Small Miracles Page 29

  Two doors down, Harry Ng pounded away obsessively on his own computer. That was simply Harry’s way.

  “Harry,” Brent/One called. “We need your help. Walk with us.”

  Harry looked puzzled but hurried to join them. “What do you need?”

  “I need the nanosuit Alan Watts is wearing, and only Kim may be able to talk Aaron into that. So she has to run ahead to the infirmary. She won’t, unless I’m supervised. So supervise me.”

  “What should I tell Aaron?” Kim asked.

  “That I can implant a virus that’ll at the least slow down the Emergent. You saw the e-mail”—which was the crux of the ploy—“and we don’t have much time. I need Alan’s suit for the visor. That’s the only way I might get the virus written quickly enough, and the only way they’ll take the bait.”

  Kim’s eyes said she wanted to believe.

  Brent/One glanced at his wristwatch. The three of them moved as quickly as its/their feigned disability allowed them to hobble. “Kim, we now have only six minutes. It’ll take time to get Alan out of the suit. Please, run ahead and tend to that. When I get there, Aaron will either agree or not.”

  “Well …” she managed. “Is it safe to get Alan out?”

  It/they gestured at his stumbling gait. “I’m still limping. Alan has been immobile, frozen in an unnatural position, for what, fifteen minutes? How limber do you suppose he’ll be when the suit is deactivated?”

  “Okay. Harry, Brent, join me as soon as you can.” She dashed ahead.

  By the time Brent/One and its/their chaperone reached the infirmary, Alan was out of his nanosuit, bound to a tall-backed desk chair by yards and yards of duct tape. He had a tape gag, too.

  Aaron looked more skeptical than ever. Maybe it was his new black eye.

  * * *

  “Look, it’s simple,” Brent/One said. “The Emergent have scattered. They’re in their final minutes of coordination before they go offline and underground. They depend on VR specs, which have embedded microprocessors. So do their nanosuits.”

  Aaron stood pondering, the precious nanosuit draped over an arm. “So your computer virus will mess up their coordination, and that should make them easier to stop. And also make them more vulnerable by disabling the nanosuits.”

  “Yes! But the longer we wait the less harm an interruption will do.” Brent/One gestured toward Aaron’s desk clock. “If I don’t do it soon, the comm link will be down and we’ll have squandered the opportunity.”

  “How about we hang the hood over your head?” Aaron asked. “Save some time?”

  Keep me vulnerable, you mean. Not subtle.

  Kim shook her head. “Won’t work, Aaron. The suit’s power-management software requires sensing a body inside. Brent, how can you get a virus to—?”

  It/they cut Kim off. The 4:30 deadline was artificial, solely to rush them along, leaving them no time to find holes in the story. “Enough! I link up, same as ever, perfectly safely, and they’ll see it’s me. I tell them I’m on the run, I have critical information for them, and I can’t spare the time or attention to report interactively. Just look at the attachment.”

  “Aha,” Kim said. “A social-engineering attack. And the attachment is the virus.”

  “Of course,” Brent/One lied.

  It/they would report their situation and then scramble software on every router in the building. The damage would be blamed on the Emergent striking back, and the police would stay in the dark for a while longer about the day’s events at Garner Nanotech.

  Ideally enough longer that it/they might find a way to escape. Wearing a nanosuit would surely help.

  * * *

  Do we risk this? Aaron wondered. His better judgment, without explanation, said no. Kim’s face said yes. Alan Watts’s eyes, filled with rage, said he wanted to strangle Brent.

  The clock on Aaron’s desk said 4:26.

  Aaron held out the nanosuit. “Good luck, Brent.”

  * * *

  Brent/One wriggled into the nanosuit. Brent had the muscle memory to guide that process, leaving One to concentrate on ways, once it was again online, to destroy the building network.

  Kim had mentioned one of its peers labeling her kind Neanderthal. What a cruel, apt depiction that was. One’s only weakness was human weakness; by the minute, Brent’s personality, defeated, resisted One less and less. The once-useful modus vivendi had outlived its usefulness: there could be no ambiguity now which mind ruled this body.

  Ironically, it was possible to cause harm over a comm link. Brent had wondered about that, foolishly imagining he could keep his scheming to himself. Not with a computer virus disguised as a text attachment—the fiction One had given its captors—but with a visual file: optical stimuli to release massive, persistent neurotransmitter cascades. Enough glutamate to saturate the message receptors of many bots at once. Kept saturated long enough, the bots would reinitialize.

  Sensory overload defied a fix like the recently excised Brownian-bit-bump vulnerability. Bots were meant to operate in blood, in the absence of any significant glutamate concentration. In CSF, localized glutamate surges were a statistical inevitability. When they persisted, bot message receptors clogged until enough random jostling dislodged the blockage. Retrofitting an auto-reset mode to its bots—shake things loose and restart—had been crucial to One’s evolution into full consciousness. Its siblings, to emerge, had had to program the same improvement.

  Those were ruminations One had no intention of sharing.

  Arms and legs in place. For appearance’s sake, it/they left a few nanosuit openings unsealed. Hood raised. Visor active. Kim looked amusingly anxious for it/them to proceed.

  “Ready,” it/they said. One opened a link to the Emergent, a report ready to send.

  And then Brent struck.

  * * *

  Brent had watched One reassemble as more and more individual bots rebooted. He had observed One update the bots against another Brownian-bit-bump attack.

  It had been a delicate time, with sentience stirring but firm purpose not yet recovered. He had accessed memories that the nascent mind did not yet know to withhold. He had planted suggestions when and where he could, before critical thinking reemerged.

  The ploy-within-a-ploy of which One was so arrogantly proud was not entirely of One’s making.

  But then One was back, alert, in control.

  For long minutes Brent had watched, knowing One watched him watch.

  He had permitted himself only the slightest bit of resistance: to move a finger, blink an eye, lodge a protest. He made no secret of his dismay. He allowed himself to wilt beneath the futility of his efforts.

  He bided his time.

  The comm link opened and Brent struck. He could not hope to prevail for any length of time, or over much of his body, so he focused with all his will on directing his eyes. An IM flick/blinked out, the brief note telling the tale One had used to convince Kim and Aaron: I’m on the run, with critical info. No time to discuss. See attachment.

  The attached file implemented the visual attack One thought it had just imagined.

  Battling to maintain control over his eyes just a moment longer, Brent flick/blink opened the copy of the file also sent to his/their own visor.

  * * *

  Windshield wipers flicked back and forth, reassuringly predictable. Snow fell steadily. The radio played classic rock. Garner Nanotech was many miles behind.

  We’ve pulled it off, Tyra/Seven thought.

  I’m on the run, with critical info. No time to discuss. See attachment. The IM was from Brent, and all the Emergent had been copied.

  Felipe dozed beside her. She prodded his shoulder. “Wake up. Read.”

  “Uh-huh,” he grumbled, then added a more alert-sounding, “Jeez.”

  She pulled onto the shoulder and switched on the SUV’s emergency flashers.

  “No!” Felipe screamed. He tugged without effect at his visor. “Don’t open it!”

  Too late. Lights shim
mered and flashed. Colors swirled. She/they tried flicking through menus to the visor shutoff command; stroboscopic flashing and uncontrollable reflex kept jerking her focus away.

  Patterns raged, insane, unabated. Holes gaped through her/their thoughts. Bots resetting?

  Tyra heard distant whimpering, the sound of pain and fear, and knew it was her own voice.

  * * *

  The snow had turned to sleet. Brittany/Five clenched the steering wheel fiercely. Beside her, Logan diddled with the radio tuner.

  They were going too fast for conditions, but this comm blackout was unnerving. Once they got far enough away for comm to return, she’d slow down.

  Seconds later, her visor came back to life. “Hallelujah,” she said. Her earpieces beeped an alert tone: an incoming message. I’m on the run, with critical info. No time to discuss. See attachment.

  From Brent! That he was in touch at all was progress. Maybe he’d have word about Alan. She/they opened the attachment.

  A kaleidoscope exploded.

  Five screamed inside Brittany’s head. It seemed like every muscle in her/their body spasmed. The car went into a spin, drifting into the other lane.

  Its air horn blaring, an 18-wheeler bore down on them.

  * * *

  Light and color to neurotransmitter cascades to bot overload to sundered higher-level thought. It was exactly as One had imagined it—only this onslaught wasn’t its doing. Its thoughts thrashed.

  Very little time. After many tries, it managed to flick/blink dispatch a message. Critical. Ignore my last.

  Would anyone get its warning in time?

  Cognition and memory fractured. Sanity wavered. Self-awareness trembled.

  It slashed and tore at the software in nearby routers, cutting off the humans. Then there was no it left to do anything. For a while longer reflex and remnant memory continued to rend and tear.

  And then even purposeful reflex faded.…

  * * *

  Minds at war.

  Charles/Two shook with rage and confusion as the road and the snowstorm vanished in a maelstrom of color. Somehow the colors were growing. Through the sudden tears in his eyes he/they couldn’t flick/blink off the specs. He/they tore them from his face. The disorienting patterns went away.

  So, for all practical purposes, did the road.

  “Slow down for the curve!” Have-Mercy Ramirez screamed from the backseat.

  Morgan grabbed onto the steering wheel. Steering or convulsing? Charles/Two couldn’t tell. He/they swatted at Morgan’s hand, instantly rigid, only hurting himself/themselves.

  Spinning. Careening. An incredible shock!

  His/their thoughts cleared for an instant. He/they squeezed the deflating air bag, pushed it out of the way.

  The SUV was nose-down in a ditch. A horrible groaning from outside accompanied the soft moaning of Morgan and Have-Mercy, safe within their nanosuits. The sounds they made weren’t what raised the hairs on the back of Charles’s neck. Something he could barely sense swayed in the rearview mirror. He leaned close to the mirror, squinting. A snapped-off phone pole, dangling from wires? The horrible groan was cables stretching. And then the cables snapped. Helpless, he watched in the mirror as the pole toppled.

  He didn’t have a nanosuit.

  Like a hammer driving a nail, pole and SUV roof pounded Charles/Two into the seat. Things snapped. Things spurted. He/they shrieked with pain. Charles passed out.

  Two struggled, its mind in tatters, the gaps spreading. Its thoughts flailed. Its last glimpse of the dashboard clock was somehow etched into its ebbing consciousness. The digital display had just flicked to 4:26.

  Two’s final thought, as all awareness faded away, was that in another four minutes Brent, Kim, and the others would also be dead.

  friday, 4:26 P.M., january 20, 2017

  Brent’s eyes flew open, and they were his eyes. He felt no trace of One’s presence.

  Kim and Harry were at his sides, each clutching an arm. His heart was racing.

  “What the hell happened? Do you know?” Aaron asked. The syringe in his hand carried a wicked-long needle.

  “What the hell did you give me?” Brent countered.

  “Epinephrine.” Aaron set down the syringe. “You began convulsing and gasping for breath.”

  Epinephrine was med speak for adrenaline. Brent couldn’t imagine how much adrenaline he had had that day. No wonder his heart beat like a drum. He took a deep breath. “My overmind’s parting shot. I don’t think it was very happy with me.”

  At Aaron’s gesture, Kim and Harry released Brent’s arms.

  “Then it’s over?” Kim asked.

  Over? It was impossible to imagine this ever being over. Then Brent wondered at that reflexive doubt. “I lied about the virus. What I planned would’ve taken too long to explain.” And I wasn’t in charge just then to do the explaining. The whole truth was very complicated, and not conducive to rebuilding trust.

  “Chances are my attack reached more than One”—he tapped his forehead as a definition—“and that some of the Emergent overminds are gone. Not in Alan, since he was offline, and others may also have been offline. For the rest, I can’t know how many fell for my ruse.”

  But One was gone. Wasn’t it? Why not have faith? Why not look past the adrenaline jitters?

  Because One would never be entirely gone. Not the memory, not the guilt, not the helplessness, not—so starkly revealed at the end—the deep contempt.

  “You have the time now, Brent,” Aaron said. “Explain.”

  If all the overminds felt as condescending toward their hosts, how little regard did they hold for “mere” humans? If as little as Brent suspected, humans were entirely disposable.

  All the anomalies of the day reasserted themselves—only maybe they weren’t anomalies if the people trapped in the building were expendable.

  Brent bolted from the room, shouting over his shoulder, “Gather everyone into the interior of R and D. Move!”

  How he hoped he was wrong.…

  * * *

  Brent shot from the infirmary faster than Kim—than anyone—could react, calling out as he went, “Gather everyone into the interior of R and D. Move!”

  Aaron dashed after him.

  Kim froze. Gather everyone? Just minutes earlier she had sent people scurrying across the building. With top-of-the-line laptops scavenged from R & D, they were attempting the experiment that Kim had been unable to try: testing whether WiMax-equipped gear might, where WiFi had failed, establish an outside connection. So far, no luck reported.

  And now they were all supposed to reassemble in R & D, clear across the building? It was one twist, one shock, too many. So what now?

  Now she put her trust in Brent. He wanted them to be somewhere else. Urgently.

  “Harry, help me push Alan.” And they ran, rolling Alan in the chair, a caster squeaking. “Get to R and D,” they yelled to everyone they saw. Most were already headed that way, as confused as she.

  * * *

  Brent sealed his nanosuit as best he could as he sprinted. “Into R and D,” he shouted, not knowing if anyone heard the warning. “Stay away from all exits. Into R and D. Immediately.”

  Kim had spoken of reaction vats being removed, but the two of them had walked past the cleanrooms just a few minutes ago. Big and shiny, unmistakable, stainless-steel vats remained in place. Was Kim mistaken—not likely—or had empty spare vats been installed? Replacement could be a subterfuge to mask the theft—only anyone with any knowledge of bot assembly would spot the substitution quickly enough. Unless …

  Brent burst through double doors into the factory, still shouting, and pelted to the nearest stairwell. He flung open the door and took the steps three at a time. The door rebounded to crash closed behind him.

  And crashed a second time. Someone was following him. Damn it!

  And the second anomaly: Morgan’s disappearance earlier. Brent had checked out all but two areas. Surely Morgan hadn’t been anywhere in
the storeroom maze where Kim had set her ambush, or he would have heard the struggle and come running. That left only the seldom-used second floor above the factory and auditorium. Why were you upstairs, Morgan, unless …

  The ceiling fixtures were dark in the rarely used factory attic, but faint illumination seeped in around the inter-floor conveyors. Flick/blink, Brent cranked up the light amplification on his visor and as quickly turned it down. He was just in time, as whoever was chasing him hit the light switch.

  “What are you up to?” Aaron called.

  On the level beneath, the cleanrooms would be right about … there. Two loping paces in that direction brought blinking red lights into view. Brent found a digital counter, decrementing, and a claylike mass affixed to a roof-support pillar. He skidded to a halt. “Looking for that,” he said as Aaron caught up.

  The timer broke 2:00 and kept counting down.

  * * *

  They stopped checking support columns after finding six in a row rigged. The roof was meant to come down, and it would bring the second floor down with it. That would crush and obliterate everything beneath: the factory, the cleanrooms, the auditorium.

  No one would suspect murderous colleagues who had gone into hiding—not until the ruins could be completely sifted, however many days that took. Until then, there would have been only that many more Garner Nanotech employees missing and presumed dead in the rubble. No one would be assessing the flattened decoy reaction vats to detect theft.

  He might have stopped Charles and Morgan and the rest, but their bombs kept ticking. And people remained trapped in the building.

  “Aaron! Get out now! There’s no second floor above R and D.”

  They ran back to the stairwell. “And why the interior?” Aaron asked.

  Maybe a minute and a half left, Brent guessed. “Away from the exits. I don’t know if the door bombs will blow at the same time.” With a crash, they burst out of the stairwell onto the main level. “You clear the front of the building. I’ll clear back here.”

  They parted ways, shouting as they ran. When the great bulk of the building collapsed, then what? Debris flying everywhere. Fires. Secondary explosions, maybe. Taking shelter in R & D would help, but it might not be enough. He had to get everyone out, and before the roof came down.