by Phoenix Ward
“Do you even know how to use one of those things?” the I.I. teased.
It’s a keypad, Maynard, Karl responded. Yeah, I know how to use it.
“And you know which end to talk into?”
You’re lucky I can’t physically smack you.
“It’s just another silver lining to being dead,” Maynard said.
The psychologist took a long, slow sip from his coffee before punching in the number on the phone.
“You remember his number?” Maynard asked incredulously.
I do. Karl was grateful for his firm memory, as he wouldn’t want to risk looking up his friend’s number on his cerebral computer. He was inclined to leave as sparse a trail as possible.
The speaker showed its age by buzzing like a tin can of wasps each time the sharp ringing tone played. Both he and the I.I. winced internally at the sound, hoping for a swift answer.
Even though it was only a loose handful of seconds, it felt like several hours before a voice interrupted the sound of the phone ringing.
“Hello?” a man greeted. His voice sounded groggy, like he had been asleep when Karl called.
“Thompson?” the psychologist said. He wanted to be sure that his friend’s number hadn’t changed or that he hadn’t misdialed.
The man on the other line hung up.
“Well that was rude,” Maynard commented.
I expected that, Karl started. That was Thompson, alright. He’s always had a bit of a paranoid nature.
“Can we trust him?” Maynard wanted to know.
Karl didn’t answer right away. He felt certain that his old friend was honest and loyal, but his mind knew that some years had passed since their last meeting. A number of things can change a man while time marches incessantly forward. Who knew what kind of person Thompson had become?
Karl was a psychologist, however, first and foremost. He understood the patterns of human nature, at least as well as a human can. There was no likely timeline he could imagine that would lead Thompson to a life of dishonesty—at least where his friends were concerned.
Maynard could hear the musing, but decided to keep his commentary to himself, for which Karl was grateful.
The man stared at the phone’s handset for a few seconds, as if some form of paralysis had fallen over him.
“What now?” the voice in his head broke in.
Shh, Karl thought. Wait.
They didn’t have to wait for much longer before the handset started to ring. Karl didn’t let it get to a second ring before pulling the device up to his ear and hitting the receive button.
“Terrace, is that you?” the same dozy voice asked before the psychologist had time to say anything.
“It’s me,” Karl replied.
“You know not to reach me here,” Thompson started. “It’s been almost a year since this phone’s rang, and for good reason.”
“You didn’t dial his cerebral computer?” Maynard inquired.
Karl ignored him. “It’s important,” he told Thompson.
“I know,” his old friend said. “I get the news as soon as it happens.”
“So you know about my… exodus?”
“More than the cops looking for you do, apparently,” Thompson said. “How are you holding up?”
“As fine as I can be,” Karl explained. “However, I don’t know how long that’s going to last.”
“I see,” Thompson hummed. “You need shelter.”
“I do.”
“I’ll meet you on the light rail. Arapahoe station. Twenty minutes,” Thompson stated between sharp inhales. “Don’t delay.”
“I won’t,” Karl said.
Thompson
“Are you gonna tell me anything about this guy before we go and put our lives in his hands?” Maynard seemed agitated—bit more afraid than Karl would assume an I.I. to be.
Like I said, he’s an old friend of mine, the psychologist started to explain. We went to school together. He was skilled with all kinds of hardware-to-software interactions, and after a while I think he found school a little… boring.
“Aww, so he’s a little troublemaker, is he?” Maynard inferred.
The man gave an audible sigh and turned down the tunnel that led to the Arapahoe station. There were few people around them, just the remnants of afternoon shoppers and a couple day drunks loudly reminiscing about some film or another.
He got into a bit of a legal bind when he was caught stealing the school’s server equipment, Karl continued. They kicked him out of school, and once his probation was over, he went right back to lifting machinery for his private use.
“What did he want all the technology for?” Maynard asked.
He was a bit of an idealist, Karl said internally. A hippy anarchist, if you will. Strong distrust of the establishment, and an even stronger love for the downtrodden. He would help eco-terrorists when they raided animal labs by shutting down the security systems or covering their tracks.
“Sounds like a good man to have as a friend,” Maynard replied without a hint of sarcasm.
Yeah, well that was almost ten years ago, Karl said, playing devil’s advocate. He was in with some dramatic individuals. Who knows where he owes his loyalties—willingly or not.
Maynard seemed to be deep in thought as Karl scanned the faces of each passing person for Thompson. The psychologist felt like he could almost hear the humming of concentration from inside his own brain until Maynard spoke up.
“If your friend is as talented as you say he is, he might be able to do more than just hide us,” the I.I. said.
How do you mean?
“Providing that he’s not in the pocket of some sinister overlord or another, he might help us identify our traitor.”
Are you so certain there even is one? Karl mused, though without much conviction.
“You know as well as I that there is,” Maynard retorted. “At least one! You can’t honestly believe that was the orchestrated attack of slog-minded radicals, can you?”
Radicals have been known to pull off even more complex attacks, Karl argued.
“I don’t buy it,” Maynard said plainly. “Why would they frame you, then?”
They had to frame someone.
“No,” the I.I. replied. “There was an agenda here more sophisticated than mere hatred for installed intelligences. This was too specific. Your average extremist knows nothing about the projects conducted in those labs. The government hardly knows!”
Why would they need to know about the projects? Karl asked. Wouldn’t finding the lab had anything to do with installed intelligences be reason enough to target it?
“Perhaps to the stray madman, but a lunatic like that couldn’t get security access,” Maynard continued. “He or she would need keycards, digital permissions, EPID tags, the works.”
Suppose the madman—or woman—had an extensive knowledge of cybersecurity?
“I think you know what the odds of that are,” Maynard said. “A team of twelve of the most renowned cybersecurity experts designed the safe measures around that lab. You think your average hacker could manage that?”
Thompson could, Karl commented.
“All the more reason to use caution,” Maynard replied.
“You’ve gotten older,” a voice whispered into Karl’s ear once he paused at a railing to again look around for his friend.
The psychologist spun around in alarm, a slight cold sweat covering the surface of his body. His panic dissipated when he recognized the speaker.
“Thompson,” he greeted his friend. “I’d say you look the worse for wear out of the two of us.”
The hacker smiled, exposing his large teeth that sat packed in a mildly crooked alignment in his mouth. His lips were surrounded by a thin dusting of facial hair, though Karl couldn’t tell if that was how it was meant to look or if his friend had simply neglected his grooming. Those hairs were light and silvery. The psychologist recalled that Thompson had gone gray quite early in his life.
Thompson’s hair was concealed by a worn Ushanka hat, one that he had pulled the ears down on to cover most of his face. His jacket was zipped up and the dark brown collar was pulled high. To Karl, he looked like the most suspicious outlaw he’d ever met, but to others, he supposed that Thompson merely looked like a drunk with a hangover. People weren’t likely to distinguish between the two.
“You’re alone?” Thompson wanted to double-check.
“For the most part,” Karl replied.
The hacker gave him a sort of wary eye squint, raising his brow in confusion at the same time.
“I’ll explain better when we are alone, but yes, I am physically unaccompanied,” Karl reworded.
“You’re bugged?” Thompson inferred.
“It’s complicated, but trust me, I am not a danger to you.”
“As far as you know,” Thompson retorted.
“I like this guy already,” Maynard commented.
Shut up, Karl urged.
“So, you going to start off by telling me you’re innocent?” Thompson said. “That the things they say about you aren’t true? That you’ve been set up?”
“You almost sound like you got a summary of the situation,” Karl said.
“I figured there were two likely possibilities,” Thompson started. “Either one of my oldest friends—who I’ve known for over a decade both professionally and personally—had a total personality flip and picked up mass murder and prison escape as hobbies, or you were framed. I haven’t quite decided which I think it is.”
“Thompson, there’s a traitor. More than anything, they want me to look guilty, though I have no idea why.”
“From what I’ve gathered, it was an organized attack. Flawless coordination, advanced armaments, and even body armor. But you don’t know why they attacked, do you?”
“No, I don’t,” Karl said.
“Is there anything you can think of?” Thompson spoke without haste in his tone. “Anything you were working on that might provoke such reaction?”
“It’s complicated,” Karl repeated. “Like I said.”
“You’re asking me to harbor you and, in doing so, put myself at great risk. I think you’d best explain what I’m dealing with, if you seek my help.”
Karl hesitated. His internal gears creaked as they spun and spun. They slowed, though, calming to the rhythm of his heartbeat when he managed to contemplate the request.
“Okay,” he said. “I’ll have to introduce you to someone.”
Thompson made no attempt to interrupt while Karl explained his story. The hacker’s face was impossible to read, stone-like and cold like a lasagna someone had left out for too long. There was no sense of skepticism, nor was there any of belief or excitement. He chose to listen rather than react until the psychologist paused and urged him for a response with his eyes.
“I see,” Thompson replied. His tone failed to betray his inner thinking. “You were right to come to me.”
“I’m not being delusional, right?” Karl asked.
“Not at all,” his old friend answered. “From what you’ve told me, I would assume you are still in danger as well, and not just from the law. Were you able to make out any names or titles that the attackers might have called each other? Anything that could identify them?”
“Not anything that convenient,” the psychologist replied. “But the one I saw was in military gear. These weren’t homegrown extremists—this isn’t like those chaotic attacks of the terror era; these people had an inside man.”
“I agree,” the hacker said. “And you have no suspicions?”
“No one registers as a suspect in my book,” Karl started. “However, I knew few people, since I kept to myself while I worked. It could be any of the interns, perhaps a double agent of sorts.”
“Or it could be higher up,” Thompson suggested. “From what you’ve said, I would doubt an intern capable of such orchestration. Maybe they could tell others details about the lab, but I can’t imagine they’d have the kind of access that your attackers had.”
“That makes sense to me,” Maynard commented within the psychologist’s brain.
“Maynard seems to agree as well,” Karl mentioned.
The hacker gave a bit of a smile, one that a father might have when hearing about his child’s imaginary friend.
“He does, does he?” Thompson said. Then he leaned in a bit more. “What’s it like?”
“Pardon?”
“You know, having someone else in your head,” Thompson clarified. “Is it as maddening as it sounds?”
“Even more so,” Karl replied.
“You’re telling me,” Maynard said.
“He’s not fond of it, either,” Karl explained.
“Can he hear me now?”
“Yes.”
“He can see me?”
“Yes.”
Thompson had an expression like one might have when they suddenly realized they’d said something very graphic in front of a child. His face seemed full of concern, yet amusement. Karl couldn’t put his finger quite on it.
“Hello, Maynard,” Thompson said as if he were addressing an emotional child. “My name’s Thompson. How is it in there? Crowded?”
“Actually, a bit roomier than you’d expect,” Maynard replied with a tone of humor.
“He says hello back,” Karl simply replied.
“Follow me,” Thompson said without any further warning.
Karl jolted alert when he saw his friend start to walk away. A few swift strides brought him to the man’s side, and they made their way from the market without drawing any attention.
So what do you think? Karl asked within his own mind.
“Think about what?” Maynard asked.
About Thompson.
“I dunno,” Maynard replied with an earnest air about him. “I sense no malice from him. And he seems to be able to piss you off a little, so I like him.”
Hmm.
“But be careful,” Maynard urged.
I might need your help with that, Karl conceded.
“I’ll be here.”
Thompson led him into an underground train, but Karl had been too distracted to note what line they were on or what route they expected to take. The two men slipped into a seat like the floor had been iced and they had no choice. There were only three other people in the car with them, and none seemed alert enough to register their presence.
“So, what have you been up to?” Karl asked, almost conversationally.
“Me?” Thompson said, looking around himself with a bit of paranoid caution. “I’ve been working on something big.”
“Oh?”
“Have you heard of Governor Gubbins or Representative Dahomey?”
Karl searched his memory banks and found the names rang a bell. Maynard inquired about them, but the psychologist ignored the I.I. and focused on his human friend.
“Only in passing,” Karl answered. “Some headlines and whatnot. Do you have something to do with all that?”
Thompson gave what some might call a sly sneer, though Karl found it phony in a way.
“Surely you’ve heard about all their supporters jumping ship?” he asked the psychologist.
“I’ve heard nothing of it.”
“Well, if you had, you might have been the only one smart enough to know that I was responsible,” Thompson said, a confident smirk stapled to the front of his jaw. “Maybe.”
“What did you do?”
“What do I do?” Thompson corrected him.
“What do you do?” Karl asked, his voice saturated with annoyance.
“I’m Robin Hood, baby,” Thompson said. There was something about his expression that told Karl his friend had been waiting quite some time to use that line.
“Care to elaborate?” Karl asked.
“I’ve developed an algorithm, you see,” Thompson started, still tossing glances over his shoulder to assure he was not listened to by strange ears. “I’ve been taking the money politicians lik
e Gubbins gets from his greedy donors and I’m offloading it into environmental charities. Anonymously, of course.”
“You’re what?” Karl asked with concern.
Thompson slapped his thigh and shushed him in an urgent request to be quiet.
“You heard me,” his friend answered. “I take the money away whenever a special interest donates it. Then the politician never knows the donation was made and doesn’t pass whatever bill they paid him for. They, of course, rat on the politician for not playing ball. It’s great.”
“Are you telling me that you’re a fugitive?” Karl inquired.
“I’m telling you that I’m in the same boat you are,” Thompson replied. “People are looking for me, people are looking for you. Best call is to hide together, don’t you think?”
“What if they find you?” Karl asked.
“I wouldn’t be meeting you if I thought that possible,” Thompson said.
“Anything’s possible,” Karl commented.
“Not everything is likely, Karl,” Thompson insisted. “If you are to stay with me, you will need to understand that.”
“We need him,” Maynard stated without emotion in the psychologist’s head. “Don’t ruin this.”
“Okay,” Karl said after a deep breath. “I’m sorry.”
“No apologies needed,” his friend offered. He looked up at the display that showed the train’s route “This is our stop.”
The Calm
Images on Thompson’s old monitor display flashed before Karl’s eyes, but he paid no attention to them. His mind was swimming, and Maynard continued to paddle water in the opposite direction, leaving the psychologist disoriented and frustrated.
The I.I. was losing patience himself, and that only made their symbiotic relationship harder to maintain. Karl was still filled with the adrenaline from the escape. His mind seemed to seep in some hallucinogenic liquid, making it hard to discern real life from daydreams. It was like waking too quickly from a nightmare; the illusion of a dream still hung onto every nerve ending he had.
Every sound he heard, from the blaring noises of the commercials on the display to the incessant bickering from the I.I. seemed blurred out, like he was hearing it all underwater. When Thompson came up and offered him something, he couldn’t make out the words his friend used.
