Last Tango in Cyberspace

by Steven Kotler

  Bo glances at him in the rearview, sighs. “I met a woman with this same tattoo. I go to night school at NYU. She was in one of my classes, ended up in my study group. She had silver hair, the dyed kind, not the old kind.”

  “That’s how you got the tattoo?”

  “That’s how I fell into things. And we were good together…”

  “But?”

  “But I’m Chinese. Really tight families. I decided I had to meet hers. She didn’t say no; she said there were conditions and let’s wait and see. It became a thing for me. Stupid, but things become things in relationships.”

  “Copy that,” says Lion, nodding in agreement.

  “In the end, she gave in, sort of. Her mother, brother, and her, we were all supposed to meet up at Hudson’s, in the West Village. You’d like it—you can smoke there. Some kind of cigar bar with books and ashtrays everywhere. The last thing I remember was ordering a drink.”

  “The last thing you remember?”

  “I woke up in a hotel in Tribeca with my neck burning.”

  “You got roofied?”

  “And tattooed.”

  Shaking his head, “I have no idea how I’d feel if that happened to me.”

  “I’m still not sure how I feel about it.”

  “Did you go to the police?”

  “She left me a note and a burner phone. It said the Rilkeans were her family now and the tattoo was their condition. If I still wanted to meet I should call her from that phone.”

  “You call?”

  “Didn’t call the police, didn’t call her either. I drive limos and go to night school. I don’t get tattooed to attend secret meetings.”

  Lion laughs. “Why didn’t you have it removed?”

  “Rilke knew what was up. Live the questions now. Perhaps you will gradually, without noticing it, one distant day, live right into the answer. What’s truer than that? I kept the tattoo as a reminder. Plus,” tapping a finger on the back of his neck, “the ladies love a good bar code.”

  Lion laughs again, then glances out the window. “Wha…?”

  Not possible.

  He rubs his eyes. Still there: a Mexican amber dragonfly with orange lace wings and garnet compound eyes, watching him from less than five feet away.

  Got to be the fentanyl.

  He blinks hard. The dragonfly doesn’t move. But it registers his blink, reacts quickly, banking left. As it turns, Lion notices a shiny red dot in the middle of its belly, the telltale sign of a Lidar laser, proof of not-quite-life winking at him across the lonely gray sky and then gone.

  INTRODUCTION TO MILLENNIAL SEMIOTICS

  Leroy’s Phat Cat Cajun is a food truck at the back end of an asphalt parking lot, across from a decaying industrial warehouse. Sitting on a wooden bench beneath a tin roof, Lion drinks coffee and eats a fried green tomato sandwich. Having promised himself he wouldn’t think about the dragonfly until after his meal, he’s been staring into the warehouse’s dirty windows, watching a pair of long-armed shelf-stocking robots go silently about their business.

  But the robots don’t distract, or not enough.

  It’s the details that don’t stack. Insect drones have been around for a while, but that dragonfly was something new and very high end. Probably lab grown and military grade. Which leads him to an obvious question: Why would Arctic have him watched? It’s got to be Arctic. No one else knew what he was doing or where he was going. And no one but them—at least no one he’s met recently—has access to military-grade technology.

  But Bo works for Arctic, and couldn’t he just report back about Lion’s movements? For that matter, as of right now, Lion works for Arctic: Why not just ask him?

  He finishes the sandwich and wipes remoulade from the corner of his mouth with his already ruined sleeve. The movement jostles his cut. The pain is there, subdued and distant, but only a matter of time before it comes for him again.

  A long day. A long couple of days.

  Thinking about his long couple of days, he decides that maybe it wasn’t Arctic the firm deploying that dragonfly. Maybe just an employee of that firm. A pompadoured, notebook-swiping employee.

  Of course it was Jenka.

  A gust of wind sends ripples through puddles, and another realization follows his first: Lion’s not even angry. What’s a little more surveillance in an age of a little more surveillance? He takes another sip of coffee. All these puzzle pieces: A zookeeper who liberated a zoo, a family lying down with lions, a remorseful great white hunter. He’s got to admit, what he’s really feeling is intrigue.

  Jenka and the dragonfly only thicken this plot.

  But it might not matter. His journalism days are behind him. No longer does he get paid for the plot. Now, he’s paid for saying yes or no—the sum total of his contractual obligations. His work in the world reduced to one-word responses. When, he wonders, did his life get so small?

  No answer forthcoming, so he drops his plate in the recycling and starts back toward Bo. Halfway across the parking lot before he remembers his coffee, still sitting on the bench. Lion retraces his steps.

  As he’s reaching for the cup, the snuff container in his pocket bangs into his thigh and reminds him of the Rilkean engraving. Bo told him to eat quickly, wanting him back at the hotel before the fentanyl wore off. But—fingering the cylinder—there might be time for one extra stop.

  He pulls out his cell, types a text to Penelope, asking for the name of a good jeweler in the city, one with engraving expertise. Does not hit SEND. This time it’s not an XO issue. Standing there, he realizes he hasn’t made up his mind about the snuff container. Does he divulge this information to Sir Richard? Old habits tell him to hoard the data, but current instinct says momentum matters most. Stay with the hot lead. True when chasing a story as a journalist; true when chasing the future as an em-tracker.

  He sends the text.

  By the time they’re back on the highway, his pocket buzzes with a name and address: Masta Ice, ask for Balthazar Jones, on Mercer.

  Lion passes on the information.

  “We won’t make it in time,” says Bo.

  Clock reads 4:41. He had no idea it was so late. Texts Penelope to find out what time the store closes; five minutes later, learns Balthazar will stay open for them.

  “They’re gonna keep the lights on for us,” he says, then remembers. “You go to night school. I don’t want to mess you up—you’re not missing a class?”

  “I’m only taking one this semester. Two hours every Monday. But thanks for asking.”

  “What’s the class?”

  “Introduction to Millennial Semiotics.”

  “Is that your major? Is that actually a major?”

  “Not even a minor. It was Sir Richard’s suggestion. Emoticons as a new class of oversignifying precision grammar. When I understand what the hell the professor is saying, it’s kind of interesting.”

  The traffic starts to thicken as they close in on the city, the masses on the move, and increasingly claustrophobic as they edge into the Midtown Tunnel. Lion peers into the darkness ahead. He can feel weight in metric tons on all sides. Cars and trucks and concrete. Bo slides left and punches forward, weaving to the front of the pack. Through the windshield, Lion sees blackness, and the tunnel’s only illumination, a series of dingy yellow lights, streaking by like rotting comets.

  “Can I ask you something?”

  It takes him a second to realize Bo’s talking to him.

  “Uh-huh.”

  “Why’d you take the animal heads off the wall? Was that about not throwing up or something else?”

  Lion takes his time before answering, “You said you had a tight family.”

  “I do.”

  “Brothers and sisters? You’re close?”

  “Three sisters. And we’re very close.”

  “Can you imagine what it would feel like if you saw their heads on a wall in someone’s trophy room?”

  Bo looks at him in the rearview, realizes he’s seriou
s. “I can’t imagine.”

  “I know,” says Lion, suddenly very tired, “that’s exactly the problem.”

  THE DOUBLE TAP OF HOLY EXCLAMATIONS

  Heavy rain by the time they’re pulling up to Masta Ice. Lion dashes out of the SUV and through the front door of the store. He finds himself dripping wet and standing inside a gray concrete rectangle polished to some hyper-sheen. Dramatic spot lighting and display cases from a different century. Ruby pendants inside vintage specimen jars, an array of gem-studded rings and grills under bell-shaped glass, diamond-encrusted watches inside oversized test tubes inside the open drawers of an ancient apothecary chest.

  And not a soul in sight.

  “Towel?”

  Lion whips his head left and sees a ninja offering him a white hand towel. He blinks twice. Got to be the fentanyl.

  Then realizes it’s a sales clerk in a ninja outfit. Pageboy bangs, Asian eyes, and a jewel-handled katana slung across her back.

  “Towel,” she says again.

  “Thank you,” he says, taking it, wondering if today can get any stranger.

  After sopping his hair and face, Lion looks back at the ninja. With the water out of his eyes, he notices living screens woven into her black knit top, displaying fight scenes from early-era Batman movies. The Dark Knight punching a bad guy in a bowler hat, KAPOW over left breast. Robin in short shorts with gold cape, BAMMO over her right.

  “You’re Lion Zorn,” she says, a little breathless.

  “Penelope called?”

  “No. I mean yes. But you’re really, really Lion Zorn.”

  People are rarely this excited to meet him.

  “Balthazar does a little em-tracking on the side,” she explains. “He’s so-so-so to make your acquaintance…”

  “Lion Zorn,” booms behind him.

  He jerks at the sound. Exaggerated startle response, worse when tired, worse when wounded, a kind of embodied paranoia common to em-trackers. Then he sees the source of the voice.

  Out from behind the counter walks an extra-large black man in an extra-large smoking jacket. A black silk do-rag tied across his forehead, a black silk top hat worn over the rag. Diamond studs pierce each of his cheeks, and a living screen is built into the top hat, displaying gemstones spelling out phrases: CHEW MY DRAWERS, in sapphires, currently visible.

  So he was wrong: Today can get stranger.

  “Balthazar Jones,” says the man, extending his hand.

  Hand shakes hand.

  “You do a little em-tracking?” asks Lion, more puzzled than anything.

  “Call me a fan of the genre.”

  “I didn’t know the genre had fans.”

  “The Rod of Correction,” says Balthazar, turning to face him directly. “Lion Zorn, em-tracker of the Rod of Correction.”

  That doesn’t happen every day.

  “Welcome to Masta Ice,” continues Balthazar. “How may I be of service?”

  “Would you mind.…” says Lion, reaching into his coat pocket for the cylinder, realizing he left it in the SUV. “Hold on a second.”

  He runs out the front door and into the sheeting rain. The truck’s sensor notices his approach and slides open the back door, but it doesn’t happen fast enough and Lion’s getting drenched.

  “Forgot this,” he tells Bo, water sheeting down his face. He grabs his sling-pack off the seat and starts toward the store.

  On his way, Lion pulls the snuff container from his pack. Clutching it in his hand, he shoulders open the door, steps inside and finds the ninja holding out another towel for him. THWACK on both breasts, the double tap of Holy Exclamations, Batman.

  “Thank you.”

  He mops his hair and face a second time, sets the towel on the counter and holds up the snuff container. He closes his hand around it, then opens his palm when he feels the heat flash, gripping it with only his fingers so Balthazar can see the shiver of the question mark.

  “The same thing happens on the inside of the container,” says Lion. “It flashes down near the bottom. Might be some kind of writing, maybe. Do you think you could tell me what it says?”

  Balthazar takes the container from him without saying a word. He crosses to the back of the store, steps behind the counter, and heads over to an old wooden desk. Lion and the ninja follow. Balthazar slides open a drawer and removes a pair of complicated goggles with steel rims, a small telescoping jeweler’s loupe built into the right lens. His eyes disappear behind them. Lifts a hand to touch a switch and a single LED light glows hot white from the nose band. With the coat and top hat, the effect is pure steampunk, like an image last seen on Lorenzo’s boxer shorts.

  Turning the container over in his hands, Balthazar stares at it through the loupe. A minute passes. He takes the goggles off and fiddles with a dial. Then more staring. Next, he closes his palm around the cylinder, opening his hand in time to see the question mark shiver.

  Repeats this twice.

  Taking off the goggles, Balthazar slides over a chrome third hand from the corner of the desk. The hand appears to be of the traditional inanimate variety, but the alligator clips at its end slide outward automatically, extending their claw-toothed fingers to encircle the cylinder without being asked.

  Out of a drawer comes a black velvet bag; out of the bag comes an assortment of skinny steel mirrors attached to steel chopsticks. Selecting one thin enough to slide inside the cylinder, Balthazar polishes it on the velvet, slides a small switch forward, and holds up the mirror so Lion can see the rim pulse pale blue.

  “German optics,” says Balthazar, “fine German optics.”

  Inserting the mirror into the cylinder with one hand, Balthazar holds the container in his other. Lion catches the flash through heavy fingers.

  “It’s taking a picture?” he asks.

  “An extremely good picture,” says Balthazar. “Image capture down to a millionth of a second, pixel count up the yin-yang.”

  Sliding the mirror out of the snuff container, Balthazar sets them both down on the desk. Placing the thumb and forefinger of his right hand on the top of the mirror and grabbing the other end of the chopstick with his left, he wiggles it slightly, breaking an invisible seal, then removes the mirror entirely.

  Underneath, Lion sights the metallic circuitry of a mini thumb drive.

  “Let’s see what it says,” says Balthazar, opening a desk drawer and removing a vintage iBook. A few seconds while it boots up; then Balthazar slips the drive into a port. A few more seconds until a folder icon pops onto the screen. A double click opens the file, another opens a photograph. The image shows the inside of the cylinder, silver sheen and bobbing white lights.

  Balthazar pulls up a dropdown menu, selects SOFT FILL, and double-clicks. The image refocuses. The dazzle dims, heavy cursive script, maybe Arabic, becoming visible.

  “Nice piece,” says Balthazar. “GFP molecular engraving.”

  “What’s that?” asks Lion.

  “Stego.”

  “Still not following”

  “Encrypted digital watermarking,” explains Balthazar. “Information gets hidden in information, like a code inside the pixels. Only visible with the right kind of key. It’s called steganography. Here,” pointing at the cylinder, “they’re using a similar technique, but done at the nano-level, with DNA as the information carrier. GFP is green fluorescent protein, in this case jellyfish genes woven into the atoms of the metal. The heat from your hand is the key.”

  “Awesome sauce,” says the ninja.

  Balthazar frowns. “Not in my store you don’t.”

  “Retro-meme.”

  “Retro your ass back to So-Cal on the first flight. Didn’t like it then, don’t like it now. Awesome, by itself, is superlative aplenty.”

  “Is that Arabic?” interrupts Lion.

  Balthazar fiddles with software; the image refocuses again and enlarges.

  “Al-Andulus,” says the ninja.

  They both look at her.

  “What? Khan Academy.
I’m like-like-like three semesters shy of my graphic cert.”

  “Like-like-like?” thunders Balthazar. “Woman, I will sit on you until the grammar takes.”

  “What’s Al-Andulus?” asks Lion.

  “It’s an old font,” sayeth the ninja. “English, made to look like Arabic.”

  Pattern recognition system recalibrates. Now Lion can read the script. Three words, not a phrase.

  Three words he knows very well.

  “Muad’Dib,” intones Balthazar, “Sietch Tabr.”

  “What’s a Muad’Dib?” asks the ninja.

  “The little mouse,” says Lion. “Admired for its ability to survive in the desert. The little mouse that jumps.”

  He gets blank stares.

  “From Dune.”

  More blank stares. No one reads the classics anymore.

  He opens his sling-pack, takes out the book and shows it to them. “Twentieth century sci-fi. Muad’Dib is the name of the main character. He’s human, but named for the jumping mouse. Sietch Tabr is a cave in the desert where he lives.”

  The ninja lifts the snuff container off the desk and looks at it closely. Batman decks the Joker. POW and ZAP in happy cartoon red and yellow.

  “Any idea what it means?” she asks Lion.

  “Herbert saw the mash-up coming. He dreamed up the first proto-poly tribe, an Islamic-Zen hybrid. Muad’Dib was their leader. But no, I have no idea what it means.” Looks at Balthazar. “Any idea where it comes from?”

  “Not here,” says Balthazar, “not what I do. I’m just a guy who encodes data in diamonds.”

  “I didn’t know you could do that,” says Lion.

  “Imperfections store information. Any flaw in a diamond, at a structural level, it’s actually a gap. A place a carbon atom is supposed to sit. When it’s missing, nitrogen atoms slip in. Whenever there’s a nitrogen atom positioned next to a carbon atom, you can trap electrons. If the vacant spot has an electron, it’s a one. If the electron is missing, it’s a zero.”

  “Neat trick.”

  “Expensive trick.”

  “How expensive?”

  “About eighty grand for a single stone.”

  “Nice work if you can get it,” says Lion.