now you’ve got to let me work.”
Tom shut the door and turned his attention back to his computer. The shock troops for Operation Uncle Sam were standing by, waiting for his signal.
“Team leaders, hold positions,” Tom texted to the video cam operators. “Wait till they get a little closer.”
It had all started just a few months ago as a dare: an online acquaintance bet that Tom couldn’t get a hundred people to show up for a naked car wash fundraiser for the women’s track team at the University of Texas at Austin. Tom hacked into a dozen college sports chat rooms, posting an invitation for “filthy boys and dirty girls to drop their pants and show some skin for the team” by downloading an app that would use lewd humor and suggestive icons to point the way to their ultimate destination. The queue of scantily clad coeds that showed up the next day stretched for two blocks and made it onto the local news. It dawned on Tom that he had a gift for group activation. He knew how to rally the troops; he knew where to find them and how to entice them with clever clues and prizes; he could organize and orchestrate a mob like a maestro, conducting the crowd not with a wand but with software commands and augmented reality mobile apps that merged the real world with treasure maps and fantastical images.
There was a degree of danger in all this. Local law enforcement, getting its cues from the federal government, was taking a dim view of flash mobs and any other online mischief that suggested a terrorist threat, and new statutes against encrypted digital transgressions were being passed every day. Tom decided he needed a secure handle, a fake identity that would insulate him from snooping surveillance sentinels and rival hackers, both of whom he knew plenty about from his freelance duties for the Austin-based Internet security firm. No one, not even his top flash mob lieutenants, had ever met him or seen his face, and he would keep it that way. Even his voice was digitally filtered into a low-pitched snarl. The key was the collective, the spontaneous combustion of individuals joining for a common cause, working together as a single entity to make an indelible social statement. There could be only one name for the elusive alpha that controlled the hive mind, a moniker that succinctly captured the ephemeral spirit of chaotic cohesion: Swarm.
A message scrolled across the text window of his control dashboard.
Mobile 1: Swarm, the patriots are in position. Waiting for your signal.
Tom scanned the monitor one last time. “Okay, people,” he said. “Let’s show them what the land of the free really looks like!”
As the aircraft flew into the heart of the locust storm, Cara held on to her seat straps, hoping for a miracle. At first, PHAROH’s electric song was indistinguishable from the din of the propeller engine—then its frequency broke through the mechanical noise, pulsing with the deep sonority of a distressed cello fused with a piercing wail that made Cara hold her hands over her headset. Almost immediately, the thick curtain of locusts opened up and the crunching hail of buzzing bodies diminished.
“It’s working!” Eric shouted. “Professor Park, we freaking did it!”
Cara peered through the muck on the windows to get a better view, and what she saw lifted her heart. A bug-free bubble had opened up around the plane as the locusts lurched in tandem to evade PHAROH’s angry whine. The splattering had diminished to a few isolated pops, yet the mass of insects still surrounded them in every direction. It was like flying into the ey
e of a fluttering hurricane, the eerily calm center of a swirling vortex with walls made of insects. Cara was gripped with speechless wonder. The swarm was defending itself from PHAROH by creating an insulating pocket of space around the plane. The swarm had instantly adapted to minimize the disruption without changing course. Cara was incredulous, exhilarated, and disappointed all at once. What had just happened didn’t seem possible, yet …
“Holy shit,” Eric blurted. “The swarm is protecting itself by avoiding us!”
“Where are we, exactly?” Cara asked the pilot.
“We’re in Tanzania. Just south of the border with Kenya, in the Serengeti.”
“No, I mean exactly. I need to come back to this place on foot.”
The pilot grinned at Cara’s naïveté. “You can’t walk around the Serengeti, ma’am. The lions are not in a zoo.”
“I’m not a fool,” Cara said tartly. “I need the coordinates for where we encountered the swarm so I can examine specimens. Where’s the closest airstrip?”
“We’re a bit northeast of Ikorongo Game Reserve, ma’am. The closest airstrip is half a day’s drive from here, not far from a nice travel sanctuary.”
“Can we stay there tonight and hire a driver to bring us back to this spot in the morning?”
“I’ll radio them now, ma’am.”
She looked at Eric. “You can turn PHAROH off. We’re done for today.”
The Serengeti airstrip was a mile-long clearing of ragged grass, and the landing was more than a little bumpy. When they emerged from the six-seat aircraft, a blond man in pressed khaki shorts was waiting to greet them with cold drinks and biscuits arranged safari style on a folding table. The man introduced himself as Malcolm. He and his wife were the managers of Rawana Sanctuary, a high-end tented camp that catered to well-heeled tourists. During the ride to the camp, Malcolm gave them brightly patterned Masai blankets and horsehair swatters to keep the tsetse flies at bay, telling them that they were lucky to be in East Africa during the great migration.