Eden Chip

by Scott Cramer

  The next paragraph finished the puzzle. Dr. Mars and his team had deleted each victim’s life data. Purchasing patterns, minutes logged watching enlightenment walls, spelling exam scores, and more—all that gone forever, as if the test subjects had never been born. Technology, Caleb realized, had both the capacity to create and sustain life and the power to end it without a trace. Trembling, he pushed back from his mindport, thinking of what havoc the wrong person in possession of such knowledge could create. Thank goodness Dr. Petrov is in charge of NanoArtisans!

  His messenger rang, and his stomach folded in half when he saw the name of the caller. He answered. “Yes, Gabriel.”

  “Dr. Saunders, did I leave my data bracelet in your office?”

  A profusion of sweat droplets cascaded down Caleb’s face, neck, and chest. “I’m getting ready to put it on a courier.”

  “Thank you, Dr. Saunders. I hope to see you soon.”

  Soon? “How do you know my sister?” he blurted out.

  Mars disengaged the call, and Caleb vowed he would drop the subject and never mention Beyond Eden or Dr. Gabriel Mars to anyone. What about Dr. Aubrey? Having access to his thought output, she would know he had snooped in the data bracelet, but he hoped the Version 7 rollout was consuming her. And Zoe, whom he had already texted about Mars? If his sister asked about the tall paladin, he’d invoke patient privacy.

  “Messenger, engage cochlear speaker and play Vivaldi’s 'Concerto for Viola d’amore in D Major.'” The lilting melody of the viola soared through his mind like a delicate bird winging ever higher, and Caleb let out a sigh. Lessoned learned. He had broken enough rules for one lifetime.

  ANALYSIS: PHASE 08

  Passing a pharmacy on her way to the concert, Raissa commanded the taxi to stop. Her knuckles, already red and swollen from punching the medic on the plane, had gotten worse after punching Ashminov. Inside the pharmacy, she purchased a package of synthetic skin, and, back in the taxi, applied a sheet of polymer to her knuckles. The redness disappeared at once.

  “Taxi, continue to Symphony Hall.”

  Five minutes later, Raissa stood out in front of the venue, a large brick building with marble columns. The performance would begin in forty-five minutes. She scanned the crowd but couldn’t see her target.

  In the lobby, she presented her ticket to a man in a red jacket standing by the door. The man ripped it in half, prompting Raissa's heart to spring into her throat. Has he denied me entry?

  “Row fourteen, seat C,” he said, presenting her with half the ticket, along with a program guide.

  Relieved, she strolled down the aisle, taking stock of her surroundings. Chandeliers hung from a soaring ceiling, and exit doors were to the left and right of the stage. She assumed that cameras recorded every gesture.

  Raissa settled into the third seat from the aisle in row 14 and slid her hand under the bottom of her skirt to retrieve the devourware chip. She positioned it on the tip of her index finger. From the program guide, she learned an intermission would occur one hour into the program. An opportunity to engage the target?

  First, she had to find him. Trying not to be too obvious, she craned her neck left and right to scan the crowd, on the lookout for Caleb Saunders’ telltale mop of curls. She had studied hundreds of his images, from age six to seventeen years old, as he matured from a short, scrawny kid into a tall, lean teen.

  A flash of curly black hair to her immediate right started her heart galloping. Her target and a woman were standing a meter away. The woman had to be his sister, Zoe. Fifteen years separated them, but Raissa saw a resemblance—they shared big noses. They raised their voices. Are they arguing?

  “Eve, is it love at first sight?”

  Raissa started. The voice belonged to Petrov, and she reached for her purse, which held her joule; she left the bag buckled, realizing that she must have again imagined hearing Petrov's voice in her head. She took a deep breath, trying to regain her composure. It was a terrible time to lose her mind.

  Leaning closer to the siblings, she tried to determine the nature of their argument.

  * * *

  “You know I like the aisle seat,” Caleb whispered.

  Zoe drilled him with an aggressive big-sister look, head cocked to the side, nostrils flared. “I'm sitting in A!”

  Her effort to intimidate was successful, evidenced by the hairs on his neck standing at attention. Before he knew it, Zoe had plopped herself into the aisle seat. “I'm sitting there after intermission!” he insisted. She ignored him as he slid past her and sat down hard to register his displeasure. Then, recalling what she had just been through as a mother and wife, Caleb softened his stance.

  Out the corner of his eye, he sensed the person in the next seat was looking at him. He turned and was drawn in by penetrating green eyes. Confused, Caleb faced forward, but he continued his free fall into a remembered vision of the girl’s eyes. He ran a finger around his collar. Hot in here. Drawing in a slow, deep breath through his nose, he took in her perfume, at once spicy and sweet.

  As the lights were dimming, he placed his left arm on the armrest. The girl moved her arm to the same armrest, and he could feel her heat as needles of electricity stitched his arm to hers. A fantasy played out in his mind that both frightened and tempted him: he would curl his fingers around hers, and she would squeeze his hand in response. Caleb linked his fingers together and pressed his hands into his lap to keep himself from acting on his impulse to grab a stranger.

  He tried focusing on the musicians tuning their instruments, but he could think of only one thing: clasping the girl's hand in his. Like a seedling, his obsession sank deep roots, unfurling leaves that twisted in the hot, humid wind of his desire.

  Caleb shot to his feet. He needed fresh air in a hurry.

  ANALYSIS: PHASE 09

  Ashminov opened his eyes and winced. His jaw was sore. The reason for the soreness and his surroundings confused him. He was on a couch in a sparsely furnished room twice the size of his apartment. Shadows darkened the corners. He did not know how he had gotten here. Through the window, he saw a blimp’s running lights twinkling in a red sky; the sun was setting or rising. “What time is it?” he croaked.

  “The time is 8:29 p.m. Eastern Standard Time,” his messenger reported.

  Eastern Standard Time? Prior events sputtered into his mind. He was in Boston. Raissa had flushed his tryp. Remembering the flash of her fist, he wiggled his jaw, then ran a finger along his teeth. All there; none chipped. He sat up, and an envelope fell into his lap.

  ‘Sorry.’

  He scoffed. He’d trade all the sorries in the world for a gram of tryp. Standing, he took an unsteady step toward the bathroom, then halted. “Raissa?” He waited a few seconds. “Raissa, where are you?” When he received no response, he diverted his path to the bedroom where he found her musical instrument and her pack. He rifled through the bag, troubled to discover she had brought two joules, a laser dagger, an antique pistol, and an explosives belt. Is she planning to shoot her way onto the NanoArtisans campus?

  He continued his search, not putting it past her to hide somewhere and secretly keep an eye on him. He opened the front door, only to find an empty foyer. He returned to the bedroom and looked under the bed and next in the closet.

  Ashminov recalled her telling him she was going to the concert to plant the malware on her target. She took Bibleware! If she were successful, the entire world population would become the domain of fervent Christians.

  The blame fell squarely on Raissa's shoulders—to be precise, on her fist. He could do nothing about that now, but there was much he could do about the monsters of self-doubt bubbling up from deep. He ventured into the bathroom where he got on his knees and opened the cabinet door under the sink. His heart beat faster as he reached into the dark space. He retrieved a bottle of bleach, set it aside, reached in again, and grabbed a small, plastic soap box. Complimenting himself on the cleverness of his hiding place, he cracked open the box. About two grams of
the precious green crystals filled it halfway.

  Within a moment, his problems were receding, and his confidence was rising. He moved to the window and marveled at the pink sky. Donning sunglasses, he rode the elevator to the ground floor, trotted down the steps, and joined the flow of pedestrians. Not caring where he was going, Ashminov stopped at the corner of Gloucester and Boylston Streets, where he looked up in wonder at the blimps hovering in the dusky sky. If not tethered by gravity, he would have flapped his arms to soar up and join the armada sailing among the first faint stars of the evening.

  He strolled down Boylston, catching sight of a store selling kitchen gadgets. Inside, he purchased a garlic press, which he would present to Signora Villanova upon his return to Rome. He exited the store, and a rush of bravado swept over him. Rather than go to the left, the direction of the safe house, he turned right and soon crossed a major street to enter the Boston Public Garden. A brick path wound through old-growth trees, manicured lawns, tulip beds, and a statue or two, to a small pond. Ashminov spotted an empty park bench at the water’s edge. He was drawn by its solitude.

  Settling down in the middle of the bench, he cracked open the soapbox and put a dash of tryp on his tongue, then lifted his eyes to the wondrous stars and thought about Raissa. He forgave her. She had feared he would jeopardize the mission. He only wished she had shared her concerns before taking such drastic measures.

  Ten minutes later, the soapbox empty, Ashminov stretched out on his back and closed his eyes to enjoy his remaining minutes of self-assuredness.

  “Sir, is everything all right?”

  Ashminov blinked. The security paladin wore a helmet with a scanner post. The sky above her was black. She flicked on a flashlight. When she removed his sunglasses, the beam gouged his retinal nerve.

  “Sir, can you hear me?”

  Ashminov tried to speak, but the words came out garbled.

  She thumbed her radio. “Request backup. Code nine.”

  “On the way,” a voice crackled back.

  The paladin kept shaking him. “Sir? Sir?”

  A siren whined to life in the distance and grew louder. Some moments later, he heard more voices. Four or five paladins were surrounding him. He realized the flat object pressed to his forehead was a scanner blade.

  “His chip ID reports he’s nine days old,” a male paladin said in a tone of disbelief.

  A female paladin put the radio to her lips. “His chip is malfunctioning. Should we do a field implant?”

  “That’s a roger,” the voice crackled in response.

  “Version 6.5?”

  “That's fine. The doctors will give him the latest version in the hospital.”

  Voices blended into indecipherable static, and Ashminov's heart leached intense fear. He knew what would happen when his newly implanted chip detected tryp, a forbidden substance, in his bloodstream. The female paladin, with the grip of a python, held Ashminov’s head steady in the crook of her arm as another paladin positioned the point of the chip injector in the center of Ashminov’s forehead. “Engage.” Ashminov heard that loud and clear.

  His brain exploded in a ball of flame that seared every nerve fiber in his body. Passing out interrupted the crescendo of pain, but he regained consciousness almost immediately. He inhaled weakly, but he could fill his lungs to only a quarter of their capacity. He breathed out a wisp of depleted air, then repeated the torturous cycle as the paladins loaded him into the ambulance.

  Ashminov could only imagine that Petrov, listening to his gasping through multiple microphones, and watching from different camera angles, was enjoying the show.

  ANALYSIS: PHASE 10

  Raissa snuck glances to her right as the sweeping grandeur of the orchestra swelled in volume. Her target had bolted twenty minutes ago before the concert had begun, while his sister had remained behind. Would he leave without her? She worried that their earlier argument had accounted for his sudden departure.

  While it might garner unwanted attention to leave during the performance, Raissa couldn’t wait any longer. Careful to protect the devourware chip on her index finger, she slid past the sister and made her way up the aisle to the lobby where she approached the ticket taker. “Did you see an eighteen-year-old male in a short-sleeve shirt and black pants come out?”

  “Curly hair? A big nose?”

  “That’s him.”

  The man pointed to the front door. “He left about ten minutes ago.”

  Raissa’s stomach knotted; she was angry at herself for not acting the moment her target had settled into the seat beside her. She strode toward the front door, but when she reached it, the door opened, and there was Caleb. He seemed as startled as she was, but then his expression changed. His eyes widened and went glassy, and his lips parted. Staring at her while holding the door open, he stepped aside to let her pass. To appear natural, Raissa walked past him.

  “Are you leaving?” he asked.

  “I want some air.”

  He gestured to the concert hall. “It's scorching in there!” Droplets of perspiration covered his brow.

  “You still look hot. Join me outside?”

  When he didn't respond, a trillion bubbles of panic boiled in her blood. She had come on too fast. Now, she had no choice but to step outside. To her amazement, he followed her.

  The door closed, and they stood facing one another on the granite steps. Determined to embed the chip before he slipped from her grasp again, she stuck her hand out. “I’m Raissa.”

  “Caleb.”

  They barely shook hands before he pulled his sweaty palm back.

  “Caleb, do you live in Boston?”

  “Cambridge. What about you?”

  “Jerusalem. I’m visiting my uncle. Do you like Tchaikovsky?”

  “Yes. But Vivaldi is my favorite.”

  His stare unnerved her. “I love hearing the viola section in all music. I play the viola.”

  His eyes lit up. “So do I!” He looked away briefly. “I’m sure you’re better than I am. I used to be good, but then Dr. Petrov gave me a special M-code update when I was six years old.”

  “The Dr. Petrov?”

  Caleb beamed. “Yes, the Father of the Chip.”

  “Why did Dr. Petrov do that?”

  He paused for a long moment. “He always knows what he’s doing.”

  It was obvious. Caleb Saunders had no idea what had motivated Petrov to give him an M-code update. Glancing at his right ear, Raissa wondered if there was any way to embed the devourware chip behind it. Ear cartilage called for boldness, but she wasn’t sure she could be that daring. She stuck with Plan A: the wrist. “You seem to know a lot about Dr. Petrov.”

  “I work at NanoArtisans.”

  “Ah, I guess you’re getting ready to release Version 7?”

  “A different lab handles software releases. I work in Paladin Research.”

  “I feel sorry for paladins,” Raissa said, taking an ill-advised departure from the script she had rehearsed a thousand times.

  “Paladins are the luckiest people in the world,” Caleb exclaimed.

  Not about to back down, she said, “You send them to clean up radiation sites and arm them so they can hunt for rebels.”

  “What’s wrong with that?” Caleb’s eyes sparkled. “They should hunt rebels. Paladins derive incredible satisfaction from performing their tasks.”

  “Do they have a choice?”

  Caleb, no longer sweating, seemed energized. “An algorithm selects every future paladin. The algorithm always gets it right.”

  Petrov had brainwashed him. “What do you do in Paladin Research?” she asked.

  As Caleb described his duties, Raissa studied him. He seemed sincere, even sweet, if a bit nerdy. Actually, he was a lot nerdy. She stuck her hand out when he was in mid-sentence. “I have to go home.”

  “W-w-what about the rest of the performance?”

  “Good night, Caleb.” She edged her hand closer, hoping that his parents had taught him
manners and he would conclude their engagement with a civil handshake. Furrows lined his brow; something was troubling him. Raissa waited for his chip to plaster a smile on his face, but the wrinkles deepened.

  He finally took her hand. Gripping it tightly to make sure he couldn’t pull away, she slid her index finger forward and, pressing firmly, buried the devourware chip into his wrist. He didn't seem to notice as he stared at her.

  “Nice meeting you, Caleb.” She let go, turned, and walked to the curb where she flagged a taxi, feeling his eyes burning a hole in her back. On the way to the safe house, she exhaled heavily in the back seat. She had improvised and succeeded in planting the chip. When Caleb Saunders went to work in the morning, Ashminov’s devourware would upload to the transmission server. Next, she would turn her thoughts to assassinating Petrov.

  So why do I feel so hollow?

  DESIGN

  DESIGN: PHASE 01

  Trying to draw in a breath, Ashminov immediately expelled it, his new nanochip punishing him for having tryp in his bloodstream. His vision darkened and he teetered on the edge of passing out. Panicking, he flailed his arms and legs, but the polycuffs keeping his wrists and ankles secured to the bed restricted his movements.

  He shared the hospital ward with six other patients. He had listened in on two doctors discussing patients. Five were here for cosmetic surgeries; Roscoe, number six, who was in the neighboring bed, had suffered brain damage. Roscoe had tried to remove his chip with a kitchen laser, but his daughter had wrestled it away before the release of the chip’s ricin. Despite being overwhelmed by a persistent state of suffocation, Ashminov found Roscoe’s vacant stare unnerving and cautionary. He had to check himself out of the hospital and return to the safe house to disable the chip before the diminished oxygen supply to his brain turned him into Roscoe.

  Ashminov cobbled together a simple plan. He would inform a member of the staff he needed to use the bathroom and they would release him from the polys. The distance from the toilet to the ward doors was about five meters, so he'd wait inside the bathroom until the coast was clear, then he'd make his break.