by Tom Wheeler
The man she’d been told could make a deal happen was named Roman Gagranovich, although she wouldn’t know for a couple of days whether he was truly interested.
96
The New Wave
October 19
The White House
Washington, DC
“We must dream bigger dreams in America! The Tense administration has proved a level of incompe-TENSE only challenged by the administration of the president he replaced—the corrupt Jordan Crumpler. It’s time for change! Time for the United States to unite the world under tolerance and peace, rather than hate and violence!” said Democratic presidential candidate Stanley Bernard. He was one of many trying to win the nomination.
“Tense doesn’t make sense!” rang out from the crowd.
“We want someone manly like Stanley!” screamed another.
“Turn that off,” said President Tense.
“You can beat any of these so-called candidates, Mr. President,” said Paul Olsen, the president’s campaign manager. General Crane sat with the men in the Oval Office. He turned off the television.
“After a nuclear explosion on US soil? You think the American people will elect any Republican?” said the president, leaning on his desk, hands folded.
“You apprehended Rama and Hassan.”
“Yeah, the guy I said was dead in my State of the Union address.”
“No harm, no foul,” said Olsen. “Besides, the entire event created urgency for DECREE 2020, which is considered a safety measure rather than a government takeover. If you ask me, it helped you, sir.”
The president rolled his eyes. Olsen pressed on.
“The same people who elected Jordan Crumpler because they weren’t interested in the Democratic nonsense are still breathing. You can’t let absolutely anyone into this country and give them health care, citizenship, and voting rights without even moderates rejecting the Democrats’ proposals. They are as out of touch now as they were in the last election.”
“Except a nuke was detonated, even if contained,” Tense insisted.
“Blame it on the Democrats. That’s what Crumpler would do. It is their fault. Had you been able to implement DECREE 2020 sooner, the detonation wouldn’t have happened, which may be true.”
“Except it isn’t true,” said the president, turning toward the window.
“Mr. President. May I speak with you?” Crane interrupted as the president turned and tipped his head upward slightly in assent.
“In private,” Crane added.
“Paul, will you please excuse us?” Tense asked, and the campaign manager left the room. As soon as the door closed behind him, Crane spoke.
“We have a problem with Anna. One of her diagnostic lights is blinking.”
“Has anyone seen it?”
“Not yet, at least as far as I can tell. Anna is covering it, but we either pull her or fix it.”
“Can Dhilan fix it?”
“He’s back in surgery.”
“What for this time?” asked the president.
“His microbrain wasn’t functioning correctly, and he’s having excruciating headaches. Mescher says he should be fine, although he can’t know for sure. We will have to use Mason.”
“Have we determined whether Mason’s code was used in Diablo 8-16?”
“Well, the only two people who would know for sure are Dhilan and Mason,” Crane said. “We have another developer looking at it, but because there were so many people working on the androids, it’s hard to distinguish. We are fairly certain that if Mason did anything, it was without his knowledge, although who can tell these days? Having said that, I don’t think we have a choice unless we pull Anna.”
“Tell that to Marína,” said the president.
“What’s she got to do with it?”
“The secretary-general of the UN has nominated her as the next president of the United Nations.”
Crane’s eyes widened.
“Come on, you know the rumors of the UN going bankrupt are true. Marína is just trying to help.”
“I thought their constitution dictated they choose one of the vice presidents to be president,” said Crane.
“Like it or not, rules go out the window when someone’s survival is at stake,” said the president. “President Crumpler left her billions. And we all know money . . .”
“. . . talks,” finished Crane. “But I still don’t follow. What does this have to do with Mason?”
“Marína believes Mason is a bad apple. Someone asked her how the bomb was detonated at the UN, and she mentioned the possibility that it was an inside job. She implicated Mason without mentioning his name.”
“Come on,” said Crane.
“Don’t tell me the thought hasn’t crossed your mind, General. I have heard some of your own comments about Mason.”
“Granted, but why would she . . .?”
“Wesley Masters.”
“Why hasn’t he told me? And how do you know?”
“Marína told me. She said Ted Kaczynski—”
“The Unabomber? She’s suggesting Mason is like—”
“Did you know Theodore Kaczynski went to Harvard?” interrupted the president. “Evidently he had the same type of ‘prophetic’ dreams as Mason, except he made his come true.”
“Mason predicted the death of Crumpler,” said Crane.
“That was inevitable. It’s the code . . .”
“Let’s not forget his computer was taken from him in Iran. Anyway, what did you say in response?” asked Crane, interrupting.
“I told them both to speak with you,” the president said, as Crane pressed his lips together in frustration of the situation that he cannot control. “I am going to have to distance myself from Mason, General,” Tense said, pausing. “When will Dhilan be back?”
“Another few days, maybe a week, according to Dr. Mescher. It’s all about the swelling.”
The president didn’t respond.
“It appears you are in a tough spot, then, Mr. President.”
“We are in a tough spot, General.”
“Right. We need Mason to save our operation, requiring him to have top secret clearance, but apparently you are going to allow him to be disparaged during the process. How the tide has turned,” Crane said, glaring at the president. “You do know that our hypocrisy is now on trial, right?”
“Yes, the tide has turned, since you were the one who questioned Mason’s dreams before now. You sure you weren’t right then, General?” the president asked. “The only way Mason is not a prophet is if he is involved. You might want to keep that in mind. Until we get to the bottom of this, do what you have to, General. Just keep an eye on Mason. People do strange things, all people. I’ll make sure nothing goes public about Mason until we have proof.”
Crane turned to exit as he closed his eyes wondering just who he was becoming—or who he’s become. He shook it off; he’s doing what he's always done—his job.
97
Active Cyborg
October 20
Cape Canaveral Hospital
Cape Canaveral, Florida
I woke up at 2:42 a.m. to the earth rumbling and my windows rattling as SpaceX sent up its Falcon 9 rocket en route to the International Space Station. The article I’d read said the firm was transporting thousands of pounds of supplies in the first mission run by an artificially intelligent astronaut. The radio newscast I was listening to on the way to NASA confirmed those reports, although I knew General Crane was involved, so there was no telling what was really going on.
I rushed over to Dhilan’s house and was able to retrieve the EMP gun that I had stashed behind the neighbor’s bushes before heading home. I took my normal run, grabbed a shower, and after doing some work on my laptop, he
aded to the main entrance of the Cape Canaveral Hospital in Cocoa Beach.
“I’m sorry, you are?” asked the Hispanic woman with “Margarita Guzman, MD” on her name tag.
“I’m here to see Dr. Hannah. I work with him at NASA,” I said as she pulled out a paper on her clipboard, switching pages and using her index finger to move across the page.
“May I see some identification?” she asked. Several visitors walked by, some escorting recovering patients.
“I thought the reason for chips was to avoid security checks,” I said as I set down the drink I had in my hand and dug out my identification.
“This is classified. We are required to get a physical identification,” she said as she looked at my license.
“How’s he doing?” I asked.
“His vitals are strong, and there is fairly significant improvement in his swelling,” she said, handing me back my license. I put it away and grabbed the cup. “But prepare yourself, Mr. Thomas; he won’t know who you are. I’m sorry. You can stay a while, but he’ll likely fall asleep on you.”
“He’s out of the coma?”
“Oh, yes, I’m sorry; I thought you knew. But remember—” she started to say.
“I am aware he may not remember me, although I’m not sure I can prepare any more than I have for that. But thank you,” I said, heading toward room 2045. I noticed the door was open a crack; I pushed it, seeing my friend in bed.
“Dr. Hannah?” I asked, poking my head into the room.
“Come in,” he answered in a static voice, but the one I remembered as Dhilan’s.
“Hello, Dhilan,” I said, smiling, looking at the white bandage wrapped around his head and putting a large Diet Coke on his table. I tried not to stare at his red and purple bruised face, still so swollen he looked like the Pillsbury Doughboy.
“What’s that?” he asked.
“A Diet Coke,” I said, smiling since that was his preferred drink.
“I’m not on a diet,” he said, flat in his bed, head on a pillow, tubes connected to his arms and torso. His head jolted to the side as if twitching, and I watched his chest slowly move up and down as he breathed.
“You remember me?” I asked.
“I rescued you in Iran,” he said stoically, looking away and staring out the window.
“I’d be dead if not for you,” I said, standing at the edge of his bed, my hands on the rails.
“I am dead,” he said, and his head turned looking at me long enough to make his point.
“You are a brilliant scientist.”
“Was, perhaps,” he said, struggling to take a sip of the diet soda, and grimacing at the taste.
“This is awful. At least bring me something with real sugar,” he said, pushing it away on the small table.
“We need you, Dhilan,” I said. Tears welled in my eyes, my heart hurting for my friend.
“We’re friends?”
“Only for a few months, but that’s all it took. You believed in me,” I said. “I’m still your friend.”
“I’m sorry, I don’t remember,” he said tearfully.
“If you don’t mind me asking, what is the last thing you remember, Dhilan?”
“Being told my wife was missing on—” he said but stopped suddenly, turning his head away from me.
I let a silence fall for a moment before speaking again. “Okay to stick around?” I asked without probing further.
“For what?”
“That’s what friends do.”
He nodded slightly.
“I’ve got to close my eyes,” he said without saying anything else, and I noticed a small tear make its way from his eye down his cheek.
I sat down in the recliner next to the window and began praying silently.
My phone began to buzz, waking me up in the chair where I sat next to Dhilan.
“Mason? Where are you?” asked a coworker from NASA.
“I’m visiting Dhilan. Why, what’s wrong?” I asked, hearing urgency in my cohort’s voice.
“There has been an earthquake,” she said as I turned back around, searching the room for the remote control.
“Where?”
“Russia. It’s bad.”
98
GLOBAL WARMING
I pushed the red button as CNN appeared on the screen, along with images of buildings on fire in Sochi, Russia with the subheading that read:
8.9-MAGNITUDE EARTHQUAKE STRIKES FORMER RUSSIAN OLYMPIC CITY.
The Russian Academy of Sciences confirms that at 1:13 p.m. Moscow time, an 8.9-magnitude earthquake hit Sochi, Russia, the site of the 2014 Winter Olympics, a quarter of a mile off the coast in the Black Sea. The four red rings currently being shown outline the impacted area. This is Brooke Brianna with CNN. Hold on . . . We are now being told the entire city is being evacuated as several of the larger buildings have cracked—one building completely destroyed. Oh my God, that building has crumbled. Do we know what that building is? And where the water is coming from? Okay, okay, I am hearing it is an apartment building, the water from a break in the main water supply.
“You want me to turn that up?” I asked Dhilan, whose eyes were now open.
“No. I know what’s going on.”
“You were listening?”
“Don’t have to.”
I didn’t respond, only because I wasn’t sure what he meant.
Dhilan looked at me and said, “I am connected to the Internet. I have a direct feed, so I am aware of the earthquake.”
“So it worked?” I asked.
“What worked?”
“The microchips connected to the neurons in your brain,” I said as the door swung open and General Crane and Dr. Mescher strode in.
“Well, hello, Dr. Hannah. How are you feeling?” interrupted Dr. Mescher, walking into the room as if he owned the place.
“Better than those in Sochi, although my head feels like it’s going to explode.”
“Tragic, I know,” said Mescher. “You sustained a gunshot wound to the head,” he went on. “This last operation was your 10th. You’re fortunate to be alive.”
“That is debatable. How did you install microchips on my neurons? I have not finished mapping the brain,” said Dhilan as if he were Jerome.
“Dhilan, I am—”
“General Crane, special assistant to the president of the United States, I know. I work for you.”
“How—?”
“He’s got Jerome’s mind, sir,” I said.
“General Chesty Crane, graduated West Point with honors in 1980, involved in the invasion of Grenada in 1983, where you earned your first Purple Heart—” Dhilan said, as Mescher interrupted.
“Mason’s correct. Dhilan has the mind of Jerome, the most advanced supercomputer in the world, in his head,” said Mescher.
“What about my memory?” asked Dhilan.
“As time passes, you will remember some of your past,” said Dr. Mescher. “For now, you just have to trust the process.”
“Easy for you to say,” said Dhilan. “They say it takes two years to recover from a traumatic brain injury.”
“Who says that?”
“The MSKTC,” said Dhilan stoically.
“What is the MSKTC?” asked General Crane, a quizzical look etched on his face.
“The Model Systems Knowledge Translation Center—a research center working with traumatic brain injuries,” Mescher supplied. “It won’t take two years for your recovery, Dhilan, but your memory may not come back to the degree you’d like. “I do have some of your memories stored . . .”
“How?”
“You reverse engineered the Telepathic Auditor just before you left on your trip,” said Mescher.
“I don’t understand what that means.”
“You did a mind dump on yours
elf.”
“I did?” Dhilan said with the most enthusiasm I have witnessed. “So where is it?”
“That’s the problem. You took it with you to California. We’re working on finding it.”
“Please, find that! You have no idea . . .”
“We will, Dhilan. We’ll find it,” said Mescher looking at me. “How’s your pain?”
“10.”
“I’ll get you some more pain medication,” said Mescher.
“I’ll let you rest, Dhilan,” said the general, moving toward the door as I stood by Dhilan.
“Give me something to do, sir,” said Dhilan looking at the general.
“You heard the doctor,” Crane replied.
“Just give me a purpose besides lying here trying to remember who I am,” said Dhilan. “Otherwise shoot me.”
“I thought you said your head felt like it was ready to explode.”
“I did, but that is normal. My swelling needs to come down further, right, Dr. Mescher?” asked Dhilan.
“Yes, actually. Given no more reactions from this last surgery, I think he is fine to do nonlaborious activities if he can endure the pain. The swelling will come down in a matter of days,” said Mescher.
“Mason, why don’t you fill him in on what we are working on. See where he can be of assistance,” said General Crane. “Oh, one other thing . . .”
“Sir?” I asked.
“I’m sorry to have to bring this up, but I need the code from that DVD analyzed asap. Dhilan, when you’re up to it, I’ll give it to you.”
“What is it?” Dhilan asked.
“Mason, will you excuse us?”
“Of course,” I said as my face flushed. Before I left, I had to encourage Dhilan. “You have a purpose, Dhilan. This country needs you. I am truly sorry for the tragedy that put you in this position, but according to your own words, the only way we, as a culture, could deal with technology was to integrate it into our own bodies.”
“I just didn’t think I would be our first true cyborg,” said Dhilan. “Mason, please find my memories. If you are truly my friend . . .”