David had been sitting in an Internet cafe in Shenzhen watching kids farm gold in online games when he got the email from Christine, with a simple one page document: sign here, send back, you’re divorced. He signed, then fell into another depression for a week, drinking himself to sleep each night.
After that, he focused even more deeply on his mission. He spent a few weeks in Japan, then a month wandering the Scandinavian countries.
Having learned what he needed, he returned to the States and holed up in a tiny apartment in Southeast Portland, around the corner from a burrito shop, coffee house, and grocery, so he never needed to travel off the block. He told no one he was back.
Over the course of many months, he laboriously crafted a virus using his specialized knowledge of ELOPe’s core algorithms. In what appeared to be innocuous plain English email text, he had hidden the code. David had created a message which, by the very act of being analyzed by ELOPe’s natural language processor, would cause the software to behave erratically. First ELOPe spuriously forwarded the message on to random recipients. Then the AI tried to optimize the received email, endlessly expanding upon the text. When the process exhausted the memory of the email server, the core software would start to swap pieces of the message out to the hard drive, with the side effect of gradually erasing the files stored there. Over the course of hours, the server would be wiped of operating systems, programs, and user data, until the machine stopped functioning all at once.
Sending the email would start a chain reaction, replicating endlessly until the virus destroyed every copy of ELOPe encountered. The malevolent program targeted ELOPe, but David realized the software might destroy all the computers in the world, even those without ELOPe. He was willing to take the chance.
David iteratively tested and improved the virus on an isolated cluster of thirty servers spread across folding tables in his apartment. Using a salvaged copy of ELOPe’s code, he ran trials of his virus until he could consistently wipe out every trace of ELOPe. Then he would restore the computers, make improvements, and try again. Now, a year after the failed attack on ELOPe, he was ready to release the virus. No combination of virus scanners or evolved variations of ELOPe had been able to detect or stop his virus on the isolated cluster of computers.
As he ate the microwaved dumplings, he considered telling Gene about the planned release. Gene was the one person he still kept in touch with occasionally, and trusted. In fact, if it hadn’t been for Gene’s newsletter, with his tips about how to live without being monitored by computers, he surely wouldn’t have made it this far.
On second thought, he wouldn’t tell Gene. He’d worked in isolation for the last four months, and he couldn’t risk all he’d done for the comfort of an old friend in the final few hours.
After dinner, he decided there was no point to waiting. After all, he might get cold feet like the crew of the Enterprise. He pulled out the directional wireless antenna he had ready for this occasion. The antenna was a modified Pringles can, the granddaddy of Wi-Fi hacks, and would allow David to pick up someone else’s wireless signal at distances of up to two miles.
David found a neighbor a few blocks away with an open wireless network. He connected to their Wi-Fi and used an otherwise clean computer to send the virus to a few hundred email addresses. As soon as the email went out, he pulled the plug on the network connection and checked the clock. His elapsed time online was less than a minute. He was probably safe. Hopefully untraceable.
He poured himself another glass of wine. He smiled. The first time he could remember smiling in a long time. If everything went well, by morning ELOPe would be gone.
To: WellingtonHospital.intranet.admitting_form@email-to-web-bridge.avogadrocorp.com
Body:
Patient-Name: David Ryan
Admittance-Type: Transfer
Patient-State: anesthetic/general
Procedure: AvoOS implantation / version 1.0
Laura Kendal left the operating room, exhausted after taking second shift in a day-long operation on Catherine Matthews, a two-year-old girl with life-threatening brain seizures. Laura was especially proud of their work that day. The experimental surgery they’d done at AvoClinic would give the girl a normal life, something she’d never have had without the implant.
She grabbed a coffee and headed to the nurses’ desk to check in. She stared in shock as she turned the corner and found a gurney with an unconscious patient prepped for surgery.
She glanced at the name tag. David Ryan, scheduled for AvoImplant. Checking her tablet, she found an entry for him on the schedule for the day. All normal, except that never in her history as a nurse had she seen an anesthetized patient left alone. There were no conditions under which it was acceptable.
“Who admitted this patient?” Laura yelled, looking around the department. She was the senior nurse on duty. “Who accepted the transfer of a patient under anesthesia and left them alone?”
The other nurses on duty shrugged.
“When I got back a few minutes ago, he was here, prepped for surgery,” one answered. “His records are in order, the procedure was scheduled. I checked with Doctor Thatcher, and he’s planning to do the surgery this afternoon. The records say the patient was anesthetized by one of the staff anesthesiologists from the main hospital. I don’t know why he would have left the patient alone, unless there was an emergency.”
“Doctor Thatcher is already prepped and waiting in surgery. Can I take him back?” another nurse asked.
“Yeah, I guess so,” Laura responded. “Go ahead. I’ll contact the anesthesiologist, and if there isn’t a damn good reason for what he did, I’m filing a complaint with the anesthesiology board.”
David woke up groggy and dry-mouthed, but blissful, like he was floating on clouds. He glanced around at blue and beige walls: unfamiliar, and yet obviously a hospital. His mind slowly recognized the relaxed feeling as the fading effects of a sedative maybe, or even general anesthesia. He couldn’t remember why he’d come here. Had he been in an accident? In the midst of this puzzle, a woman entered his view.
“Mr. Ryan, I’m Laura. I’m glad you’re awake. Please follow my hand.” She waved two fingers in front of his eyes.
Involuntarily he followed her hand.
“Great. I can get you a small drink of water or a popsicle if you like.”
“Where am I?” David asked, his throat froggy.
“Don’t worry, Mr. Ryan, a little disorientation is normal after anesthesia. The procedure went fine.”
“What procedure?” he asked, trying to fight off the drug-induced mental fog. “Where am I?”
“You’re at the AvoClinic at Wellington Hospital,” Laura said. “We completed the neural implant. Doctor Thatcher says the surgery went perfectly. It will take a few days for your brain to acclimate to the interface.”
“What? Neural implant?” David tried to sit up.
“Please relax, Mr. Ryan. You’re lucky to have the Avogadro implant. Your brain is directly connected to the Internet. It takes a few days for you to begin interpreting the neural inputs. As soon as you adjust, you’ll be able to read email, use the web, control computers—all with nothing more than a thought!”
Avogadro implant, brain surgery, Internet access? What had happened?
“No!” he cried, struggling up. “Take it out!” He found an IV in one arm and succeeded in pulling it out, even as the nurse tried belatedly to stop him. He grabbed at his head, but she held his hands down.
“Mr. Ryan, please, you just had surgery. Remain calm.” Then louder, she called, “Doctor! We need a sedative!”
David reeled, falling back onto the gurney. He’d failed. His virus hadn’t worked, and he’d only succeeded in getting ELOPe’s attention. What went wrong?
“Take it out,” he pleaded, as the nurse pinned him down. “You don’t understand. ELOPe is trying to get me. Through my mind. Please!”
A doctor and a nurse approached.
“He’s paranoid,”
the nurse said. “I haven’t seen a reaction like this.”
The doctor checked her tablet. “Protocol says anti-anxiety meds and sedation until his mind integrates with the neural implant.”
“I didn’t ask for an implant!” David said. “Please take it out.”
“We’ve got your digital signature,” the doctor said, looking at her screen again. “For all four consultations. I’m sorry you aren’t remembering clearly right now.”
“Let me go!” David yelled, violently struggling to get up.
No good. They held him down as the doctor pulled out a syringe with one hand and injected him.
The drug started to course through his veins and he felt himself dropping off. As he slid away, he heard the doctor’s soothing voice saying, “Don’t worry, Mr. Ryan. Everyone who’s had one of these implants is delighted by the experience. Just wait until the computer starts talking to you.”
Dear Reader,
Thank you for buying Avogadro Corp: The Singularity Is Closer Than It Appears. I hope you enjoyed the book.
As an independent author, I don’t have a marketing department or advertising budget like a big publisher does. I’m completely reliant on readers to tell others about my books. If you liked Avogadro Corp, please help spread the word.
If you’d like to write a review or buy A.I. Apocalypse, the next book in the series, please visit my website for a full list of retailer links.
To find out when future books are released, subscribe to my monthly newsletter at williamhertling.com.
If you really love the series, consider supporting my Patreon campaign to receive early access to upcoming books, special bonus chapters, and other rewards.
Thanks again,
William Hertling
P.S. Keep reading for a free preview of the next book in the series, A.I. Apocalypse.
Preview of A.I. Apocalypse
Leon’s phone buzzed, beeped, and shrilled at him until he reached one arm out from under the flannel covers and swiped two fingers across the display to turn the alarm off. Eyes still closed, he shrugged off his blankets and stumbled towards the bathroom, a trip of only a few steps, hitting himself just twice along the way: once walking right into his closed bedroom door, and the second time on the corner of the bathroom sink. He turned on the water, and leaned against the white tile wall waiting for the water to get hot.
When he was done in the shower, he wrapped himself in a towel and walked slightly more alertly to his room, steam rising faintly off his body in the tiny apartment’s cold morning air. The superintendent wouldn’t turn on central heating for another month, regardless of whether it was cold or not.
It was quiet in the apartment, his parents already at work. He grabbed yesterday’s dark blue jeans off his chair and pulled them on. On his desk in front of him was an empty bag of cookies and empty bottle of soda, evidence of his late night Mech War gaming session. He dug in a pile of clean laundry his mom had deposited inside his door until he found his vintage “I (heart) SQL” T-shirt. It was obscure enough that no one at school would understand it. They'd probably think it was some new band.
He grabbed his phone and shoved it into his pocket. He thumbed his desk, unlocking the drawers, and pulled out a locked metal box decorated with stickers carefully layered over each other to form, in aggregate, a picture of a plant growing out of a heap of garbage. An artifact of a girl from last year, he both treasured and was embarrassed by it. In the depths of the box, he rummaged around until he found rolling paper and some non-GMO weed, which he put into a jacket pocket. He fumbled through the container again, anxiously looking for his cigarettes, until he finally found them on the desk inside the empty cookie bag. He shook his head, wondering why he had thought to put them there.
In the kitchen Leon shook cereal into an old cracked white porcelain bowl and followed with cold milk. He gently bumped his phone twice on the table, activating the wall display and syncing it to his phone. He surfed the in-game news and checked out his stats while he ate. He was ranked 23rd on his favorite Mech War server, up ten spots due to the new genetic algorithms he’d written for targeting control. He had some ideas for an anti-tracking algorithm he wanted to try out next.
When he finished slurping cereal, he grabbed his backpack and headed out the door. He locked all three locks on the front door. His Russian immigrant parents thought you could never be too secure. In addition to the electronic building lock and a digital fingerprint deadbolt, they had an actual antique key lock. Leon wore the key around his neck sometimes, and half the kids at school thought it was a curious kind of jewelry.
He made his way the few blocks to South Shore High School. Hundreds of kids streamed across Ralph Avenue, ignoring the cars. Drivers angrily honked their horns as their vehicles’ mandatory SafetyPilots cut in automatically. Leon ran across with a group of other kids, and streamed through the front door with them.
Leon made his way into first period, math. James was already there, wearing his usual army green flak jacket. Leon’s Russian heritage gave him blond hair and a tall, large frame, but James still had an inch or two in height and a solid fifty pounds on him. He punched James on the arm as he went in, and James punched him back. The bell rang, and they hurried to their desks in the back row. Moments after everyone else sat down, Vito flew through the doors, and slid into his seat next to them, earning a glare from the teacher.
They may have been the three smartest kids in school, but they tried to keep that secret. They didn’t fit in with the Brains. Preppy clothes and drama club seemed ridiculous. Though the football team would have loved James, James would rather be playing MMORPGs. They surely didn’t fit in with the socialites, and their shallow interests. They weren’t skaters or punks. They might have been labelled geeks, but the geeks rarely came in wearing military jackets or ditched school to smoke pot. They were too smart, and had too much of the hacker ethic to fit in with the stoners.
No, they were just their own clique, and they made sure not to fit anyone else’s stereotypes.
Leon glanced over at Vito, who was fiddling with his ancient Motorola. Vito lavished care on the old phone. The case was worn smooth, thousands of hours of polishing from Vito’s hands. Even the original plastic seams had disappeared with age. When a component died, Vito would micro-solder a replacement in. Vito said that after a certain point, the phone just didn't get any older, it just got different.
Leon daydreamed through the class, volunteering a correct answer only when the teacher called on him. In his mind, he was walking the ruins of Berlin in his mech, replaying the scenes of last night’s gaming.
He thought about writing a new heat detection algorithm for his mech. The current generation of games all required programming to excel. Leon knew from history class that once the marketability commodity in games was gold and equipment. Now it was algorithms. The game made available the underlying environment data, and it was up to the programmer to find the best algorithms for piloting, aiming, detecting, moving, and coordinating mechs. There was a persistent rumor that DARPA had funded the game as a way of crowd-sourcing the all important algorithms used to control military drones. Leon couldn’t find any solid evidence on that assertion online.
No, maybe he should focus on a new locomotion algorithm. He’d heard that some mechs using custom locomotion code were coaxing ten percent more speed and range while keeping their thermal signatures lower. If that was true, Leon could sell it on eBay for top dollar.
Leon became more deeply immersed in the problem, and when the bell rang, only James whacking him on the head woke him from his thoughts.
“See ya later, Lee,” Vito called, headed off to another class.
“Adios.”
Leon and James walked together to their social studies class.
“How are your applications coming?” James asked.
“OK, I think,” Leon said. “I just finished the MIT application. I aced the qualifying exams. Dude, it sucks though. If I don’t get a scholars
hip, I'm screwed.”
“You and everyone else, man.” James clapped him on the shoulder.
“Okay class, who can explain the legal and political significance of the Mesh?” Leon’s social studies teacher looked around. “Josh, how about you?”
Josh looked up from his desk, where he appeared to be scribbling football plays. “Huh?”
“The Mesh, Josh, I was asking about the Mesh.”
“Mesh, uh, helps keep you cool on the field?”
The uproar of laughter from the class drowned out the teacher for a moment. “Very funny. Come on, someone. This is how you play games, watch TV, and get information. Surely someone has cared enough to figure out how all those bits get into your house.”
Leon rolled his eyes at James and mock yawned.
“How about you Leon? I’m sure you know the answer to this.”
Leon hesitated, weighing the coolness impact of answering, then decided. He felt sorry for the teacher. “The Mesh was formed ten years ago by Avogadro Corp to help maintain net neutrality,” he began.
“At the time, access to the Internet in the United States was mostly under the control of a handful of companies such as Comcast, who had their own media products they wanted to push. They saw the Internet as competing with traditional TV channels, and so they wanted to control certain types of network traffic to eliminate competition with their own services.”
“Very good, Leon. Can you tell us what they built, and why?”
Leon sighed when he realized the teacher wasn’t going to let him off easy. “According to Avogadro, it would have been too expensive and time consuming to build out yet another network infrastructure comparable to what the cable companies and phone companies had built last century. Instead they built MeshBoxes and gave them away. A MeshBox does two things. It’s a high speed wireless access point that allows you to connect your phone or laptop to the Internet. But that’s just what Avogadro added so that people would want them. The real purpose of a MeshBox is to form a mesh network with nearby MeshBoxes. Instead of routing data packets from a computer to a wireless router over the Comcast, the MeshBox routes the data packets over the network of MeshBoxes."
Avogadro Corp Page 22
