Swarm

by Guy Garcia

  “And you find this credible?” one of the men asked.

  “Yes, I do, and I’ll tell you why. For one thing, her descriptions of their chats and the time periods in which she said he was traveling match perfectly with the ARK raves in Las Vegas and New York, where we know Swarm was present. Also, she describes an incident during which the suspect subjected her to an audio signal of some kind that she says allowed their minds to merge. I think it’s pretty safe to say that she was subjected to a modified form of the zeph.r software.”

  “But it didn’t make her sick or crazy,” the man from the CIA said.

  “No, as far as we can tell,” Duggan clarified. “But I can tell you Ms. Oliver is cooperating voluntarily and shares our desire to find him. One thing I’d like to make clear is that the so-called Rave Plague, early reports from the CDC notwithstanding, is neither a virus nor a disease in any conventional sense. The real culprit is a device that transmits electromagnetic signals into the brains of its victims, controlling their thoughts and actions via applications and smartphones—and in some cases at electronic music festivals.”

  “So you’re telling us that we’re up against an army of dancing zombies?” somebody asked. Duggan waited for the chuckles to subside.

  “What I’m telling you is that Kenneth Ulrich, or whoever it is that’s behind Swarm, has been experimenting with different frequency variations of the original code. It seems that lower doses of zeph.r, like the earliest ones at the raves and the one that Ms. Oliver experienced, can induce euphoria and a profound sense of well-being and connectedness. The symptoms you’re referring to are generally triggered by higher doses of the zeph.r signal, where the synapses of individuals become joined in a kind of feedback loop. Sometimes the victims who are exposed to zeph.r can get ill, but I wouldn’t call them crazy. They can be very alert and organized. That said, the stronger the signal, the more likely you are to see various degrees of aggression, dementia, and violence.”

  “What happens if somebody aims a high-strength zeph.r beam at a large crowd?”

  “That,” Duggan said, “is something I hope we never find out.”

  “So, Jake,” Sharpe interjected, “as you’ve reported, the data trail around this big rave in Philadelphia next month, the X-ist party, fits the patterns of the rave riots in Las Vegas and New York. Do you think Swarm is behind it?”

  “I’m not sure if Swarm is behind it per se, but I’m pretty sure he’ll see it as an opportunity for another field experiment, a human petri dish to test zeph.r’s power. This is looking to be one of the biggest raves in recent history, which is why Swarm will find it irresistible.”

  “The place where the children dance in the square.” Heads turned to JT, the new co-leader of the expanded zeph.r task force. “Some of the references in Swarm’s most recent blog pertain to the Hopi myths of apocalypse. The appearance of the Blue Kachina, when this Hopi deity removes his mask to the children—meaning the general population—it signals the beginning of the end of the world.”

  “You’re saying the ‘children dancing in the square’ is a coded reference to attendees of the X-ist rave?” Koepp inquired.

  “There’s no way to be absolutely sure,” Duggan said, “but it could be code or a euphemism for a major attack.”

  The eruption of urgent commentary that followed was interrupted by a scowling man from the FBI. “I’m sorry, but that doesn’t sound at all like Ulrich to me,” he scoffed. “Scientists don’t dabble in Native American witchcraft, not even criminal ones. And they don’t go to techno raves.”

  “I’m sorry,” Duggan asked. “You are?”

  “Patterson, executive assistant director for FBI Criminal Cyber Response.”

  “Excuse me, Assistant Director, but what makes you so sure Ulrich won’t be at X-ist?”

  “Well, lots of reasons,” Patterson replied, “but the main one is that thanks to cell phone data filters and GPS triangulation, we’ve tracked Ulrich to a warehouse in Worcester, Massachusetts. A squad of agents from Critical Incident Response is preparing to strike in a few hours.”

  Duggan dialed through surprise, indignation, and outrage before settling on diplomatic restraint. “That’s certainly good news,” he said. “But as the lead field agent in this case, I’d like to know why I wasn’t alerted.”

  “I’m alerting you now, Agent Duggan. I’m sorry, but there just wasn’t time …”

  “There was time,” Duggan said firmly, “and if I just heard you correctly, there still is.”

  JT spoke up. “Jake, I’ll meet you in Boston and we can take a chopper to Worcester together.”

  Duggan looked at Koepp, who nodded her assent.

  “Of course, you’re welcome to observe, Agent Duggan,” Patterson allowed. “It’s only fitting for you to be there when we take down our prime suspect.”

  “Except that if Ulrich is in Worcester,” Koepp asked, “then who is the man Agent Duggan almost captured in Austin?”

  “That’s a good question,” Duggan said, doing his best to stare through the camera at Patterson. “Logic suggests that Ulrich and Swarm are not the same person but actually collaborators, and most likely comrades in the Meta Militia. So Ulrich is no longer our only prime suspect.”

  There was another burst of conversation, and the representative from the State Department joined the fray. “Duggan, you said Swarm needs a big crowd to set off his zeph.r brain beam, right? So all we have to do is shut down the concert in Pennsylvania and he’ll be dead in the water. By then, with any luck, we’ll have Ulrich in custody too. Problem solved.”

  There was a murmur of relief and self-congratulation around the table.

  “Excuse me, gentlemen,” Duggan said as loud as he could without waking Cara. “Hear me out, please.”

  Their attention turned back to his screen. “I’m sorry, but shutting down X-ist is not a course of action I’d recommend,” he chided. “For starters, it won’t stop Swarm from continuing to release the zeph.r virus in isolated batches via the Internet and who knows how and where else. The effect is diluted when distributed on social media or a peer-to-peer live streaming basis, but it’s not insignificant. It’s possible that the outbreaks of civil insurrection we’re seeing across the country might be at least partially caused by ongoing low-voltage wireless transmission. Second, we’re pretty certain that regardless of whether or not we capture Ulrich, Swarm won’t be able to resist showing up in Pennsylvania. We narrowly missed getting him in Austin, and as you know, his influence and the danger he represents is increasing every minute. If he goes off the grid again, we might not get another chance to make an arrest. But if we plan this right and use Swarm’s ex-girlfriend as bait to smoke him out, I think we can corner and capture him in Philadelphia. Which is why we encouraged local officials in Pennsylvania to approve the application for the X-IST event.”

  A gray-haired man in a military uniform leaned toward his microphone. “Lieutenant General Bruno Mansfield, field commander of the US Fifth Army. Mr. Duggan, what exactly do you mean by ‘lose control’?”

  “I can’t say exactly, sir, but Swarm already has more than a million followers in this country alone. If he finds a way to broadcast zeph.r at full power outside of a tightly defined geographical area, if he can ‘light the fuse,’ as he puts it, and fully activate the mind-control weapon in his possession, we could be facing a situation of mass hysteria and civil disobedience.”

  “Is there a way to contain or deflect this mind control beam you’re talking about?” Mansfield asked.

  “You would know better than me, General. But a cyber confrontation on the scale of what Swarm seems to be planning would make every existing contingency plan instantly and permanently obsolete.” Duggan paused to let his words sink in. “And now, if you ladies and gentlemen will excuse me, I’ve got a stakeout to catch.”

  It took Tom two hours to design the X-ist festival app a
nd another day to lay out and launch the crowd-funding proposal page. Within a week, two hundred thousand people had pledged fifty dollars each to become “partners” in a “transformative X-perience of music, light and collective energy” on a five-hundred-acre parcel of farmland twenty miles from the City of Brotherly Love. Two million dollars of the proceeds had already been earmarked for the X-istence Foundation, the nonprofit entity set up to assist and compensate casualties of the New York ARK riots and fund research into the still unidentified aliment associated with EDM raves. In exchange for their support, “X-isters” would receive admission and a camping pass, as well as an interactive LED bracelet that would serve as their digital ticket and allow an interactive relationship with the audio-visual elements of the X-ist sensorium.

  “You realize that without playing a single note, you’ve already changed the economics of all music festivals forever!” Fabian’s designer topcoat flowed behind him as he excitedly paced around Xander’s Arizona pad. “Eight million dollars in twenty days! It’s incredible!”

  “But can we build it in time?” Xander asked. “If we can’t do it this summer, while it’s still warm, I won’t do it at all.”

  Tom spoke up from his seat on the sofa. “Not to mention that the money disappears in ten days if we don’t accept it.”

  Fabian stopped pacing and rubbed his goateed chin. “It’s doable, but we’re going to need every penny from the fund to make it happen. I’ll need to double everybody’s salary.”

  “Well, at least you won’t have to pay me, because I’m doing it for free,” Xander quipped.

  Fabian looked close to tears. “My dear boy, you just became the most famous DJ that ever lived. I’m not worried about your salary. After this, you can write your own ticket.”

  “So you’ll do it?”

  “Absofuckinlutely! But I need you both on the East Coast ASAP. There’s a shitload of work to do, logistics galore, and I’m sure not launching this monster by myself.”

  “Don’t worry, I’ve already rented a town house in Brooklyn with an a/v studio in the basement,” Xander told him. “It’ll be our command center.”

  “X-Central,” Tom said.

  “That’s perfect for getting social media buzz,” Fabian enthused. “Maybe you can host a dinner for the biggest donors. We all can move to a hotel in Philly right before the show.”

  “Tom’s in charge of the audiovisuals,” Xander continued. “I’ll work on recruiting the talent. Armin, Joel, Alex and Nicolas already told me they’ll do it for nothing if we cover their expenses.” He jumped up from the sofa, eyes gleaming, arms extended winglike. “Each of the five guest DJs will get to do a forty-minute set, with me as the closer. I’ll get the Chinese dude who plays the mouth harp and the gourd flute, a single light shining down on him, segueing into thunder and rain, jungle sounds of the primordial ooze. Then I’ll add some Omnisphere and take them through the origins of the galaxy and human civilization, past and future, inner space and outer space. Plus, some real instruments: guitars, Mellotron, a theremin, and some singers.”

  Tom was nodding and smiling. “You’re the man, Xan.”

  “I’m sure it’ll be outrageously dope!” Fabian said. “I’ll take care of finances and construction and media—you guys conjure the magic.” He hovered over the 3-D model that Tom had 3D-printed on the dining room table. The tower of intersecting X s rose up from the clutter of empty wine bottles and scratch pads. “Tom, can you please explain this to me again?”

  Tom pointed to the circular platform in the center of the model. “The module here at the fulcrum is the three-hundred-and-sixty-degree revolving DJ deck. The arms of each X are translucent Plexiglas, seventy feet tall, lit from the inside by high-intensity LEDs that change color. The lights and the music, everything will synchronize with the participants’ radio-controlled wristbands, which also vibrate and change colors in sync with what’s happening onstage. Water walls will flow from the edges of the towers, and pointed rods of St. Elmo’s fire will burn at the top. We’re telling everybody to wear white so that their clothes pick up the colors on their wrists and in the show.”

  “I flunked science in high school,” Fabian said, “so tell me, what the fuck is St. Elmo’s fire?”

  “It’s a field of luminous blue-tinged plasma created by an electrical discharge from an object pointed into the atmosphere,” Tom said. “It’s named after St. Elmo, the patron saint of sailors, because it would appear on the tips of ships’ masts during electrical storms. We’ll turn off the St. Elmo’s when the acrobats go up to the roof to rappel off the edges into the crowd, which happens when we shoot off fireworks at the climax of Xander’s set.”

  Xander was behind them with his hands on his hips. “Pretty cool, eh?”

  “Beyond belief,” Fabian uttered.

  “Believe it,” Xander said.

  “How soon can you guys be in New York?”

  “We have tickets to fly in two days,” Xander told him. “I’ll text you when we land.”

  After Fabian had left, Tom and Xander did shots of Patron blanco and took a walk along the ridge behind the house. Xander staked out a spot on a level boulder and Tom stood beside him to savor the luxury of so much uncompromised space.

  “How did you do it, Tom?”

  “How did I do what?”

  “How did you get the money so fast?”

  “It was a snap,” Tom said lightly. “I just harnessed the power of the cloud.”

  Xander’s features looked inflamed in the wasting daylight. “Don’t bullshit me, Tommy. Nobody has raised so much money so fast since the early days of crowd sourcing.”

  “It’s not bullshit, Xan. Every cent of the money is from real people. Go ahead and do an audit if you want, and you’ll see that the funds are completely legit. I think you’re underestimating your marquee value.”

  “Sorry, pal, but I’m not buying it.”

  “Okay,” Tom relented. “What I just told you is true, but I left something out. You know I used to work in cyber security. My job was to keep hackers out of my clients’ business, to protect them from scammers and bandwidth bandits.”

  “Yeah, I already knew that.”

  “Well, then it shouldn’t surprise you that I got to know a lot of people on both sides of the firewall. Most of them hack for kicks. Sometimes they go after the real bad guys when no one else will or can. The point is, the Internet is riddled with dark nets, organizations of people who trade and share information, and sometimes they join forces to help each other out, or to do something that they agree is important.”

  “Like Anonymous.”

  “Yeah, but there are hundreds of groups like them, all different but connected, all over the Internet, all over the world. Each individual in the group might have links to hundreds or thousands of other people, other computers. Networks of networks. They know how to manipulate the levers of social media in ways that nobody else can see, invisible hands pulling the strings.”

  “You sound like Swarm right now. Did you talk to him too?”

  Tom had the sudden sensation that the laconic buttes and hoodoos around them, the million-year-old survivors of a time before time, were leaning closer to hear his next words. “Look, Xan, honestly, there’s no way I can answer that question, because Swarm is not an individual. Swarm is an idea. Like you said, he’s everybody and nobody. He’s a collective of collectives, the ghost in the machine.”

  Xander turned away and spat into the dirt, and Tom could feel the whole planet tilting slowly away from the sun. “Whatever, man. Anyway, you admit you did that—you got your cyber buddies to pull the strings for X-ist.”

  “Yeah, but they did it because they believe in what we’re doing Xan, just like the thousands of the regular people who contributed their PayPal dollars and credit card numbers. They’re coming to Pennsylvania because they believe in X-ist, in what it represents,
and because they believe in you. The music, the vibe, the EDM community, and everything around it matters to them, just like it matters to us.”

  “Really? What part of this actually matters to you, Tom, because I honestly can’t tell anymore.”

  Tom was engulfed by a wave of sadness, like a warm spring welling up from a subterranean chamber. The stress of the past few months, the running and hiding and truth twisting, was taking its toll. “I’m sorry, Xan,” he said, swallowing hard. “I’m sorry I lied to you. It’s just that this concert is really important. It’s the culmination of everything we’ve done. Brothers in everything, always, including this.”

  They both watched as the sun melted into an orange pool of lava. Xander draped his arm on Tom’s shoulders. “Hey, no worries, man. It’s not the end of the world.” He paused before adding, “Not yet anyway.”

  “Ha,” Tom said.

  The desert around them seemed to exhale in the encroaching evening. Xander zipped up his jacket and turned back to the house. “C’mon,” he said. “Let’s go back and fire up the grill. Just make sure you keep your word. This is the last live gig, brother. When the Blue Kachina dances, we’re done.”

  25

  The helicopter whirred and hovered over an empty parking lot near the Amtrak station on Worcester’s south side. As they drifted down to their makeshift landing pad, JT pointed to an intersection a couple of blocks away, where SWAT trucks and Massachusetts PD cruisers had encircled a three-story brick building with an American flag draped across the boarded-up entrance.

  “Here, you’ll need these,” JT shouted over the din, handing Duggan a set of laminated police credentials. Once they got clear of the chopper, they flashed the passes to get past the armed policemen manning the perimeter barricades. They were less than a hundred yards from the building when the first shots rang out. Duggan and JT reflexively ducked behind a dumpster as a tear gas canister tore through a window on the second floor. Machine-gun fire peppered the pavement and a half dozen FBI and local police officers returned fire.