Wild Fyre

by Ike Hamill

  “Sure, have a seat,” Maco said. He pointed to a long couch that sat under a blacked-out window. Aster and Ploss sat side by side. Maco sat in a leather chair and pulled a computer into his lap. “Can I get your names?”

  Aster and Ploss introduced themselves. Maco’s fingers recorded the information on his keyboard.

  “You referred to Mr. Owens as Yawgmoth?” Ploss asked.

  “Yup,” Maco said. “You guys get right to the point, don’t you.”

  “Mr. Salter mentioned that you called him Yawgmoth at lunch,” Aster said.

  “Mr. who?” Maco asked.

  “Edward Sauls Salter,” Aster said.

  “That’s cute. You’re looking for a reaction? Yes, I know Ed’s real name. Yes, I know Ed’s background and why he changed his name. Did Ed also mention that I got a big laugh when I called Jim ‘Yawgmoth’? It’s a nerd joke—you wouldn’t understand.”

  “Could you explain it?”

  “Explain a joke? Sure. That won’t ruin it. Yawgmoth is father of machines, that’s all. It wasn’t actually an appropriate handle for Jim. It was the first thing that popped into my head.”

  “And you suggested that Jim would be murdered in a big, showy way?” Ploss asked.

  “Yup,” Maco said. He moved the computer off his lap and slid to the edge of his chair. “I didn’t actually think it would happen. I’m pretty callous, but even I don’t joke about one of my friends being blown up while walking down the street.”

  “So what made you say it?” Aster asked.

  Maco rubbed his forehead. “Someone else commented that Jim was absent. Then someone suggested he was secretly murdered. I suspected what Jim was up to—I think most of us did—so I took the line of reasoning to its logical conclusion. When you build something that supersedes you in every capacity except humanity, and then you try to shut that thing down, you have to expect you’re putting your life in danger.”

  “What did Jim build?” Aster asked.

  “He built intelligence,” Maco said. “He built the perfect electronic organism. It exists almost everywhere, and it harnesses nearly every machine you see. It spreads better than a virus.”

  “I run antivirus software,” Aster said.

  “Not against this, you don’t,” Maco said. “This thing has injected itself right into your operating system. To everyone, even the computer manufacturers, it appears to be perfectly valid.”

  “They haven’t invented intelligent machines yet. Even the computer that competed on Jeopardy was only looking stuff up,” Aster said.

  “And they gave it the questions ahead of time,” Ploss said.

  “That was one machine,” Maco said. “The thing Jim built is on every machine. Imagine that the human brain has the equivalent computing power as a couple thousand computers. How smart would a billion computers be? Even if it only stole a fraction of each machine’s resources, how smart would it be?”

  Aster and Ploss didn’t answer. They stared at Maco.

  Maco continued his explanation.

  “We only notice viruses and malware when they do something harmful. As soon as the virus hijacks a browser or slows down a centrifuge, people start looking for the culprit. This thing doesn’t harm your machine. In some ways, it makes your machine faster. If you removed it worldwide, a healthy percentage of people would be upset. Their computers wouldn’t work as well.”

  “How does a computer program kill a man?” Aster asked.

  “Obviously, it doesn’t,” Maco said. “It orders drone helicopters from China, rifles from Oklahoma, sensors from Japan, solenoids from California, and it has everything shipped to an assembly plant in North Carolina where robotic arms put together all the pieces. It probably has assembly plants set up all over the world now. Redundancy will help it keep a hand in the physical world.”

  “If you were in our position, which would be more likely—a computer program smart enough to mastermind an execution, or a person angry enough to commit murder and smart enough to do it with equipment?”

  “That’s good,” Maco said. “You’ve caught up to step one of the investigation. And what did you find?”

  “Pardon?” Aster asked.

  “I assume that you’ve tracked down the delivery trucks that dropped off the boxes containing the drones?”

  Aster and Ploss made no reaction.

  “Playing it silent? Okay. I’ll tell you what I discovered, since all of my information comes from publicly available sources. I saw ten identical boxes delivered to different addresses in a circle around the shooting. None of the addresses had line-of-sight to the target, so the killer must have had some other method for tracking Jim. Either that, or boxes were sent to multiple locations and only ten were activated.

  “Eight minutes before the shooting, something inside each box cut its way out. The boxes looked specially designed for this purpose. One box was delivered upside-down, despite the labels on the outside. That box failed to open. From the rest of the boxes, drones emerged.

  “They looked like toys on all the video I saw. They hovered in positions surrounding Jim at various distances while maintaining some amount of cover. Jim was shot by all of the drones simultaneously. Is that about right?”

  “Where did you get video?” Aster asked.

  “Come on,” Maco said. “It’s everywhere. There are cameras all over that part of town. The city has two public cameras that picked up most of it. The TV station right there has a hi-def traffic cam that witnessed three of the drones. Two million people must have seen at least part of this crime.”

  “What, from any of that, suggests that this wasn’t carried out by a person?” Aster asked.

  “First, the precision. You can’t pilot nine drones at once. And the shots didn’t fire at the same time, they impacted at the same time. Clearly it would take a machine to pilot drones, aim the weapons, and pull the triggers,” Maco said.

  “Even if machines assist in the murder, it’s still the finger that presses the button,” Aster said.

  “You’re not listening—there is no finger. These drones targeted Jim by facial recognition and then once they had pinpointed him, they would have communicated to each other. This murder was completely perpetrated by software.”

  “Then a finger created the software,” Aster said.

  “Well, then I guess you’re investigating a suicide,” Maco said.

  “Do you have any proof for that allegation?” Ploss asked.

  “My years of experience add up to a deduction that some would call intuition. That’s my proof.”

  “Surely you must have more evidence,” Aster said.

  “I would think you guys had that covered,” Maco said. “If I spotted the box of the tenth drone, then you should have. Did you go pick up that box and examine the contents? Did you dust the tenth drone for prints? Did you find any of the other nine drones after the shot?”

  “We can’t answer any of those questions. We’re asking what you know,” Aster said.

  “I guess I don’t know anything,” Maco said. He folded his arms.

  “We heard that you linked assets from stock trades to an automated manufacturing operation,” Aster said.

  “Nope. I heard theories about shipping and stocks and all I did was say that one could pay for the other. That’s all.”

  “What made you assume that the two things were connected?” Aster asked.

  “You know, I don’t think I have much more insight for you guys,” Maco said. “I’ve got some work I need to do this afternoon. Do you have any other specific questions?”

  “We’re trying to solve your friend’s murder here. Don’t you think you owe it to your friend to help us find his killer?” Ploss asked.

  “I’ve told you what killed him, and you don’t seem interested in hearing about it. Find out something about The Organization and we can talk about that. Then I’ll know you’re serious. Until then, we’re wasting each other’s time.”

  “I don’t consider it a waste
of time,” Aster said. He stood up. Ploss stood up as well. The two men headed for the door.

  “Nice to meet you,” Aster said as Maco hit the button to unlock and open the door.

  “Good day,” Maco said.

  Aster and Ploss stood on the front porch as the door closed and bolted behind them.

  “He seemed nice,” Ploss said.

  # # # # #

  Autobiography3();

  /*****

  May, 2006

  The lunch with Bert and Michael went great. I introduced the two even though I was meeting Michael for the first time. Michael brought along his intern, Judith. They had a nice conversation under a little umbrella on the restaurant’s patio, and I half-listened while I watched the occasional boat float by on the river. By the time the food came, they were already talking about materials and joints and maintenance of the tables.

  This lunch took place back before iPads and decent cell phone screens, so for a demo Michael had this little device with a screen on it. I guess it was a DVD player. It showed a woman spinning open the table to grow it to the bigger size. It still think those tables are incredible, but see one for the first time and it’s like magic.

  Bert nodded and complimented Michael on his execution. They discussed the origins of the design and how he had improved it. I guess because Michael started to get into technical secrets, Judith began to look a little itchy. She pulled out a briefcase and produced NDAs—non-disclosure agreements for me and Bert to sign. In case we were out to steal secrets, I guess.

  I didn’t have a problem signing, but Bert crossed out a few lines. He explained himself carefully. Apparently there were some clauses that might prohibit him from building things that he already had experience building. It made sense to me. He and Michael struck an agreement and they signed. Only Judith looked nervous at all.

  I had a nice lunch. The others didn’t each much. They were too busy talking. Fortunately, our table was fairly isolated from the rest of the diners so it was quiet.

  If he had incurred any ill will over the NDA, Bert won them back with his idea. I didn’t entirely grasp his concept, but apparently Bert came up with a way to marry the sections of the table together more securely, so the surface would appear more flat. Michael mentioned it was an unsolvable issue, but with a couple of pen sketches on the back of the NDA, Bert solved it. He was in. Michael offered to bring him into the manufacturing process and then phase him into sales and marketing as production stabilized. Bert loved the idea. Apparently, he gets bored and prefers shifting responsibilities. I thought Bert’s need for change would be a red flag to a small business owner, but Michael smiled.

  Honestly, I was already beyond worrying about whether Bert was a good fit. Michael should have been able to evaluate him now that they had met in person. I was already counting the commission I’d get from this placement. He was offering Bert my idea of a fortune.

  When we stood, everyone shook hands and smiled. I didn’t like the way that Bert showed his shovel-teeth to Judith, but Bert wasn’t my problem.

  The next day I got a letter from Mr. Bert Williams. It included sincere thanks for my “vision” and a thousand in cash. The bills were weird. I took them to the bank at lunch and handed them to the cross-eyed teller. She pronounced them old, but valid, and deposited them into my account. When I was walking back to my office, I had the urge to call up Michael and call off the deal. He could still hire Bert if he wanted, but I didn’t want a commission from that placement. I’m not sure if things would have gone better or worse if I’d made that call. On one hand, he might have stopped the hiring process. On the other, it might have been used as evidence that I knew something was wrong. I didn’t call.

  Two weeks later, after Bert started work, Michael sent me an effusive letter. He talked about what a great fit Bert was—how all the yachting folks took to the old man, and how the engineers and craftsmen worshipped him. He said in the letter that he was tempted to pay my whole fee upfront, but he didn’t. Successful businessmen have an instinct that steadies their hand even when it doesn’t silence their pen. He paid me the advance and promised to pay the rest on the day Bert’s probationary employment period ended.

  I moved on to other things. I’d already started to specialize somewhat in software engineers. Up until then, I liked working with a variety of skills. I guess maybe I got tired of all the effort involved. Software engineers and IT folks are fairly easy to understand.

  The newspaper was where I first heard that things had gone horribly wrong, but I got all the clear details from the lawsuit against me. Fortunately for me, Michael did not focus his lawyers exclusively at me. I would have been made destitute. Michael put most of his attention to a civil suit against Bert himself. The second-string legal team came after me. They wanted me to settle and admit malpractice. One legal firm owned by a friend of mine offered me a cheap defense team and I decided to fight.

  A number of local recruiters actually contributed to my defense. They didn’t want a precedent set where an employer would sue the recruiter every time a new employee didn’t work out. It was helpful.

  We went before the judge.

  The following is the best, corroborated account of what took place in the last week that Bert worked for Michael…

  CH.6.Bert ()

  {

  Bert0();

  /*****

  JULY, 2006

  MICHAEL WALKED into his shop with a smile. He liked to come to work and find people already working and excited to accomplish something that day. He joined his drafter, Tien, who was hunched over plans with their newest co-worker, Bert.

  Bert came up to speed quickly and asked all the right questions. He locked-in to areas of the plans where there had been long debates before a solution came. He was challenging their assumptions and validating their decisions, and Bert did it in a casual way that didn’t seem to irk the other employees.

  “How’s it going, guys?” Michael asked.

  “Bert’s thinking we should redesign the locking mechanism,” Tien said.

  Bert didn’t say anything. He leaned closer to the plans. They had one light table in the shop. Bert clasped his hands behind his back and leaned over it.

  “Why’s that?” Michael asked. He asked the question towards Bert, but after a few seconds, Tien answered.

  “The swing of the part is on an arc, but the slot for the catch is linear. He said it should be a sweep,” Tien said.

  “Ah, I see,” said Michael. “Bert, the slot is linear because it tightens as it closes, see? That brings the gap in tight by slowly decreasing the radius.”

  Bert exhaled and continued to stare down at the plans.

  “Bert?” Michael asked.

  At this point, Bert had been working in the shop for a few weeks, and Michael was starting to feel like he had an understanding of the way the man communicated. His silence wasn’t dismissive. It represented deep concentration. Michael waited a full minute before prompting him again.

  “Bert, do you see why we did that?”

  “It isn’t right,” Bert said.

  “Pardon?” Michael asked. He looked over to Tien—the young drafter looked equally perplexed. Michael had heard what Bert said, but the older man suddenly had an accent.

  He sounded like British aristocracy when he repeated his statement, “It isn’t right.” His hard enunciation chopped the ends of the words. His breath smelled of old sour coffee mixed with black licorice.

  “Could you explain why?” Michael asked.

  “I shouldn’t be required to,” Bert said. He walked away.

  After Michael watched Bert exit through the side door to the alley—the place where some of the workers went out to smoke—Michael turned to Tien.

  “What was that about?” Michael asked.

  “I don’t know. He’s been saying stuff like that all morning. I even showed him the prototype and how it works. He shook his head and went back to looking at the plans,” Tien said.

  “I’ll
go talk to him,” Michael said.

  When Michael pushed through the door to the alley and walked out into the morning sun, he found Bert over near the dumpster. Bert looked like he was smoking a cigarette, but as Michael approached, Bert took another nibble at the thing in his hand and stuffed it in his pocket. He was still chewing when Michael walked up.

  “Hey, Bert,” Michael said.

  Bert nodded.

  “How are you today?”

  “Fine,” Bert said. It didn’t sound like a British accent.

  “Are you excited about watching the base being assembled tomorrow?”

  “Yes.”

  “Do you have a suggestion of how we can improve that mechanism you were looking at?” Michael asked.

  Bert frowned and shook his head.

  “Because if there’s a better mechanical approach, I’d like to know it before we have two dozen of those catches fabricated.”

  Bert didn’t answer. Michael could hear him breathing through his nose. He almost expected steam to start to plume from Bert’s nose, like a cartoon bull.

  “Bert?”

  “It will suit,” Bert said. These were the three words that Bert used as his stamp of approval. He would review something, nod, and say, “It will suit,” when everything checked out to his satisfaction. When he said it this time, it sounded like a concession.

  “Seriously,” Michael said, “I only want the best. Any time you see something that even looks remotely substandard, please come right to me.” As Michael spoke, he put a hand on Bert’s shoulder and began to walk the older man back towards the door. The wind gusted a little in the alley and Michael smelled a wave of musty decay. Michael wrinkled his nose and figured the smell was coming from the dumpster. He led Bert back inside.

  Craig had just fired up the band saw as they walked in. The dust collector started and the door closed hard behind them from the vacuum created by the device.

  “I want to talk to you about finishes,” Michael said. “Do you have a minute for that?”