by Phoenix Ward
A Latina woman with a dark blue blazer was positioned next to a long line of police tape. Officers could be seen moving about in the background, talking into their radios and signaling to others nearby.
“Julie, it’s been a blur of chaos for the last forty minutes, when gunmen initially entered the building and started shooting attendees,” the woman explained, looking over her shoulder occasionally.
“Is the scene there still active, Rebecca?” the anchor asked.
“As of four minutes ago, it was declared that all attackers in the area are either dead or in custody. The fifth is still being pursued, I believe.”
“That is the report we are receiving,” the woman hosting the show said. “What do we know about these gunmen? Has there been any speculation as to the motive?”
Rebecca gave a nod, and the wind blew some of her hair into her face. “Inside sources are telling us that police have a lead, but they have made no official statement as of yet. There is a rumor circulating that one of the attackers immediately confessed to the arresting officers and is even willing to provide details. He is being interrogated as we speak.”
“Rebecca,” the host started, “could you give us some insight into what was going on before the shooting began? Who were the victims?”
“Well, again, there is no official statement on the identity of each individual victim, but what we do know is that most or all of them were members of the Humanity Party. They were among other members for a public forum at the center.
“I’ve spoken with one woman who was present for the shooting, and she had this to say.”
The video feed transitioned to a pre-recorded interview that seemed to be recorded earlier that day, about a stone’s throw away from the convention center’s front door. A woman of about sixty-five with long silver hair scattering in the breeze became the focus of the shot. Her face was smeared with tears and sweat.
“There were about forty or fifty of us there,” she started, prompted by an off-screen question, “just talking about that new bill being proposed to force our schools into accepting proge students. The mood was rather communal, until these five guys in dark black combat clothes simply walked in the front door and started shooting.”
“Did you know you were under attack right away?” Rebecca asked.
“Not at all. I almost thought it was some sort of performance or prank, but no—people were dying all around me. It was so loud. Each pop echoed around the room until my ears rang. I didn’t know what to do except drop to the floor.”
“How long was it between when the attackers starting shooting and when police arrived on scene?”
“Lord, I don’t know,” the woman replied. “It felt like ages, but was probably less than five minutes. When the cops first arrived, I didn’t know who they were at first, because the shooters were dressed so much like SWAT guys. I just kept thinking, ‘Oh no, there’s more. None of us are getting out alive.’ ”
The woman started to sob a little while trying to catch her breath before the stream cut back to the anchor.
“Terrifying,” she said. “Absolutely horrible. Our hearts go out to the victims and their families. We will provide updates as they come in.”
Then the news clip ended.
“Those looked exactly like the guys who attacked the lab,” Karl said as soon as silence filled the room.
Thompson seemed taken aback by the comment, whipping his head toward his friend.
“Are you sure?” he asked.
“Looks like the same uniform to me,” Maynard agreed.
“I’m sure,” Karl said. “Whoever attacked the lab was behind this shooting.”
Thompson’s brow furrowed. “That doesn’t make any sense. Wasn’t it anti-I.I. terrorists in the first place? Why would they attack a gathering of people who agree with them?”
“Because they were paid to,” Karl theorized aloud. “They aren’t anti-installers or I.I. supporters.”
“Then, who paid them?” Thompson asked, bewildered.
“I’m not sure.”
Just then, another breaking news alert pinged in their C.C.’s. Karl’s heart felt like it sank into a vat of liquid nitrogen and his breathing stilled.
“This just in: Miami police are about to hold a press conference. Sources believe details about the attackers will be released, as well as an update to the pursuit with the one missing suspect. Let’s tune in.”
A black hole felt like it opened in Karl’s gut. He had a bad feeling about the upcoming news.
The camera shot moved from the studio to a plaza near to the scene of the shooting. A minimalist podium was set up in the middle of the frame, and behind it stood an older man with a gray goatee in a senior police uniform.
He was introduced as the city’s police chief by a bit of text at the bottom of the screen.
“This shooting is being actively investigated as a terrorist attack,” he began. It seemed like he had said something before the camera was on him and the audience was joining him mid-sentence.
“One of the suspects immediately divulged some crucial information to detectives arriving on the scene. There will need to be more serious investigation before all facts are uncovered, but what we do know is this: the attackers claim to be mercenaries hired to perform this atrocious act rather than extremists themselves. Without hesitation, they provided a name which is believed to be connected to the attack.”
“Isn’t that just hearsay?” a reporter shouted from the audience. Everyone reacted with annoyed expressions. “Don’t forget the Boston Bombing!”
“Of course,” the police chief continued. “We would not divulge any suspects merely at the behest of terrorists, but the information provided was backed up by a recent discovery in the security systems of the Lower Denver Center of Cybernetics and Programming. At this time, we believe the attacks to be connected, possibly orchestrated by this one individual.”
“What individual?” a man even older than the chief hollered.
“Our current suspect is a former researcher with the Denver lab,” the police chief answered. “An I.I. psychologist named Dr. Karl Terrace.”
Karl’s blood turned solid. His mind began to feel numb. He could feel Thompson’s eyes burning on the side of his head, but he was too dumbstruck to meet the hacker’s gaze.
“We have found multiple pieces of evidence that suggest Dr. Terrace hired the gunmen to perform both attacks, using his own identification info to let the shooters into the lab,” the chief read from a report on the podium. “It is believed he not only helped the attackers, but was in fact the ringleader behind them. He is currently at large, though police are narrowing in on his position. Any information leading to the arrest of Dr. Terrace will be heavily rewarded.”
The stream clicked back to the host at her anchor desk, staring at the camera with what one might describe as a “poker face.” The psychologist sat in that numbing silence for a few moments, contemplating why they wouldn’t mention his previous incarceration and escape on the news.
Finally, Karl looked over at his friend.
Thompson was staring at him with eyes that looked like they saw his old friend for the first time. Karl could read the horror in the hacker’s eyes—a sense of wounded trust.
“Thompson, I had nothing to do with those attacks,” Karl said. “You know that.”
Thompson looked over the psychologist for a full minute, as if examining him within a police line-up.
“You promise?” he asked Karl.
“I promise,” Karl said.
“Tell him I can vouch for you,” Maynard whispered.
It won’t matter, Karl thought.
Thompson took another long, silent moment to watch his friend’s face. Then his own expression relaxed.
“I believe you,” Thompson said. “At least, I think I do.”
“I just don’t understand, why are they framing you, of all people?” Maynard asked.
Karl repeated the question aloud, then added, �
�Did you find anything about me in the code?”
“No, nothing,” Thompson said. “Though it seems the police did.”
“But how?”
Thompson shrugged. “Someone could have planted the info. Or there’s a rat on the force. Anything could be possible,” he said.
Just then, the report changed scenes again and drew their attention. Each shushed each other as they slid the volume up.
“An encrypted manifesto was discovered this morning, around the same time that Dr. Karl Terrace’s name became connected to the Miami shooting,” a tall white man with a fashion sense from a 1940’s catalogue said. He was positioned just outside the lab Karl used to work at. The police line that had once been there was removed, but the doors still appeared to be closed to business.
“Experts weren’t sure what they’d found until breaking the code about fifteen minutes ago,” he continued. “It appears to be a two-hundred-page document written by Terrace in which he attacks the anti-I.I. movement and the Humanity Party. According to preliminary examinations, Terrace aimed to frame the Humanity Party for the attack on the Denver lab in order to destroy their reputation. As a ‘safety measure,’ Terrace also detailed a mass shooting he wanted to commit in order to ‘crush the morale’ of the anti-I.I. movement and ‘allow them to be dehumanized for once.’ ”
The reporter carried a printout of the alleged manifesto as he spoke about its contents. Some of the words printed themselves out onto the screen as he read them.
“In the manifesto, Terrace goes on to say that ‘the anti-I.I. movement is not only impeding the rights of the installed community, but is impeding the progress of the human race.’ He says ‘installed intelligences are clearly the next evolution of our species, and anyone who threatens that should be considered an enemy of humanity.’ ”
“I gotta say, whoever wrote that kinda nailed your voice,” Maynard commented. “You are truly a nerd.”
How is this funny? Karl thought.
“In a weird way, how is it not?” the I.I. argued.
“Police are hoping to have more insight into the thinking of Terrace and his cohorts,” the reporter carried on. “They said they are optimistic that they will have the suspect in custody before the day is at an end.”
At that last line, Thompson flicked off the display on his terminal. There was a slight buzz of electricity before the apartment filled with a stuffy silence.
“You have to leave,” Thompson said. His voice was cold and emotionless, sounding nothing like the hacker Karl knew.
“Thompson,” Karl started to defend himself. “I didn’t do these things they’re accusing me of!”
“I know,” his old friend replied. “But the people out there sure think you did. More importantly, the police think you did. They said they’re confident of your arrest. You know what that means, right?”
“It will only be a matter of time before they come here,” Maynard answered, despite Thompson being unable to hear him.
Karl’s face exposed his realization.
“Yeah, that’s right,” Thompson said. “I have too much going on here to have cops at my door. Even if they don’t find you or any evidence that you were here, I’d go to prison for the rest of my life. All this equipment? It’s not even legal to build yourself, let alone steal from government supplies. Do you have any idea how many felonies they could find in less than half an hour? No, I’m sorry. I know you’re innocent, but so am I. I cannot be taken down just for hiding you. You need to go.”
Karl wanted to say more. His lips even parted to do so, but his mind felt like a skipping record player. He wanted to defend himself more, to prove that he could be trusted, but Thompson was right. It was out of his control; he could either stay here and get caught, or flee, likely to get caught somewhere else. But at least he could keep his old friend from more trouble.
“Okay,” Karl replied, looking down at his feet. “I understand.”
He started for the small shopping bag of clothes Thompson had provided him when he’d first arrived. Thompson stopped him, then vanished into the kitchen for a moment. He returned with a few ready-to-eat-style meals and stuffed them in the bag as well.
“You’re going to want to avoid shopping for food, even using just cash,” the hacker started. “Disable your wireless services immediately and head as far out of the city as possible. After the coast is clear, I might be able to continue on the code Maynard deciphered. We’ll see. If I do, I’ll contact you somehow. Maybe snail mail, if you can figure out a way to send an address to me. I don’t know.”
Karl simply nodded. He wanted to be indignant and upset, but he could only feel numb. His mind froze up anytime he contemplated where he would go next. He only knew it couldn’t be here.
“Hey,” Thompson said, putting a hand on his friend’s shoulder. “I know you, man. You’re going to beat this. Just remember: being smart will save your life ten times more than being talented ever will.”
“I’ll remember,” Karl said in a quiet voice.
“Take care,” Thompson said.
Hiding
The wind rattled the walls of the cabin. It felt like an abominable snowman was standing outside and trying to pry the wooden boards loose by shaking the structure. The storm made it not only difficult for Karl to stay warm, but also for his old-fashioned radio to maintain a signal.
The psychologist had followed his old friend’s advice, deactivating every part of his C.C. that could connect him to the internet. He only kept whatever functions were needed to keep Maynard powered and active. Even then, he had to keep Maynard so detached from the rest of the world that it drove the I.I. into a state of constant agitation. Karl now kept his C.C. powered off for the most part.
His only access to outside information came from the small hand-held radio, which still managed to get national talk radio, a local bluegrass station, and a slightly distorted stream of classic rock. Despite being at least eighty years old, the device worked as it had been designed to. There was also the mailbox at the end of the drive, awaiting any kind of correspondence from Thompson. It had remained empty for weeks.
Growing up, Karl had despised talk radio. His father had always left it on whenever they took long trips in the car, or simply while he was doing handiwork around the property. Now, however, it was one of the only things keeping Karl sane. Music alone could only go so far with him.
The cabin belonged to Maynard, or at least it belonged to the Batiste family. It had taken about nine hours to drive there, even when they took manual shortcuts that the GPS was unaware of. The I.I. was adamant that, of all places, no one would look for them there.
When asked why, Maynard simply replied, “Because, as far as anyone outside the Batiste family is concerned, it never existed.”
Karl decided not to push the point.
It had only been a couple weeks, but the psychologist felt like it was much longer. He didn’t fare well without some connection to society. Sometimes he found himself speaking to the shadows at night. He preferred their silence to Maynard’s criticism.
The radio had started to grow fuzzy in the last four days. At first, Karl had been convinced that the radio station he listened to the most was being moved away, as though the antenna had been loaded into the back of a truck and ordered to continue broadcasting as it drove away.
They were listening to talk radio. Karl could only stand the same Aerosmith song for so long before he just needed to hear inane chatter.
“Today, I want to introduce a special guest to our panel,” the host spoke. “Allow me to introduce you to one of the latest and greatest minds tackling the field of I.I. security. Welcome, Stewart Lythe.”
“Thank you, Thomas,” a second voice said.
Karl had been listening with passive interest the entire time, but he jolted up at the name. Without thinking, he sent the signal to his C.C. to wake up Maynard.
“What’s going on?” the I.I. asked. His tone was diluted, as though he was a graveyard w
orker woken at high noon. He needed a moment to orient himself.
“Is it true that you used to work with the terrorist known as Dr. Karl Terrace?” the show’s host asked.
Stewart could be heard laughing with an air of discomfort.
“Just going straight into it, huh?” he asked the interviewer.
“It’s on the forefront of everyone’s minds, so I see no point in dancing around the issue,” was the response.
“Well, yes, the fact that Karl and I were employed together is true,” Stewart said. “As deep as that relationship went, I’m afraid to say, most of your listeners will be disappointed to learn it was merely as an acquaintance. Honestly, I wish I knew the man more so I could provide some sort of insight into his actions, but all I can comment on is what I know professionally.”
“That’s Stewart, your co-worker?” Maynard asked.
Ex-co-worker, Karl corrected. Yes, that’s Stewart.
Maynard said nothing more, which didn’t surprise Karl in the least. The psychologist was often frustrated that the I.I. could read his mind, but he could not read Maynard’s.
“And what is that?” the interviewer asked Karl’s former acquaintance.
“That his actions—his terrible actions—are not entirely his fault.”
There was a bit of a shocked silence that washed through the program’s host.
“What do you mean?”
“I mean that Karl Terrace was—and likely still is—under the influence of an installed intelligence.”
There was a silent moment in the interview. Karl whipped his head around as if to meet someone’s eyes, but he found nothing but a knot in the wood wall to gaze at. He could feel the interest pique in the I.I. as the radio continued to buzz the show out of its speakers.
“Where is he going with this?” Maynard whispered inside the fugitive’s head.
I’m not sure, Karl replied.
“Do you think he’s working with the traitors?” Maynard said.
