But Alfred was distracted, as always, by his latest invention, which he’d nicknamed “The Scanner,” tightening screws and studying the LED panels.
Hog checked his watch. It was time to break Alfred away from his work. He crouched, lifted Alfred’s head, and adjusted his tie for him. “We’d better get going. The Defense Department waits for no one. You’re gonna blow them away. Who knows, we might even be put on the board of directors somewhere, once this goes national. Maybe even global, what with the One State alliance.”
“What about Shane?”
“Don’t worry. His record’s been scrubbed. He’ll have to serve the suspension, but as far as anyone knows, he’s out sick. S-Score disaster, averted.”
Alfred exhaled. He’d let his partner deal with it. Hog had better connections anyway. Can’t let Shane ruin his future because of one mistake. Alfred’s either, for that matter. The optics of a law-breaking son . . . not great. Not this week.
Hog smoothed out Alfred’s suit and gave him his last looks.
“Kids today,” Alfred said. “They are different, aren’t they?”
“We didn’t gun each other down in the streets. Hasn’t been like this in two hundred years.” Hog gestured to the scanner. “This is going to change all that.” He patted Alfred on the shoulder. “Let’s go. It’s showtime.”
Alfred introduced himself to the two dozen bureaucrats, lobbyists, and representatives who had gathered at the large round conference table. He gave his presentation on giant holographic frames.
The first slide showed a young blonde girl, maybe fifteen years old, in three-quarter profile. She had blue eyes, a sweet smile. Maybe she was smart. Maybe not. Didn’t matter much to these people.
“The internal algorithm measures over two dozen factors to determine who is a prospective criminal,” Alfred said. “The subject here looks like a normal girl. Her name is Ilyse. But according to our software, she has the facial profile to commit murder in just three to five years. Hard to believe, right?”
Murmurs from the audience. They agreed with him. It was hard to believe.
“Or, take Frederic.” He clicked to the next slide. A teenage boy in an orange jumpsuit and handcuffs was walking between chain-link fences beside a prison basketball court. “He was arrested February 4, 2218, for the murder of a young female not twelve years old.
“We decided to use him as a test. So we scanned his face.” He motioned to the device. “The algorithm inside retroactively predicted the exact nature of the crime Frederic had already committed: violent, premeditated murder of a young woman. It proved our hypothesis that deep muscle scanning is an effective marker for determining criminality.”
Alfred paused for effect, sipped from a glass of water. He looked around the room and gestured with the glass. “How does it know? What characteristics does the protocol look for? To answer that, let’s go back in time. We’ve been using facial profiling for hundreds of years. We have over two hundred thousand surveillance cameras in Northern Terra alone. It’s gone a long way in deterring criminals.
“However, until now, our facial analysis has been somewhat rudimentary. We could see what people might be feeling—but only in the present moment. With extended analysis into a person’s biomechanical facial histories, we can see the muscle memory itself; that is, years of emotions.
“The goal is not simply to react to an act of violence, but to prevent it from happening altogether. But how soon can we prevent it? How early can we detect these violent traits?”
He clicked to a slide showing an anatomical chart of the muscular system, with words like “Anger” and “Sorrow” pointing to various parts of the face. “Researchers have proven that at the age of sixteen, the human body, already progressing through hormonal changes, begins to solidify its learned responses. Meaning that the patterns taught to you when you’re young stick with you. It is here that pathologies form, like imprints in wet concrete.
“Once ‘baked in,’ so to speak, the behaviors molded by thought patterns are extremely difficult, even impossible, to change. What’s more is that muscles have unique attributes in physiologically disturbed individuals like murderers. Through this device we are now able to scan deep inside the muscle tissues of the face, and behind the eyes, to determine just who these future criminals are, with an accuracy far beyond the standard deviation of error. Above ninety-nine percent.
“As you all know, we propose the Defense Department roll out a new law enforcement protocol. On their sixteenth birthday, every boy and girl will be scanned in a nationwide sweep. Those found guilty will be confined according to Council Laws. We’ll have a new era of safety and cost savings. I believe in this system. I’d bet my life on it.”
Hog powered down the holographic frames. The ceiling lights turned on. Hog nodded at Alfred approvingly. Alfred returned it, confident the room was his.
The panel members turned to one man at the back of the circular table. He was leaning back in his chair, his elbows on the armrests, fingers touching. His name was Manning Joseph Robinson. He seemed to be deep in thought.
“Thank you, Mr. Texeira, Mr. Jenkins. I think I speak for the rest of the room when I say that I am, as always, very impressed. All of us on the Terran Council are troubled by the state of crime in this country. I believe this device could change all that, and launch us into an age of responsibility and accountability. A future where no one is afraid to walk the streets at night in their hometown.
“But we’re getting heavy resistance from some on the Left and in the court of public opinion. You can imagine that many parents have good reason not to support this protocol. The children being scanned have as of yet committed no crime. False positives are a real fear for civil rights attorneys. You, for example, have a boy of your own. A fine young man he’s turning into.”
“Thank you, sir,” Alfred said.
Mr. Robinson clicked on the holographic frame, revealing Shane’s image on the left and a detailed history on the right. This type of record was kept on all citizens of Terra.
“Sixteen years old,” he said, “and with a perfect history. I checked it this morning. Not a scratch—”
—Alfred caught Hog’s eye—
“—or a blemish. And why would he have a poor record? His father is a genius, a pillar of society.” He turned to Alfred. “What’s your plan for him after he graduates?”
Alfred paused. “We are still deciding on the best course.”
“Ah. Smart. Take your time. Make the right pick. That’s your style, isn’t it? I like that.”
“Thank you, sir.”
“And you would agree with me when I say that his future looks bright.”
“Absolutely.”
“No indication that he’d break the law in any way.”
Alfred blinked. “None, sir.”
“Then you won’t mind if he is the first to be scanned.”
The words hung like a bad stench. “Shane, sir? I don’t understand.”
“Like I said, we’re getting more pushback to the scanner that we thought. The public is aligning against it. If Shane is scanned, we believe we can allay their fears long enough to pass the resolution without much fuss. It’s just good optics: the man who designed the machine has so much confidence in it, he would scan his own son. Makes sense, doesn’t it?”
“But Shane already turned sixteen. The protocol is to be implemented on the sixteenth birthday.”
“Surely you didn’t design a machine that only works within a twenty-four period, Mr. Texeira. We’d never be able to push through something with such a small time window. What if someone got sick on their birthday? Or they were taking a vacation? You thought of those contingencies, right?”
Alfred exhaled. “Yes. The protocol should not be limited by time.”
“Good. Then we have a deal. I know you’re a busy man and will be doing press junkets this week to garner more public support. That’s good work you’re doing. That will help.
“And one week fr
om today, you will, on live television, scan Shane in front of the world so everyone can see that it works. And that it works perfectly. Once that happens, we will pass our resolution.” He turned to all the attendees. “Thank you for your time. Dismissed.”
Chapter Three
Alfred rested his forehead against the wall in the public bathroom and gobbled two anti-anxiety pills. His undershirt was sweated through. So were his socks. His belly rumbled with sour waves.
The door opened. Hog entered, grunted, walked to the nearest stall, unzipped his pants, and peed. “Went well. We should do something about the sweating, though, before the press tour. Polls are showing people think of you as ‘untrustworthy.’ Don’t want you getting wet on live television.”
Alfred stared at himself in the mirror. His eyes were bloodshot. Lines in his face that stretched under his cheekbones had become harsher in the last week or so. It was from lack of eating. The skin had grown tighter around his cheekbones, giving him the appearance of an Ether addict.
“You’re going to be a circuit speaker, my friend,” Hog said, shaking himself dry. He stepped to the sink, but didn’t wash, and instead turned and placed his back against the counter, bracing himself with his hands and looking at Alfred sideways. “At least one a day.”
“I’m not cut out for this.”
“How’s your med situation?”
“Dwindling.”
“I’ll take care of it.” Hog frowned. “And don’t worry, Shane will understand. He’s only sixteen. You’re his father and you’re doing what’s best for him and the country.”
“If I’d known the board was going to look at Shane, I would never have had you scrub his record. They thought he was perfect, and now look what happened.”
“He’s a good kid, Alfred.”
“How do we know? He steals, doesn’t he? If we’ve done our job right, and I know we did, the scanner is going to pick up on something. And what about other criminal acts? We could be walking into a landmine.” He shook his head. “And then there’s the other thing.”
“What thing?”
“False positives. It could detect a crime Shane isn’t going to commit. Wouldn’t commit. He’s a good kid, I know he is. But what if it’s wrong?”
“What do you mean, wrong? There’s no room for error here.” Hog pushed himself off the bathroom sink. “The scanner either works or it doesn’t. You can’t have it both ways, and you’d better be damn sure it works right.”
“I am, I am. It works. I know it does.” Alfred, head down, spoke to the sink drain. “I just know it.” He looked sideways at Hog. “But I can’t send my own son to prison. I won’t do it.”
Hog thought. “Where is he?”
“In the office. Why?”
“Good. Follow me. I have an idea.”
Chapter Four
Shane found himself blanking out while washing the windows in his father’s office. So bored he’d fallen asleep at two p.m. Standing up. Still, it beat being at school.
He dropped the washrag in the bucket and sat on the floor, his back to the window. He had time to kill. Better enjoy it. Soon he’d have to pretend to work again.
Scanning the room, his eyes settled first on the diplomas, then on the picture of his mother on the desk. The one where she’d wrapped her arm around Shane’s head, at the beach, tickling him under the armpit with her free hand. That was long ago, before the cancer had done its work.
He got up and walked around the perimeter of the office, skimming the furniture with his fingers. There was nothing relatable here; he looked upon the placards on the walls as he might a tub of sawdust. He hadn’t lived yet, which is to say that his existence was not yet quantifiable by awards and accomplishments.
But he knew what he wanted to be. He knew what he was. A writer. He’d known from the day he turned seven years old, when his father had given him his first digital tablet. Looking back, he was amazed his dad had kept him away from tablets for so long; most of his friends had opened their eyes in their cribs to see their first one dangling above them. Unlike those raised in the digital world, Shane had been raised on books—physical books—to which he accredited his love for reading and, eventually, writing.
He recorded his entire life: where he went, what he saw, how he felt. He wrote poems and stories and sonnets. And he knew when he graduated he wasn’t going to college like his father wanted; he was going to hit the road. A life of writing, of freedom—that was for him.
In fact, he’d just begun writing down more of his wild dreams when Hog and Alfred burst into the office. Startled, his face grew red; he was supposed to be cleaning the office, and he noticed the disdain in his father’s look upon entering.
The two adults took up positions on opposite sides of the room. Shane clicked off his tablet.
Hog avoided his gaze as he took off his suit jacket and silently prepared the machine. He hit the “on” switch. It whirred to life.
Alfred crossed his arms, regarded Shane as if he was figuring out what to do with him.
“Sorry,” Shane said, “I just had an idea for a story, didn’t mean to take a break—”
Alfred waved him off. “It’s alright. It’s not that.” And then—“Listen, I’ve been doing a lot of work with the press. And there’s politics and organizational difficulties, things like that. Nothing to be nervous about, but there are times when I have to ‘walk the walk,’ as the expression says. And you, being my son, you’re unfairly brought into these things. I understand that, and I apologize. But, in any case, that’s the way of the world and we all have to make do.”
Hog bumped the corner of the scanner as he wheeled it over.
“Here,” Alfred said to Shane, motioning to the device. “Sit down. We’re going to do a test.”
Shane looked at them nervously, hesitating. Both had the unfortunate look of wolves, hungry, desperate, like they were burying a wild urge that threatened to leap out of them at any moment.
Alfred told him again.
Shane slowly rose, walked to the device, and sat down.
The men moved swiftly, flipping switches and positioning Shane’s lower jaw on the machine’s chin rest. Then they swung down an eyepiece similar to one you might find at the doctor. In the eyepiece was a small light that shone yellow pinholes onto his face, as if the light were sprayed through honeycomb.
Alfred threw another switch. The machine hummed, rumbled. “Stay still,” he ordered.
The light intensified. Shane squinted. The whites of his eyes turned yellow. Something inside him wanted to pull away, but he resisted the urge.
Quite unconsciously, Hog backed into a corner. He had one arm across his chest, his other elbow resting upon it. His fist to his lips, he watched the scanning unfold, fearing deep down what was going to happen and wondering how he was going to get this damn protocol passed.
Chapter Five
Shane played with his old action figures on the floor of his room. It had been years since he last removed the plastic army men from their crate. This time, though, he wasn’t exactly playing. He was just taking the time to remember what it was like to play. Back when he had nothing else on his mind except how to get Ranger Dave over the enemy’s walls without getting a leg blown off.
But Ranger Dave wasn’t going to get his leg blown off. He never would. So there wasn’t much to think about.
Alfred was sitting on Shane’s bed, half watching him. He might have prickled at his son playing with green men meant for four-year-olds. Today, though, he felt nothing.
He sat there for an hour. They didn’t look at each other.
Later, Alfred left to make dinner, but when it was ready he couldn’t quite bring himself to call his son, who had tested positive for being a murderer just hours before, to the table.
Chapter Six
The next day, Hog and Alfred met at the office to discuss their options. The conversation had turned heated. Hog shook his head in annoyance at Alfred’s suggestion. “No, won’t work. Beside
s, it’s illegal. Too risky.”
Alfred paced, arms crossed. “We know the technology, we know what it looks for. We can beat it.”
“But it’s an underground procedure. Only Ether addicts and murderers reconstruct their faces. And you know why? To avoid the cops, because they’re criminals. They’re the people we’re trying to put away!”
“Shane’s not a criminal. He’s my son.”
“Yeah, you and a whole country of sons. What’s makes him any different? Be realistic. Shane’s gonna be tested publicly in a few days. Let me ask you this: Do you think the protocol works? If you don’t think it does—”
“I didn’t say that.”
“Then Shane is a criminal.” Hog shrugged and smoothed his greasy hair.
They sat for several minutes.
“We have to test him,” Alfred said softly. “The country needs to see the scanner in action. There’s no getting around it.”
Hog could see there was no point in resisting. After a long pause, he said, “Fine. We’ll try a face swap. Change his muscles in the right places. We’ve talked about this before—it was always a possibility that criminals could use surgery to avoid detection. It’s how they get around the scans at the airport, anyway. A little cosmetic procedure should do the trick.”
“What about his eyes?” Alfred asked.
“We’ll work on those too. We can try inserting some kind of buildup on the eyeballs. It’s a common thing, from the sun mostly. You get it over time. Harmless, but if we add it to Shane’s, it could help fool the scanners. Maybe if the surgeon took some cartilage from somewhere else . . .”
Long silence.
Escaping Midnight (What Goes On in the Walls at Night Book 3) Page 4