by Paul Black
“So, this is beautiful Atlantic City?” Chaco asked, stretching.
“More like its underbelly,” Pavia replied. He moved around the back of the car and approached the front door.
Oddly, it was colonial style, complete with an ornate brass doorknob and knocker. An old WELCOME mat made out of the same bright green plastic shit that Chaco’s dad had glued to the front steps of their old house greeted them. Part of a big daisy clung to its upper left corner, and all that was left of “welcome” was WE--OM-. The door had been poorly retrofitted into the metal roll door and was the only one of its kind, as far as Chaco could see.
“I’d heard that people were living in these old parks, but I didn’t think it was true,” he said.
“People are living in these all over the country,” Pavia said while he pressed the doorbell. Three deadbolts unlocked in sequence, and the porch light flickered.
The walls and carpet hid any indication that three, possibly four, units had been merged into one. The foyer they entered was poorly lit and crammed with old electronic equipment, stacks of brown boxes, and antique paper magazines. Chaco caught a glimpse of a vintage issue of Wired in the dim light. The whole place smelled musty, like his uncle’s basement where he and his cousins had played elaborate spy games as kids. The space had been cheaply finished and reminded Chaco of a prefab apartment he visited at an aqua-park in Hungary, except those had been the size of a closet and were stacked and glued together by the hundreds.
“Hello, brother,” a voice said from the dreariness.
“Bartas,” Pavia deadpanned.
Bartas Pavia’s stooped figure came up the long hallway that emptied into the foyer. The hallway had two doors on each side and split the space down the middle. The kitchen was at the other end, and the glow from the counter lights cast Bartas into silhouette. He was wearing an old bathrobe, the flannel kind you might wear in the dead of winter. Chaco also recognized a smell, isolating it from the dank residue that was collecting in his sinuses. Sickness.
The two men embraced, but not like brothers. Their hug had more resemblance to two businessmen about to enter negotiations.
Deja stepped closer to Chaco. He took her hand.
“Oscar, you must be in a hell of a jam to ask for my help.” Bartas tightened the robe around what little body was left on his frame.
“I am, brother, and you know I wouldn’t come if it wasn’t important.”
Bartas laughed, which triggered a coughing fit. Deja stepped forward, but Chaco squeezed her hand to signal her to hold her ground. Pavia, void of any compassion, just observed.
Bartas motioned for them to follow. He led them down the hallway and into a room filled with an eclectic array of NetLink router hubs, virtual hard drives, a small omni-processing main frame, and a Net console the likes of which Chaco had never seen. The room hummed with an electronic pulse.
“Please, sit,” Bartas said with a raspiness that made Chaco want to slap on a micropore mask.
Bartas collapsed into an old chair and casually eyed his guests. “Didn’t you tell them, Oscar?”
“It wouldn’t have mattered,” Pavia replied.
“Excuse me.” Deja said. She looked questioningly at Bartas. “How long have you had ... Netox?”
“Deja!” Chaco said. “That doesn’t exist. It’s just media hype.”
“The hell it is” Bartas replied. “Look at your future, agent.” He gestured at his own body.
“There’s no scientific proof that Netox exists. I’ve read the studies ... even the classified ones.” Chaco glowered at Deja. “And how do you know so much about it?”
“I care for you, Sonny,” Deja said. “I just wanted to learn about anything that might harm you.”
“You should listen to her,” Bartas said. “She’s a smart girl.”
Chaco turned to Deja. “I’m very protected when I’m in the Net. The data buffers and virus filters we use are state-of-the-art.”
“Bullshit!” Bartas said. “That’s what I thought, but ten years later, look how the buffers and filters protected me.” He coughed and pulled his robe tightly around his neck. “What they aren’t telling you is that data pathogens will get through.... They’re way below the threshold. They’ll slowly attack your nervous system.” He eyed Chaco. “Then one morning you’ll wake up and have this feeling. At first, you’ll think you’ve got the flu, but then you realize that the shaking and the fever and the dreams are the result of your nervous system breaking down.” He leaned forward, and his hands reacted to a tremor that rippled through him. “But by then,” he said gravely, “you’re screwed.”
“Yes, well, that’s only partly explains your condition,” Pavia said. “And we’re not here to convince Agent Chaco that Netox exits. He’ll have to figure that out on his own.” He stepped over to the console and ran his fingers across its interface panel. “We’re here, Bartas, because we have to find–”
“Your employer’s missing wife. Yes, you told me all about it,” Bartas said. “What’s the matter, brother, losing your touch?”
“What we’re losing is time,” Chaco said. “Bartas, I need to use your VirtGear to connect with one of my agents. I might be in for a long time.”
Bartas gestured at the console. “Knock yourself out. But I’ll warn you, this is a custom unit. It’s not going to act like that crap you’re used to at the NSA.”
Chaco joined Pavia and reviewed the system’s interface controls. “I may need your help with this equipment,” Chaco said.
“Don’t worry, agent. I’ll be in there with you. Now just sit in that chair.” Bartas pointed to what looked like an ordinary recliner positioned in the only open space available in the cramped room.
“Isn’t it dangerous for you to go back into the Net?” Deja asked.
Bartas shot her a look. “In my condition, do you really think it matters? Besides, it’s the only place I can still get a little entertainment.” He winked.
Chaco climbed into the chair and waited while it adjusted to his body’s contour. “Where’s the unit?” he said, inspecting the armrests.
Bartas smiled for the first time. “It’s the chair.”
Chaco searched the chair, even looking to see if he was sitting on it.
“It is the chair,” Bartas reiterated.
“Really?”
“A little different, isn’t it?” Bartas pointed. “Set your coordinates, then on my mark touch the red button on the interface panel, but only when you’re ready. It packs more of a punch than you’re used to.”
Pavia sat next to Deja on a small couch and patted her knee.
Bartas raised a standard VirtGear unit to his forehead. “This should be interesting,” he muttered through a cough.
Chaco examined the chair’s system panel and entered the coordinates for the meeting room. He took a deep breath and leaned back. “I’m ready.”
“On my mark,” Bartas said. “Three, two ... one.”
Chaco clicked the red button, and the chair awoke into a kind of full-body VirtGear. Tentacles at least three times as thick as a standard head model emerged from under the armrests. They crawled across Chaco’s body, and it took every bit of his willpower not to leap from the chair. When a tentacle found its contact point, its head articulated like the mouth of a tiny snake, bit through Chaco’s clothes, and pricked the surface of his skin with a needlelike inceptor. One tentacle hovered in front of his face, but then separated into six smaller ones that wrapped themselves around his head. The whole action happened so fast that the interface process was complete before Chaco could scream.
“Hello, agent.”
Chaco’s vision faded in, and he found himself standing in the NSA’s virtual meeting room. It had been simmed to represent a typical conference room found on any floor of the Maryland headquarters. Bartas was standing across the table, but here he was clean-shaven and about 60 pounds heavier. He sported an expensive biosuit, and his hair was cut in a contemporary style. Chaco figured it must
be how he looked before his illness.
“Hello, Bartas. You’re looking–”
“Like I used to. Surprising, isn’t it?”
Chaco shrugged.
“Where’s your agent?”
Tsukahara materialized to the left of Chaco, facing away from the table. He quickly turned and bowed. “With apologies.”
“Don’t sweat it, Tsuka. I’ve done that a million times.” Chaco noticed his intern had puzzled look. “Is there something wrong?”
“Sir, your form. It’s so ... real.”
Bartas snickered.
Chaco looked down at his body for the first time and felt his arms. “Jesus, I can feel!” He touched the tabletop, picked up a Netpad, and ran his fingers over its control panel. “This is amazing!”
“Total Body Interface Function,” Bartas said. He walked around the table and offered his hand. “Welcome to the future of the Net.”
Chaco eyed his hand before he shook it. “Whoa, I can even feel your pulse. Is this your invention?”
Bartas smiled. “With a little help from some friends in the Baltics.”
Tsukahara touched Chaco’s shoulder. “It still feels the same for me.... That is, I have no feeling.”
“That’s right,” Bartas said. “Only Agent Chaco has full sensory capacity. Someday, everyone will.”
Chaco looked at his watch. “Tsuka, the last time you were in the Net, you said you came in contact with a presence, right?”
Tsukahara cautiously nodded.
“Do you think you could contact it again?”
“I can try, sir.”
“What,” Bartas said, “you think this presence is the clone you’re looking for?”
“Possibly,” Chaco said.
“That’s a long shot.”
“No. I’ve got a feeling here. Did your brother tell you everything?”
“Superclone stumps one of NSA’s finest? Yeah, he told me. But do you really think it’s a weapon?”
“This thing has a pretty impressive bag of tricks – like appearing and disappearing at will. And I’m not talking about in the Net.”
Bartas’s brow furrowed.
“I’m just telling you what I saw,” Chaco said. “When we jack out, ask Deja. She was there.”
“Come on,” Bartas said. “This thing can’t just vaporize and reappear. If you’re talking about something like quantum teleportation, they canned that concept years ago. Don’t get me wrong. It was cool when that group at MIT transported the dog, but all they got was a copy. Hell, they had to reteach it everything, even how to take a crap.”
“Look, all I’m saying is this clone is capable of things I’ve never seen before.”
“Okay,” Bartas said. “Say, for the sake of argument, it is what you say. What are you going to do, ask it to cooperate?”
“Yeah ... basically.”
“One of NSA’s finest,” Bartas said. He made himself comfortable in a conference room chair and propped his feet on top of the table.
“Tsuka, Bartas and I are going to be ‘one way’ in this. We’ll be involved, but the presence won’t know we’re here. You got that?”
“Yes, sir.”
“All right, then. Go and do whatever you did last time, and if you get into any trouble, we’ll jump in.”
Tsukahara bowed.
Bartas rolled his eyes. “That’s comforting.”
24. THIS IS NOT HOW I IMAGINED IT
Tsukahara watched Bartas and his superior, along with the NSA meeting room, dissolve to leave him floating quietly amidst streams of data. He closed his eyes and opened his mind to the chi of the presence he had previously encountered. The fate of his career might hang on the success of this assignment, and the thought of returning to Japan in disgrace only fueled his drive to make contact.
Tsukahara had convinced himself that the presence was an AI interface whose programming had evolved beyond the legal limitations of The Hague Artificial Intelligence Accords. Now, however, his superior informed him that the presence might be a new form of cloned human – very powerful and possibly a threat to national security – and that he might be its first official contact. Tsukahara was honored to be granted such an important assignment, and as he floated among the streams of data, he wondered if the presence was truly a new form of cloned human. And if it was a threat, which country had created it? If only his colleagues back at the Japanese National Security Agency could see him now. If only his mother could.
She would be proud, Yoichi.
The Net jittered, and suddenly Tsukahara found himself standing by the stream near his family’s old cottage in Hakuba. It was spring, and the smell of adonis, zazensou, and dogtooth violets filled the air. A cool breeze played through the trees. Then a shiver ran through his body, though he didn’t know if the wind or the presence had caused it.
“Are you the entity I encountered before?” Tsukahara asked.
Yes, I am, the voice replied in perfect Japanese. It echoed in his mind as if part of him.
“Then I need–”
Do you like your environment?
The summers Tsukahara had spent in Hakuba were the happiest times of his life, and the setting was just the way he remembered it, even down to the small wooden bridge that spanned the stream. In reality, his father had died before he could build the bridge, but in Tsukahara’s memory, it was always there.
“Yes, I do. I see that you have extrapolated this simulation from my memory. How did–?”
I thought you would be more comfortable.
“Thank you. Yes, I am.” Tsukahara bowed, wondering how the presence had scanned his memory. He sensed that certain questions might remain unanswered. “I have been asked to–”
Corazon Goya is well and in no danger.
A spark of fear cut through Tsukahara with the realization that his superior’s hunch had been correct. He focused on the presence. “When will you release Ms. Goya?”
A bird passed overhead. Tsukahara watched its small black form maneuver through the trees. It tucked its wings and glided onto a thin branch, which bobbed gently from its weight. The scene was so convincing that, for a brief moment, Tsukahara longed for the summers at his family’s cottage.
Why don’t you ask me what’s really on your mind?
Tsukahara hesitated. “My superior wishes to know who or what you are. Are you a threat to the security of New America?”
There was a pause. Tsukahara walked closer to the stream.
Not in the sense that you define a threat. It is not primary to my mission.
A mission? “What is your mission?”
To affect change.
“How?”
By setting into motion a cascade effect that will bring about balance.
Tsukahara was confused. If the clone wasn’t a threat – although it appeared to have a mission – then what was it? What kind of cascade effect was it referring to, and what would be brought into balance? He began to suspect that he was dialoguing with a new form of artificial intelligence, possibly one that had lost control of its rational programming. But even if the interface had become corrupt, it should be able to reprogram itself ... unless it didn’t know it had become corrupt. Yet that, too, seemed highly unlikely. A shocking consideration then came into Tsukahara’s mind, and his heart began to race.
I sense you are scared, Yoichi.
“You’re not from our planet ... are you?”
Another pause. The bird launched off the branch and ascended in a graceful arc to the tops of the trees.
Not in the sense that you would understand. The ones who created me occupy the space between planets.
Tsukahara’s heart was pounding against his chest, and his hands were shaking. He was desperately trying to wrap his prudent mind around the enormity of the revelation.
This was first contact.
He began to take deep gulping breaths in a desperate attempt to calm his nerves.
What troubles you, Yoichi?
Tsukahara
had never dreamed that first contact would be in the virtual realm of the Net. As a boy, he imagined it would be like the movies, albeit the depictions he had grown up with were foolish, and the idea of spaceships and spindly gray men seemed rather arrogant now. Obviously, a race of higher intelligence would choose a more controllable venue to reveal its existence, and what better environment than the Net?
Tsukahara swallowed and found his throat dry. “Y-Yes ... I mean no–”
Yoichi?
“Yes?”
Don’t be afraid.
“Why are you–”
The ones who created me are the ones who set into motion the first cascade, which gave way to the rise of man. They now wish to correct the imbalances that have occurred and have sent me to affect change.
“How will you do this?”
There was another long pause, and Tsukahara felt he might not get an answer. Having calmed himself, he recalled the line of questioning Chaco had instructed him to pursue. “Why did you take Ms. Goya?”
She chose to be with me.
“Why, then, is it important that she be with you?”
To help.
“How can she?”
Another pause, and another bird.
I believe she is the connection for me to understand how your world’s belief systems work, and thus, how to set into motion the effect. You know that what I need to do is important, Yoichi.
Tsukahara was at a loss for words. He did want change. For the last 50 years, the world had been slowly cracking apart at its cultural seams. The Biolution and its heralded flood of technology was supposed to have been the great equalizing force that was to close the gap between the haves and the have-nots. But since its development, it actually had created an even greater divide, one that now pitted the secure against the desperate. Tsukahara’s mind was spinning.
I sense you are worried, Yoichi. Don’t be. Your world will never know of the implementation. The effect will, in time, lead your world off its current path of self-destruction.
“Why now? Why not another time, like the opening of the atomic age?”
The advancement you call the Biolution is a more accessible threat. Your world is no longer a collection of independent cultures. It has become a vastly interconnected organism, yet it still operates within archaic religious and political models. With this advancement, your world’s scientific communities are about to discover the next set of universal governing laws.