by Sean Platt
“Absolute certainty,” Purcell corrected, apparently unconcerned with his failure.
“…and now, Directorate might win.”
“Will win,” Purcell said. “With equal certainty.”
Clive turned to face the man in the fine dark suit, his pocket square fluffed as a farce of civility. “Do you even hear yourself? Absolute certainty now for something that had zero certainty just a few days ago, without your earlier models allowing so much as a point of variance to account for Vale being a wild card?”
“There was no variance at the time,” said Purcell.
“And yet it happened.”
“Free will is something that doesn’t factor into my models. Who has free will as a president in the NAU? It didn’t dawn on anyone to consider it.” Then, apparently having said all he had to say, Purcell kicked back in his chair.
“Vale was supposed to do as he was told,” said Rachel.
“Well, he didn’t,” Alexa snapped, apparently still smarting from Rachel’s earlier rebuke.
“Do we want to nudge things back toward Enterprise?”
“How? There’s no time. I say we let it go. It’s a shell game.”
“We can’t ratify beem if the Senate stays Directorate.”
“Senators can change their minds,” said Jameson Gray. It was true, but it rarely happened.
Clive flapped his hands, palms up, and sat forward with his elbows on the table. “I say we let it go. See what happens. It’s all biding time anyway. We have the underpinnings in place.”
Rachel shifted in her chair, wincing as her organs rearranged themselves. “Does Vale actually know about Mindbender? In terms of where it is today?”
“You’d know better than us,” said Alexa. “Why don’t you just ask our future Panel member?”
“Micah wouldn’t know what Vale knows. Only how Xenia is progressing.”
“And how is that?”
“You can ask Micah when I die.”
Several people around the table chuckled, knowing Rachel.
The truth was that progress on Mindbender had stalled, although Micah’s people at Xenia had recently reported progress in addressing a tricky issue they called “the dislocation paradigm.” There were many pieces to the puzzle. The truth was that no one, with a single possible exception, knew how Noah had managed the impossible with his own upload. And even so, it’s not like Noah West was a Mindbender success story. They’d analyzed the data, thanks in part to Purcell’s historical and ongoing analysis, and the closest analogy for Noah hitting the Beam pipeline when his body died was that of a cup of colored water being dropped into a waterfall. The dye was out there somewhere, but it’s not like you’d ever get it back into a single glass again.
“Vale doesn’t know a thing,” Purcell said. “That’s why we never could have predicted this.”
“Then what made him say it?”
“Maybe he thought he could unite the world.” Clive chuckled because of course, once upon a time, he’d done exactly that.
“Do you really think that was it?” Rachel said. Clive was joking, but there had been a time during Renewal when people had rallied around the idea of Mindbender the same way they’d rallied around his moon project. Giving the entire NAU a single goal to cheer for had a proven unifying effect, but only the tiniest number of people knew that work on Mindbender had continued long after the public had decided uploading minds to The Beam was impossible.
“Maybe,” said Purcell. “I’ll admit I didn’t account for a spontaneous and idiotic burst of idealism.”
Across the table, Eli Oldman’s fat, dreadlocked head turned toward Rachel. “Vale must be talking about the Mindbender story, not the actual ongoing work,” he said. “Iconic Mindbender, from when it existed as a pipe dream, like the genome project or Clive’s base. Even in the lower tiers, the technology to start attempting — emphasis on attempting — uploads is there, albeit a hell of a long way from implementation. Listen back to his Prime Statement, and you’ll see how heavily he couched the whole thing, saying how it might take forever. This must be his way of committing labs to beginning research. After that stunt, nobody will say no to reopening trials. Public opinion will insist on it.”
Alexa looked around the table. “Is there any reason we can’t just let them try? By the time they figure it out, we’ll have a half-century lead, maybe more.”
Iggy made a face. “Nah. No reason.”
“But Shift…” said Rachel.
“I want to run through the models again,” Purcell said. “Shelve it. Meet again in a few days.”
“But Vale will have to be eliminated,” said Rachel. “If he’s going to pull stunts like that, he’ll need to be removed.”
“Oh, yes. He’s entirely too far off-spec.” Eli nodded. “We’re not in a position to tolerate wiggle room right now.”
“So it’ll be handled,” said Rachel.
Alexa: “Already underway.”
“Only someone expendable,” said Rachel. “I want them conditioned.”
“Jesus, of course,” Alexa said, insulted. Panel hadn’t re-used assassins for decades. They were hired anonymously, using more filters than anyone could ever see through, then mnemonically conditioned to follow their target’s Beam signature with no conscious awareness of what they were doing. When they were close enough to the target, a second trigger prompted the assassin to strike. Then afterward, a third set of mnemonics fired off, stopping the assassin’s heart. It was a foolproof system. Only Panel and the mnemonic trainers themselves had access to the program…or even knew the technology to create sleeper soldiers existed.
“Which reminds me,” said Rachel. “York.”
“What about him?” asked Shannon Hooper.
They’d discussed the re-emergence of Stephen York at the last meeting. More than thirty years ago, the group had voted on the best way to handle the partner Noah West had left behind when he’d died. At first, Panel had been split on the issue, half willing to give Quark’s reins to York and half wanting him erased. But at the time, Noah’s death and memory had been fresh, and the ghost of his disapproval hung over the group like a cloud. Eventually, after some rather heated debate, they’d agreed to meet somewhere in the middle and use Quark’s firewalling technology to lock York’s mind and release him into the population. It had felt like a bad compromise to Rachel then, but now, with Vale sending the word “Mindbender” back into the zeitgeist, she had to admit that Noah’s arguments about York’s importance were right all along.
“Xenia has been taking its time on Mindbender, but this new snarl means they’re going to need to push harder to stay far ahead,” she said.
Most of the heads around the table nodded.
“Of course,” said Iggy. “But what does that have to do with York?”
Eli looked at Rachel. “Hell,” he said.
Iggy turned to Eli, puzzled.
“What?” said Purcell from farther down the table.
Eli shook his head. “She wants York to help with Mindbender. That’s it, isn’t it, Rachel?”
Rachel nodded slowly. York’s timing in popping back up now was almost serendipitous. The group had been planning to capture and re-firewall him, but leaving him uncorked, if he could be handled safely, would be even better. It might, in fact, be the only possible way to make Mindbender a reality — something that, thanks to Carter Vale, had now become essential.
“Who else knows more about The Beam?” Rachel went on. “Xenia keeps hitting a wall. They say they’re making progress, but I can tell bullshit when I hear it, and can read Micah like a book. If we want to clear the roadblocks on Mindbender, we’re going to need York’s help.”
“Well,” said Clive. “Then I guess it’s a goddamn good thing we didn’t have him killed.” He looked at Kendrick Hayes, who’d been very pro-assassination at the time.
Eli was still shaking his head.
“What is it?” said Iggy, looking at Eli.
“Fucking Noah. We
kept asking him why he wouldn’t give up on that firewall project as it ran over budget, but it’s like he knew. He knew we wouldn’t just let York take over at Quark, and he knew we’d want to kill him. He knew that couldn’t be allowed because York had important things in his head that might be required, like they are now. So he gave us the solution, gift wrapped, ready when we needed it.”
Rachel looked at the video wall, feeling a renewed sense of urgency as she listened to Eli talk about Noah, Noah’s foresight, and his own apparent agreement that York was needed. The clock was ticking, and thanks to Carter Vale, it was now chugging along at double time. The notion had been plaguing her since the Prime Statements, insistent like an unscratchable itch. She hadn’t wanted to gather Panel to discuss this, but with Mindbender out of the box and the York situation being what it was, there had really been no other choice.
“We have to bring him in,” she said. “York. We have to find him and bring him to Quark.”
“We know how to find him,” said Eli, nodding.
“Now.”
Eli looked at Rachel. Several other heads, hearing her tone, turned to do the same.
“No problem,” said Eli.
“Where is he?” said Rachel.
“He’s moved off-grid.”
“So he can’t access The Beam via a hard line.”
“Not unless he goes out to find an access point. Why?”
“Who can we send out with rovers to triangulate on him?”
Again, the group met Rachel’s gaze for a moment before responding. Finally, Morgan Marconi said, “What’s the rush, Rachel?”
Rachel watched the people around the table, drumming mental fingers and trying to decide what to say. She knew something the others didn’t — something she’d learned long ago. Panel as a whole had decided to firewall York’s mind, but before that decision had been reached, a splinter within the group had set plans into motion that could not be stopped. Firewalling had obscured York’s ID from the system before any damage could be done, but now his ID was back out there. Panel had seen it already, through an obscured, protected connection within the city — but once the rest of The Beam saw York’s ID too, those old plans would once again begin to tick inexorably into motion. And because the plans had been paused midstream, chances were excellent they didn’t have much further to tick before something exploded.
“What is it?” said Clive. “Is there a problem with York?”
Rachel nodded, the weight of years heavy on her shoulders.
“There’s an assassin after him,” she said.
The people onscreen began to shuffle. Rachel heard muttered questions, all said with varying degrees of indignation: Who? What? When? Why?
Iggy was still watching Rachel. “We have access to all the known assassins,” he said. “We can snoop out a job targeting his ID and stop it.”
Rachel was shaking her head. “No, we can’t. The person after York is a mnemonic agent. A sleeper.”
All of the discussion around the table stopped.
“I have good reason to believe the first sequence was already triggered,” she rushed on. “If that’s true, the sleeper will already be close to him. Already in position. Already homed in.” She swallowed, her old throat dry. “Already trusted.”
Clive looked at Iggy. Iggy looked at Alexa. Alexa looked at Eli.
“So why isn’t he dead already?” said Clive.
It was Eli who answered. “Because he’s been masked. Now he’s off-grid. He hasn’t, in fact, even logged in from an open connection since he came out from behind the firewall.”
“What does that mean?” said Iggy.
“It means that as soon as he touches the open Beam,” Eli answered, “he’s dead.”
Season 5
EPISODE 13
April 18, 2029 — District Zero
“I’m sorry,” said the pleasant British man when Noah stepped off the elevator on the 124th floor of the so-called Licorice Spire — the black, braided-looking downtown high-rise. “Who are you, again?”
Noah stopped to assess the question, unsure if he was being insulted. He used to take any perceived slight personally, but a lot had changed in the last handful of years. Now he could take even the most caustic barbs in stride. The world had risen then ended. During the worst of it, Noah had laid the first bricks of his fledgling empire. It took thick skin to be Noah West these days, but he’d discovered the trick: You just had to remember that when you were doing disruptive things, everyone thought you were an asshole. Most of the world was too dumb to have vision. Until vision was seen as genius, it would be seen as foolish. People said Noah was arrogant to believe what he did and do as he’d done while building Quark, but arrogance was a word stupid people used to describe confidence — and modesty was simply another word for fear.
But Clive Spooner, assessing Noah in front of some sort of greenery-filled atrium, smiled cordially. This wasn’t an insult. Spooner seemed to honestly have no idea who Noah was, despite Noah’s proper appointment.
Or (and this seemed more likely given the megabillionaire’s reputation for eccentricity) he’d simply spaced out. Spooner had a charming, boyish smile and an affable air that complemented his upper-class English accent. The world had grown used to seeing Spooner as delightfully forgetful in ways that didn’t matter…seeing as he was so brilliant in the ways that mattered most. But that was before the Fall, when Spooner united the globe before nature broke it to pieces. Before the floods and the electrostatic levies. Before hordes gathered in Spooner’s native Wild East, lobbing the first of their spiteful missiles toward his new home.
“I made an appointment with your secretary,” Noah said, trying on a smile.
The elevator door shut behind Noah, close enough to pinch the back of his blazer. Spooner didn’t move out of his way but wasn’t blocking it either; his stance wasn’t confrontational despite his well-bred surprise at Noah’s presence. He hadn’t moved because he still had a watering can in his hand and clearly wanted to use it on the hydrangeas beside Noah’s head, which he’d been tending when the doors had parted.
Noah glanced back when Spooner didn’t respond. The hydrangeas were near a lilac bush, which in turn was near a clutch of hothouse roses. There was a small cactus beside that then something overly green and vibrant that resembled a rain forest plant. If Noah wasn’t mistaken, he thought he could smell oranges somewhere, too. There was probably a full tree here somewhere, inside this strangest of botanical anterooms.
Spooner waved the watering can at Noah and laughed. His teeth were very white.
“Oh, that wasn’t my secretary.”
It wasn’t a relevant clarification to make. Did Spooner really have no idea why Noah was here? And if he didn’t, shouldn’t he be curious enough to ask Noah’s purpose rather than making fine points about staffing? Or did it not matter because he was about to hand Noah pruning shears and gardening gloves and send him to work?
Noah replied the only way he could think to: “It wasn’t your secretary?”
“Doubtful, seeing as I don’t have one. You must have spoken to Larry.”
“Larry?” The man had called himself Lawrence. A dignified-sounding name for a dignified-sounding man — unlike Larry, in Noah’s opinion. Lawrence had sounded like a note taker. Someone who merely made appointments and passed information up the chain. Like a secretary.
“Anyway, dreadfully sorry,” Spooner said, dodging the Larry quandary, “but I still don’t know who you are.”
“I’m Noah West.”
“Oh, yes! Now I remember. You work with EverCrunch.”
That wasn’t quite right. Noah didn’t work with EverCrunch; he’d bought EverCrunch. He’d done it without any of his own capital — a feat deserving of recognition. He may or may not have technically had control of the voting shares when that takeover happened for a surprisingly low sum, but seeing as he’d made plenty to buy out those shares above market value after he’d decupled the old company’s profits,
Noah figured that everyone was paid and it had all worked out in the end. Even the Securities and Exchange Commission would have trouble seeing things differently — and given the wild frontier American capitalism had become in the Fall’s aftermath, the SEC had its hands full with behemoths like Ryan Enterprises and its questionable practices. They wouldn’t bother little old Quark over a deal where everyone had ultimately won.
Well…except for EverCrunch’s founder, Ben Stone.
But still, Noah wasn’t insulted. Spooner was one of the most powerful humans alive. His face was more known than any to ever grace a box of Wheaties — but he had an aw shucks manner that made even his worst gaffes seem more like charming befuddlement.
“I’m with Quark,” Noah corrected.
“I’m sorry. You’re right. It’s all coming back to me now. Larry put your appointment on my calendar, and I simply forgot.” He shrugged, again flashing that world-pleasing smile. “I hope you’ll forgive me. Did you see Larry downstairs?”
Noah wondered if Spooner was seriously confusing the man who must be his executive assistant with a common doorman. It hadn’t been much easier to reach Lawrence the Assistant than Spooner himself. Noah had needed to clear his way through two pre-assistants before Lawrence. Despite the yes-sir way he’d taken Noah’s appointment, “Larry” clearly had more status than opening doors and tipping his cap to incomers.
“No.”
“Then how did you know to come here to this floor instead of my office?”
Noah looked around. He was essentially in a greenhouse, albeit a strange one. He could see the sky through tinted glass in the double-tall room, but the sprawling space was subdivided into many smaller enclosures. Some of the greenhouses-within-greenhouses were made of emerald glass, and some were transparent. Some were square and others dome shaped, as if intended to cover a single large plant and nothing more. There were some uncovered plants throughout the intervening area and some that only seemed to be uncovered — though on closer inspection, Noah could see the air around them shimmer, as if covered by permeable force fields.
