Eden Chip

by Scott Cramer

  Baldini struck a pensive pose. “How does your devourware work?”

  “Keywords in a nanochip’s M-code control behavior,” Ashminov began. “Consider the keyword pollution. It has sub-branches: air, water, land. The water branch splits into fresh water and ocean water. Freshwater into lakes, streams, and so on. If someone attempts to pollute a stream, or even thinks about it, the chip punishes them. Devourware identifies the top keywords and then deletes them, and all related keywords. Think of it as a caterpillar munching all the leaves on the branches until the tree is bare.”

  “So your devourware destroys the code on a nanochip one branch of logic at a time?” Baldini said.

  Ashminov nodded. “From a layperson’s view.”

  Baldini’s eyes widened. “Could you reverse a person’s behavior using this M-code? For example, could you make a person want to pollute a stream?”

  Ashminov snapped his fingers. “I could do that with a simple line of code. I could create a world in which everyone polluted.”

  Baldini folded his hands in his lap. “Tell me, what makes Version 3 tick?”

  The priest, understandably, was fixated on the God-killer release. “In V3,” Ashminov explained, “the top branches of logic feature the world's religions. There are close to six hundred. Of course, the major ones have the most extensive sub-branches. Consider Islam. Every time people read the Koran or face Mecca and pray, the chip shuts down their lungs.”

  Baldini placed a hand on Ashminov’s arm. “By changing a simple line of M-code, would it be possible to inspire the world’s population to worship a single religion?”

  Sensing trouble, Ashminov studied Baldini. “Yes, but why would we trade one form of mind-control for another?”

  “I understand that you enjoy bolstering your confidence with tryp,” Baldini said.

  Who told him that? “Yes, I’ve used tryp on occasion.”

  “We should visit the Vatican pharmacy,” Baldini said.

  After five years of almost daily interactions with the priest, Ashminov had developed a sense of how Baldini operated, how he made deals. He sensed one coming now. Sadly, he was all ears.

  “I see the wheels are turning,” Baldini said. “Let’s continue our discussion. I have a taxi waiting.”

  The taxi dropped Baldini and Ashminov off outside St. Peter’s Basilica. During the ride, Ashminov had weighed the pros and cons of Baldini’s request to develop malware that would turn the world’s population into—surprise—Christians.

  The cons outnumbered the pros.

  Ashminov had fond memories of his days as an altar boy at St. Mary’s in Sofia. The second largest Catholic church in Bulgaria’s capital city had offered him sanctuary from the cold militarism of home life. But the notion of a world filled with fervent Christians gave him pause. Fervent anything was rarely a good idea.

  He followed Baldini, who opened the massive wooden door and gestured for him to enter the Basilica first. Inside the cathedral, black plastic sheeting covered the ceiling frescoes to spare people the pain they would incur if they looked at the forbidden images.

  They trotted up a winding stone stairway to the second-story hallway of a residential section of the Basilica which featured a row of masterpieces on the walls, also covered in plastic. Baldini had once bragged he kept a rare, early reproduction of Da Vinci’s “Last Supper” in a closet.

  Gagging and wheezing came from a room on the right. Baldini stopped at the doorway and Ashminov caught up and looked in. To his surprise, he saw the Pope doubled over in bed, gasping for air. The Pope looked worn out.

  A nun, hands on hips, stood next to him. “He won’t listen.”

  “Sister, break out the solid oxygen pellets,” Baldini instructed. “I’ll assist.” He strolled over to the bed.

  The woman handed Baldini a box, and Baldini pushed a pellet up the Pope's nostril. The Pope's cheeks flushed pink from the infusion of oxygen, and he stopped gasping.

  Baldini looked the Pope over, nodded, and returned to Ashminov who was staring open-mouthed from the doorway. He draped an arm over Ashminov's shoulder and escorted him down the hall. “His Holiness insists on daily prayer.”

  The Pope’s devotion moved Ashminov.

  They arrived at the end of the hall, and Baldini pulled open a door. “The Vatican pharmacy,” he announced.

  Ashminov's eyes darted over the inventory of amber pill bottles, syringes, pipes, and bags of white powder lining the shelves, a time capsule of heartache and addiction.

  “Father, I think it’s best if we stick with the devourware. People can worship whomever or whatever they want. I’ll worship nature.”

  Baldini paused a long moment, pretending to weigh Ashminov’s words. Then he cracked open the lid of a 55-gallon drum, filled to the brim with green crystals. Ashminov felt like a cat staring at a tin of tuna; he had never seen such a supply of tryp.

  Baldini scooped a few grams of crystals into a bag which he handed to Ashminov. Ashminov wet a finger, dipped it into the bag, then licked the tip. Confidence traveled down his tongue, the way water soaked along a wick, and fanned out into his throat and chest.

  Baldini rested a hand on his shoulder. “Let's download the New Testament, please. The God of the Old Testament is vengeful. I don't want the flock concerned about pestilences and floods. Shall we say, two kilos of tryp for the Bibleware?”

  Ashminov had once read that knowing yourself is a great strength. He knew himself well. He had no spine.

  “I’ll take your wide-eyed silence as a yes,” Baldini said, pulling Ashminov back from his pondering. “I'll stop by your place in two hours.”

  Ashminov blinked once. “Father, make it 90 minutes.”

  PLANNING: PHASE 07

  Lifting her face from the damp circles on her pillow, Raissa reached for her viola. She got up, removed the instrument from its case, and opened the rosin compartment where she kept a photo of her mother and father holding Farouk. She rosined the bow, tuned the viola and stood before the stand that held sheet music.

  Ignoring the score, she closed her eyes and played the piece by heart for the ghosts of Farouk and her mom and dad. She wandered, lost in the forest of notes, a place that made her temporarily forget the burden she carried. The bow felt weightless in her hand; the instrument became part of her.

  “Why so sad?” Jaddy asked. “Vivaldi’s concerto is a happy piece.”

  Startled, Raissa put down the viola and bow. Her grandfather stood in the doorway. Hunched over, he looked frail, as if he were shrinking before her eyes. “How long have you been listening?”

  “Half an hour,” he replied. “It was wonderful of Mustafa to give you the viola.”

  Anger knotted in her stomach at the mention of her great-uncle. To Mustafa, the viola was one more weapon in her arsenal, a tool she might use to ingratiate herself with the target in Boston. For Raissa, the viola had become a voice that expressed her true feelings.

  She walked over to Jaddy, and he dabbed her cheek with his thumb. “Tears leave a little smudge when they dry. Crying is good for you. Those of us with functioning chips can only shed tears of joy.”

  Raissa looked away as her eyes welled anew. She hugged her grandfather, but then she pushed back, fearing the sadness in her chest might grow into choking sobs. “Shall we have tea?”

  “Tea would be nice,” he replied and glanced at the clock on the wall.

  Raissa did too. Salat, the time for prayer, was only five minutes away. She would make tea and have to listen to him gasp for breath as he worshiped God.

  Ten minutes later, she was standing outside the door to the den, listening to him suffocate. Jaddy had lined the walls of the den with cork to dampen the sounds, but the tortured noises of him wheezing still reached her ears. When a chip shut down a person’s lungs for pursuing a forbidden activity, asphyxiation happened slowly, like a boa constrictor strangling its victim. Jaddy took labored breaths as his chip restricted his lung capacity in increments. His lungs finally clamp
ed shut, not allowing him to even sip air.

  When it became silent, Raissa knew her grandfather had lost consciousness. Pressing her ear to the door, she waited for his autonomic nervous system to kick in and contract his diaphragm. She was about to put her shoulder to the door and break it down when she heard him cry out like a baby taking its first breath. Her relief was brief. Jaddy wasn’t getting younger, and she feared that one of these prayer sessions might be his last. Only I can save him.

  The mission was back on. It had to be. Dreading the conversation she would have with him, she turned off the flame under the kettle, measured loose tea leaves into two cups, and poured hot water over them.

  Jaddy hobbled out of the den with blue lips and feigned a smile. “I’m a little teapot short and stout. Here is my handle, here is my spout.” He well knew her concern for him, especially in the moments following prayer, and he’d try anything to lighten her mood, including a recital of her favorite nursery rhyme.

  She smiled to put him at ease. “Would you like to have tea under the fig tree? I have something important to tell you.”

  “I like having tea with you anywhere.”

  Carrying their teacups on a tray, she led the way to the courtyard where they sat opposite each other at a small round table in the shade. The surroundings seemed too beautiful to host such a sad topic.

  Before she could begin, she received a text message and tensed because only one person contacted her like this: Goldstein.

  We're out front, her trainer reported. It's time to go to the airport.

  Not yet! Raissa replied.

  You can’t miss your flight!

  Jaddy smiled. “What did you want to tell me?”

  Raissa turned off her messenger. “Jaddy, I need to . . .” Her trembling voice faded to a rasp and then silence.

  He reached across the table. “Give me your hand.”

  She clasped his hand, her clammy skin pressing against his delicate veins and soft wrinkles.

  “I know you’re going on a dangerous mission,” he said.

  She inhaled sharply. She had never once mentioned the mission, concocting endless deceptions over the years to conceal her training exercises.

  “Even if Mustafa hadn’t told me,” Jaddy added, “I would have known. Your eyes give away your secrets.”

  The air in Raissa’s lungs grew stale, and she became lightheaded. Did Jaddy know about his younger brother’s betrayal?

  Jaddy tightened his grip. “God makes the impossible possible.” He grimaced. “God,” he added, bringing a hand to his mouth to muffle his grunt of anguish, “will be there when you need him.”

  Why isn’t Jaddy’s God there for him? When a knock sounded at the front door, Raissa flooded with cold anger.

  Jaddy didn’t flinch. “I would try to talk you out of going, but I know that wouldn’t work.” The knocking grew louder. “Your mother was a passionate person, full of principle. She took a position and stuck to it. My son was the same, but he was more pragmatic. You take after both. Raissa. I am so proud of you.”

  Raissa bit her trembling lip. The banging, now delivered with fist and foot, threatened to knock the door off its hinges.

  Jaddy's hand was shaking, and she held it tighter. The tremor migrated to his arm, and soon his upper body heaved. He pulled his hand back and covered his face. Lowering his chin, he sobbed. She had never seen her grandfather cry. In fact, with his chip, it shouldn’t even be possible. Maybe there were griefs so deep that even the chip could not surmount them. She moved around the table and buried her face against his bony shoulder. Then he was hugging her and no longer shaking. His grip was comforting; he was on his feet and seemingly at peace. His chip, which had nearly pushed him over the cliff of death moments earlier, was now filling him with happiness. “Your mother and father are watching over you. Farouk, too. They believe in you, and so do I.”

  With Raissa following close behind, her mind reeling, he headed to the door. When he pulled it open, Mustafa froze in place, his foot cocked back, ready to deliver another kick. Her great-uncle almost lost his balance.

  “Raissa’s ready,” Jaddy told him.

  Mustafa stepped inside and kissed his older brother on both cheeks, which sickened Raissa.

  Jaddy hobbled into the den and closed the door behind him, but the soundproofed walls couldn’t stop his anguished wail from reaching her ears.

  Raissa drilled Mustafa with a cold stare. Hatred makes the impossible possible. She would rip his heart from his chest with her bare hands. Only after he looked away did she go upstairs to get her weapons and viola.

  A moment later, she walked numbly to the black sedan parked out front with Goldstein behind the wheel. She climbed into the back and placed her pack of weapons and viola on the seat. Mustafa came out of the house and sat up front. When they pulled away, Goldstein made eye contact with her in the mirror. “Your flight leaves in ninety minutes. In Boston, you’ll meet up with the Bulgarian who developed the devourware.”

  She leaned forward. “I’m not meeting the priest?”

  Goldstein handed her a photograph. “Change of plans. Christian Ashminov. His cover is that he’s your uncle.”

  Ashminov reminded her of an owl, with eyes spaced wide apart. His face was pale, and he looked undernourished.

  “Parents were in the Bulgarian military,” Goldstein continued. “He’s one of the world’s greatest software technologists. They say he knows as much as Petrov though he never graduated high school.” He passed her an envelope. “Ashminov’s flight information and your ticket.”

  “How did Jaddy take the news of your martyrdom?” Mustafa asked.

  Raissa looked out the side window.

  Mustafa turned. “I asked you a question.”

  Feeling Mustafa’s stare, she focused on a taxi in the other lane.

  “My poor brother is clueless, isn't he?”

  Rage exploded in her chest. “Shut up!”

  Mustafa grinned at Goldstein. “A bitch, like her mother.”

  Raissa reached into her pack, found the joule, and curled her fingers around the grip. Luckily for Mustafa, he kept his mouth shut the rest of the way to Ben Gurion Airport.

  Goldstein parked a hundred meters from the terminal building. “This is where we leave you, Raissa.”

  She slipped the joule from the pack and pressed the gun against Mustafa’s head. He whipped around and stared at her with a blank expression. “Because of you, Farouk and my parents are dead,” she said, sensing a slick of perspiration form between her finger and the trigger. He has no soul. He is dead already. Is it wrong to kill someone who has already died? She lowered the joule.

  Mustafa chuckled. “You’ll never be ready for the mission.”

  “It’s difficult to kill someone when you can see their eyes,” Goldstein said.

  Suddenly, Mustafa jerked to the side, with a force that shattered the passenger window. He slumped forward, lifeless. Goldstein placed his weapon on the front seat.

  Blood pounded in Raissa's ears. “You’re not in pain. Your chip should punish you.”

  His eyes were glassy with tears. “Go, Raissa. You’re ready.”

  She looked at him for a moment, reading pride, anger, and sorrow in his face. She grabbed her belongings, stepped out of the vehicle and headed for the terminal.

  The mission was in trouble.

  PLANNING: PHASE 08

  Back in his apartment, Ashminov had already printed two Bibleware chips, and the tryp sample was long gone. At work on his own deal to suggest to Baldini, he hurried to download files from the World Wildlife Database: lions at rest and play, lions chasing gazelles, lion roars, digitized scents of wet lion fur, and fur baking in the sun.

  The priest loved lions; lionware would heighten his appreciation of the majestic beasts. Ashminov rehearsed his pitch. “What do you say, Father? Lionware and Bibleware for an extra kilo of tryp.”

  He opened a brain-mapping application on his mindport and, using the search field, e
ntered the terms “beauty,” “fascination,” and “aesthetic appeal.” Two areas of the cerebral cortex lit up, the insula and the striatum. The application reported the precise brain coordinates, and Ashminov copied the values and pasted them into his code.

  After he sent the lionware program to his printer to produce a chip for the trans, he amended his appeal, hoping his sincerity would make up for a lack of negotiation skill. “Father, I know how much you enjoy visiting the Colosseum. I've developed special code that will enhance your appreciation of lions. The code can coexist with Bibleware. You can love Jesus and derive great joy from lions at the same time.” Ashminov cleared his throat. “Would you consider three kilos of tryp for the Bibleware and lionware?”

  Baldini, clutching a briefcase, barged in without knocking. “Christian, are you talking to yourself? I have no issue with that. Do you have the Bibleware?”

  Ashminov held up a plastic case with two chips in it. “All set.”

  Baldini popped open the briefcase and pointed to a bag of green crystals. “Two kilos, plus or minus.”

  Ashminov thought “minus.” “Father, I have a proposition for you.”

  Ignoring him, Baldini handed him an airline ticket. “There’s been a change of plans. Your flight to Boston leaves in three hours. Raissa will meet you at Logan Airport. If anyone asks, she’s your niece.”

  Ashminov stared at the ticket, his thoughts swirling down a drain hole of disbelief.

  “I spoke to my contacts in Jerusalem and Boston,” Baldini continued. “We think it best that you go instead of me. If Raissa encounters any issues, you’ll be there to help her.”

  Ashminov mumbled, “The Bibleware will work.”

  “Yes, yes. You are a genius, but it’s prudent to have a technologist at Raissa’s side.”

  “I can’t fly.” Ashminov’s voice trembled. “I have a fear of heights.”

  Baldini cuffed him on the shoulder. “Buck up. Occupy yourself with rhino documentaries. You’ll be in Boston before you know it.”