Eden Chip

by Scott Cramer

Ashminov had seen nothing like it in Rome, either. With a sinking feeling, he reassessed his belief that nobody was coming after them. What kept him from panicking was the strength of his partner and the bond forming between them.

  * * *

  Raissa’s concern peaked as the taxi rolled to a stop. The color had returned to Ashminov’s cheeks once they left the airport but now he was ghostly white again. The musician with the purple guitar had clearly upset him. Furthermore, the tryp was a red flag. His usage of it had nearly derailed the mission, yet he continued to put the green powder onto his tongue. He was a liability, one that required close monitoring.

  They climbed out of the taxi. “Stay by my side,” she told him and headed for the corner of Gloucester and Beacon Streets. From there, they started down Beacon Street, toward the safe house halfway down the block. Trees laden with pink blossoms perfumed the air. “Here it is, 14.7 Beacon. We’re on the third floor.”

  They entered the building and took the elevator. Joule in hand, Raissa pressed her ear to the apartment door. Hearing nothing but her pounding heart, she punched in the security code, and the lock clicked. She hesitated over sharing the code with Ashminov. She preferred him to stick with her, or if she ventured out alone, that he remain inside the safe house, given his erratic mood. But it was essential to establish trust, so she gave him the code.

  Ashminov made a beeline for the bathroom.

  Raissa explored the interior, keeping an eye out for a set of instructions that the local rebel had left for her. The living room had a couch and a single lamp. The bedroom had a double bed. Moving to the bedroom window, she looked down on an alley. A fire escape descended from the window.

  After she had inspected the exit route, Ashminov emerged from the bathroom. “You can have the bed,” she told him.

  “You take it,” he said and settled on the couch. “I sleep little.”

  Raissa lugged her viola and pack of weapons into the bedroom and set them on the bed. When she stepped out of the room, Ashminov was watching a video on his mindport, with a large bag of tryp on his lap. She looked over his shoulder. Wolf cubs were frolicking in the snow. “What are you watching?”

  “A documentary on the northern timber wolf. They take good care of their young.”

  She waited for a further explanation, but none came.

  Resuming her search for the rebel’s instructions, she moved to the kitchen.

  Inside the fridge were fresh vegetables and several cartons of flavored electrolyte drinks. She closed the refrigerator.

  On the door, held by a magnet, was an envelope marked “Coupons.” It contained a concert ticket. The Boston Symphony Orchestra was performing that evening at 8:00 p.m., two hours from now. Row 14, seat C.

  She took a deep breath and let the flood of adrenaline soak back into her cells. Each successful step brought her closer to freeing eight billion people from the chip’s control. A chill burrowed deep into Raissa’s bones, a feeling she always had whenever she thought about the mission goals. She would not be around to experience the freedom with others.

  ANALYSIS: PHASE 05

  Caleb reviewed the profile of his first patient. Dr. Gabriel Mars, 42, was a health paladin who worked at the Citadel. He had come in today for his annual chip refresh to keep his M-code humming. Mars held a Ph.D. in Neuroscience from Mansfield College, Oxford, and a medical degree from Johns Hopkins. The comments section of the profile was flush with plaudits from a who's who of Citadel dignitaries, including several members of the Collective and even Dr. Petrov.

  “Gabe’s wings of intellect and dedication will carry him far,” Dr. Petrov had noted. Caleb grazed his fingertips over the words, wishing Dr. Petrov might speak of him in the same way someday.

  He found Mars in the waiting room. What a specimen! Tall. Muscular. Curly blonde hair cascaded down to his shoulders. On his uniform were blue-and-gold epaulets signifying he worked in the Citadel.

  When they shook hands, the paladin’s large one swallowed Caleb’s the way a shark inhales a minnow.

  “Please, call me Caleb.”

  “Gabriel,” Mars replied curtly.

  “Come with me, Gabriel.”

  They entered Caleb’s office, where Mars sat in a chair and Caleb leaned against a corner of the desk, preferring to be at eye level with a patient.

  “How long have you worked at the Citadel?”

  “Going on nineteen years.”

  “From the beginning?”

  “Since day one,” Mars said with an exasperated huff.

  Caleb had discovered that a few moments of light conversation put a patient more at ease, but it was too early to know if Mars bucked the trend. “You’re a physician. From your profile, I see you look after several members of the Collective.”

  “These days I work exclusively with Dr. Petrov.”

  Caleb's legs gave out, and he landed in the chair. “Dr. Petrov gave me two M-code patches.” Immediately, he regretted his braggadocio.

  Mars nodded. “Dr. Petrov has his eye on you.”

  Fearing the loss of muscle control might next deposit him on the floor, Caleb gripped the chair seat. “He does?”

  Mars stared at him. “How are you sleeping, Caleb?”

  “Sleeping?”

  Mars crinkled his brow. “Do you sleep through the night? If you wake up, how many times do you wake up?”

  Caleb studied his patient, searching for some clue that might explain his unorthodox behavior. Then again, this patient was Dr. Petrov's physician.

  Dr. Petrov’s voice startled him. “Adam, answer the question.” The tone was decidedly cold.

  Caleb drew in a sharp breath as a wave of dizziness passed through him. Why would Dr. Petrov address me as Adam, and where is his voice coming from? Should I tell Mars? No, Mars will think I’m crazy.

  “I slept poorly last night,” Caleb said.

  Mars jotted something in his messenger. “Oh?”

  Caleb caught himself before he mentioned his grief, not wanting to advertise that his chip was malfunctioning. “I'm sure I’ll sleep well tonight, after the transmission of Version 7.”

  “Are you experiencing unproductive emotions?” Mars asked.

  Unsettled, he realized this had never been Dr. Mars' appointment, but the other way around. It was best to come clean. “I'm a beta tester. My chip is buggy.”

  “Buggy?” Mars made another note.

  “I’ve been exhibiting the classic symptoms of depression,” Caleb admitted. “I wouldn’t wish it on anyone.”

  “Have you felt light-headed or nervous around members of the opposite sex?”

  “Light-headed? No.”

  Mars fired more questions about Caleb's well-being, and Caleb addressed each in what he hoped was the proper amount of detail. But no combination of words could hide the shipwreck of his emotional health.

  “Let’s get your vitals,” Mars said.

  Thinking the day could not get much stranger, Caleb climbed into the bio scanner. After recording the vitals, Mars measured Caleb's cranial circumference and volume.

  As he was putting his shirt back on, Caleb decided he had to restore order. “Gabriel, I should get your vitals, too, before I refresh your chip. You do want a refresh?”

  The paladin stripped. His physique took Caleb's breath away. Ropes of muscles rippled across his broad chest and abdomen. Caleb knew the human anatomy well, and Mars had muscles he had never known existed.

  “Your data bracelet,” Caleb reminded him. Ultrasonic waves sometimes corrupted data. Mars unhooked the clasp and passed the bracelet to Caleb. Mars then folded his powerful shoulders and ducked to squeeze into the scanner.

  The results on the screen left Caleb speechless. Basal temperature 15.5 degrees Celsius—more reptilian than mammalian. Blood pressure 90 over 45, pulse 22, thought velocity .00001 milliseconds. Caleb squinted to make sure he had counted the zeros after the decimal place correctly. He had. Thoughts were flying through Mars' brain close to the speed of light. That mu
st be what Dr. Petrov meant when he'd referenced Gabe’s “wings of intellect.”

  Mars dressed.

  “Well, are you ready for your chip refresh?” Caleb asked.

  Mars’ messenger beeped, and he read the message. “Sorry, I have to go. Dr. Petrov wants me back at the Citadel.” He headed for the door. “Please give my regards to Zoe.”

  “You know my sister?” Caleb blurted out.

  Mars kept going, and Caleb wasn't about to ask it twice. Zoe had a thing for paladins. Had she dated Mars? He lamented how different his life would have been had she married Mars instead of Jack.

  A minute later, at the window, he watched Mars fly across the campus on a scooter. He fired off a text message to Zoe. Dr. Mars sends you his regards.

  Really?

  Really. How do you know Gabriel?

  Long story.

  I have time.

  Caleb realized with wry amusement that Zoe had set her messenger to “Do Not Disturb.” The interrogator doesn’t like being interrogated.

  Back in his office, he saw that Mars had left behind his data bracelet, so he put in a quick call to the security guard, but Mars had already passed through the gate. Caleb was about to call for a courier when curiosity took him by the hand and led him to his mindport. He inserted the data bracelet into the reader.

  It contained a single file: Beyond Eden Research Results. His finger hovered over the key that would open it, but the unproductive emotion of guilt welled inside of him, and he pulled his hand back.

  To his surprise, the sourness of his guilt turned sweet at the prospect of doing something forbidden. Quite liking the sensation, Caleb proceeded.

  ANALYSIS: PHASE 06

  Ashminov felt that tadpoles were hatching in his stomach and swimming to his extremities. Prince on the enlightenment was a bad omen. Petrov is sending me a message.

  He had introduced Petrov to the musical icon twenty-five years ago, taking him to a Prince holographic concert in Bulgaria’s capital. After that, they had watched Prince’s performance at the Capri Theater hundreds of times.

  But what message? I know you are in Boston. With the transmission of V7 imminent, Ashminov’s motive would be easy to figure out: payback for stealing the M-code. What concerned him was Petrov’s brazenness. By tipping his hand so blatantly, he must be confident that nobody could stop the transmission. So, Nicholas, what is your next move?

  Raissa stepped out of the bedroom wearing a black dress. She looked stunning, and her spicy, sweet perfume was alluring, but he wasn’t fooled. He’d seen the flash and force of her fist.

  She held up a colorful stub. “Our rebel contact left a ticket for a concert tonight. I’m assuming it’s for me and that the NanoArtisans employee will be there.” She sat beside him.

  Ashminov deposited a pinch of tryp on his tongue to put his concerns about Petrov behind him. Then he took the small case from his satchel, opened it, and tapped a chip, half the size of a grain of rice, onto his palm. “Once the chip is inside the NanoArtisans firewall, the M-code will take care of the rest. The program will wirelessly load onto the Citadel servers, and when Petrov transmits the Version 7 release, chips will be disabled all around the world.”

  “Where do I embed it on the employee?”

  Ashminov returned the chip to the case and passed it to her. “Is your target male or female?”

  “Male.”

  “What’s his body composition?”

  “Why does that matter?”

  “It’s best to avoid fatty deposits,” Ashminov explained. “You want to embed the chip in cartilage.”

  “He’s 183 centimeters tall and weighs 77 kilograms. If you’re interested, he has curly black hair and a big nose.”

  Ashminov wasn’t interested. He pictured a male that size in his mind and nodded. “He’ll offer a bounty of cartilage. Does he work remotely or on campus?”

  “He works in Paladin Research. The building sits in the center of NanoArtisans. He has a Ph.D. in nanobiology.”

  Ashminov sniffed. “Advanced degrees are a sham.”

  “He graduated from the Massachusetts Institute of Technology. The university ranks number one in the world for nanotechnology.”

  Ashminov sniffed again. “Overrated.”

  “Ashminov, where do I embed the chip?”

  “Let’s turn to nature for advice,” he told her. “The black-legged tick fixes itself behind the ears of small rodents.”

  Raissa gasped. “You want me to place a chip behind his ear?”

  “That would be optimal. You could also embed the chip between the veins in the wrist.” Ashminov took Raissa’s hand, noting her knuckles were red and puffy from punching the medic, and pressed his fingertip into her wrist near the base of her thumb. “Right there. It will slip into the epidermis like a tiny splinter. He won’t feel a thing.”

  “Will it disable his own chip?”

  Ashminov put a new pinch of tryp on his tongue to quell the thick fog of self-doubt that had suddenly rolled over him. “No, for that to happen, the code must be transmitted via electromagnetic waves.” He remembered that the case held two Bibleware chips. He needed to create a devourware chip for her. “Raissa, I need . . .”

  Before he got out another word, she snatched the bag of tryp from his lap, which imprisoned the rest of his sentence in his throat. She ran to the bathroom and closed the door behind her. He jumped off the couch in panic. When he reached the bathroom door, it was locked. A wave of dread flooded him when heard the toilet flush. Pounding the door with his fist, he told himself—no, begged—to be optimistic.

  When she opened the door, he fell into the room, and his eyes darted to the toilet, seeing a few green crystals sticking to the rim of the bowl. Most of the tryp and all of his optimism had vanished.

  * * *

  Raissa waved her hand over the electric eye to flush again, then turned to face Ashminov. He was red with anger, but his wrath was a small price to pay for increasing the odds of the mission’s success. “I had to do it,” she said.

  He dived to his knees and used a fingertip to blot the floor next to the basin.

  Raissa grabbed his shoulders. “Stop it!” He didn’t. When she heaved him to his feet, he took hold of her dress, but she grabbed his hand before he could rip the silky material. “Enough!”

  He flailed away with his free hand, which Raissa grabbed, in part to prevent him from hurting himself, in part because she had packed only one dress. He pulled his hand from her grasp. As he was trying to drop back onto the floor, he clutched her dress again. Balling her fist, she landed a hard punch on his jaw before he could do any damage.

  Ashminov crumpled. He was out cold. She dragged him to the couch and put a pillow under his head. She took the ticket out of the envelope, found a pen in a kitchen drawer, and scribbled ‘Sorry.’

  ANALYSIS: PHASE 07

  Even though Caleb had locked his office door, he had a creepy feeling that Dr. Mars might catch him searching through the data bracelet without permission. He could barely sit still before his mindport.

  He first learned that Mars was the Beyond Eden program manager, with support from a Citadel-based neurophotonics team directed by Dr. Mentenhoffer.

  Not knowing of Mentenhoffer, Caleb checked the employee directory, but Mentenhoffer wasn't listed. On a hunch, Caleb tried to find Mars, but he wasn't listed either. Dr. Petrov must have a good reason for sheltering this team from the rest of the NanoArtisans community, he concluded.

  The study explored the extraction and reintroduction of fifty to seventy thousand neurons from the frontal lobe. Researchers removed the neurons, suspended them in a plasma gel, and then made a connection back to the test subject's brain.

  Caleb’s heart fluttered. To isolate a tiny subset of the brain and have it communicate with its larger entity—like a pod with its mother ship—was incredible!

  If he took the procedure to its wildest extreme, he envisioned a day when the entire human race existed in a neuron-slurry
. Man's ancestors had crawled from amino acid ponds 1.3 million years ago. Now, if the Beyond Eden project were a success, man would come full circle and crawl back to a salty porridge.

  After an indeterminate amount of time, the researchers had re-implanted the isolated neurons into the brain. Caleb had a new notion. What if a neuron soup of humanity was not the goal, and instead, the motive was to tune up specific neurons?

  Had Gabriel, who processed thoughts close to the speed of light, had his neurons tuned?

  He scrolled through table after table of data detailing the test results and then sat back in shock. None of the volunteers had survived. He clicked the link for the volunteer with chip ID 4ljlj56644#%^^7. A video clip showed the male volunteer screaming like a wild beast, with his eyes bugging out, as paladin doctors, including Gabriel Mars, stood to the side and took notes. Additional links showcased similar episodes of madness.

  The report had an addendum titled, “A Field Study of Neurotransmitters, Sex Hormones, and Neuropeptides.” Caleb flipped there. The participants included five hundred thousand couples, ranging in age from fifteen to thirty-five, who had self-described themselves as being in love. Each woman had seven thousand neurons surgically removed from her brain. Why 7,000?

  He gulped at the before-and-after photos. Before the extraction, the women appeared happy. Afterward, they were morose; their eyes looked lifeless. Caleb turned numb when he read what had happened to them: half a million had been euthanized.

  An amateur, but avid historian of scientific research, he wondered how he had never heard about such a colossal blunder. What about friends and family members? Wouldn’t they have reported loved ones missing?

  The first piece to the puzzle appeared in the appendix, a single paragraph which noted that every individual who had known a victim—parent, sibling, friend, neighbor, co-worker, etc.—had received partial memory scrubs. To those people, the victims took on the quality of a confusing dream. Children faded from the memories of their parents. Co-workers simply vanished from consciousness. Lovers felt a loss they did not understand.