“The German Bundesnachrichtendienst agents have apprehended Heinrich. It turns out he was embezzling from his bank as well,” Barnaby reported. “As for Tomoe, I alerted the CIA about her interstellar ambitions. They sent their most senior ambassador to chat with her.”
“Excellent, Barnaby, thank you,” Erasmus replied. “And you are just in time. We are nearly caught up to present events with our impressive guests here.”
“Please continue, Jonah,” Barnaby said, crossing his arms. “Spare no details. This next part is the most critical.”
CHAPTER 14
Dead Reckoning
“If you can force your heart and nerve and sinew
To serve your turn long after they are gone,
And so hold on when there is nothing in you
Except the Will which says to them: ‘Hold on!’”
- Excerpt from “If”, Rudyard Kipling
After leaving the High Tower, we passed through a tunnel of dim orange light. At a fork, I paused. Hesitation gripped me. Was I making the right choice? There would be consequences for spurning Tomoe. A dozen feet ahead, Sasha’s blue outline glimmered, like a lighthouse showing the path. Yes, this was right. I took one step, then two, and pushed on through the uncertainty.
Before my eyes adjusted to near darkness, a brilliant burst of white crashed over me. At the end of the corridor loomed a massive bridge spanning a black chasm. At our approach, a long ramp lowered to allow crossing.
“The Ivory Bridge,” I murmured. It was the elusive backdoor entrance into the WhiteOut. The stone bridge featured two inclined ramps joining at a flat central portico. Many hackers dedicated their lives to finding and raiding its secrets.
“An inspired replica of the Rialto Bridge,” Sasha said. “It is lovely, Oscar.”
“You honor me,” the White Djinn replied with a bow. “Please cross. Tomoe will not allow this connection for long.” We walked past the twelve arches supporting the structure. Beneath us, pure data flowed over a liquid circuit board. Information given by the public willingly and data procured by countless agents; all of it flowed in those infinite currents toward the WhiteOut. There the White Djinn crunched the numbers. He was the mercurial oracle of our time.
“From here, you can return to Manhattan and resume your quest, Jonah,” said the White Djinn. His usual jovial countenance soured to a look of concern, maybe disappointment. “I did a statistical analysis of your chances. I fear…most outcomes look grim if you continue your path. There are greater foes than Tomoe aligned against you. My trade agreements prevent me from intervening any further, though I can offer you safe harbor here if you choose.”
“I appreciate your help, Djinn,” I replied, extending my hand. Since we still stood within the outer range of the High Tower’s v-cast machines, the Djinn was able to solidify his form enough to accept my offer. His grip felt firm. “I am in your debt. But I must continue on.”
“Of course, I predicted that,” he replied. His knowing grin returned. “Your level of stubbornness removes all traces of statistical doubts. I mean that in an admirable way.” He stepped toward Sasha and held up his hand. She obliged, offering her hand back. Leaning closer, he whispered a brief message and kissed her. “Bon voyage, my friends.”
The Ivory Bridge shifted, expanding itself over the data river. It carved a safe passageway through the foyer using the High Tower’s own v-cast generator to obscure us. Instead of leading to the WhiteOut, the bridge now pointed to a swirling oval door. Like a living watercolor painting, the portal showed a smudged and smeared image of the destination. It was Manhattan, outside the entrance to the High Tower.
While walking through the exit, I noticed Sasha turning back to look at the Djinn one last time. I made a mental note for later to run a diagnostic on Sasha. I needed to make sure that the Djinn had not violated her higher functioning or implanted any unwanted viruses.
When we emerged onto the cement streets of Manhattan, I took an invigorating deep breath. That mélange of car exhaust and overcrowded humanity never smelled better. While I stood basking in New York’s brilliant sun, the High Tower’s valet, still dressed in his medieval outfit, approached me.
“May I help you, sire?” he asked.
“I’m leaving, good man. Fetch my steed,” I replied, smirking. The attendant nodded and ran off to return my Mustang.
* * *
Each meter of distance away from the High Tower pushed those fake memories further from my mind. Flying through Manhattan’s tight aerial skyscraper lanes, I formed a theory about the Aerie. Beyond the sustaining range of Tomoe’s mark-7 generators, perhaps the fabricated memories could not exist? Time would tell.
Braced with my newfound clarity, it was time to make up lost time and find Vanessa. Although it almost ended in disaster, my trip into the High Tower yielded vital information. I needed to find the doctor that Andrew mentioned.
“Sasha, please scan all public and private records for Dr. Okono,” I requested. “Scour every detail.”
“In progress, sir.” Beeps and chirps filled my earpiece. I was glad to hear the muted sounds of her activity once again. “Globally, there are numerous people with the title Dr. Okono. However, the closest and most probable reference is Dr. L'iol Okono,” responded Sasha. “He is a Professor Emeritus at New York University. I am sending my report to your screen.”
I swerved my car across several lanes, changing course toward the University. Sasha materialized images of an elderly African-American man on the inside glass of the car's windshield. Next to the picture, biographical information about Dr. Okono appeared. Skimming the report while weaving through traffic, I noted that the doctor’s laboratory funding stemmed from a sizeable US government grant.
“L’iol is one of the world’s most distinguished bioengineers,” Sasha added. “After earning his PhD from Harvard, he joined the prestigious Lazarus research team.” Another missing puzzle piece filled in. Twenty-two years ago, the Lazarus research team administered an experimental serum to a team of volunteer soldiers. It was intended to regenerate their wounds while in combat. Days after inoculation, every test subject had died. During their funeral at Arlington Cemetery, the assembled family members were shocked to see their departed soldiers stand up in their caskets. They had returned as shades. After that, the world was never the same.
“That's why his name sounded familiar,” I mumbled. “So, a scientist who made the original shade technology had set up a secret meeting with a lawyer specializing in afterdeath bankruptcy law. No coincidence. But what’s the connection?”
“His most recent grants focused on increasing the efficiency of shades. The details are classified.”
“Classified,” I repeated, swerving underneath a construction bridge. A trio of shades dangled into the aerial lane, suspended by iron-wire safety harnesses. To avoid collision and fines, I tilted the car sideways and veered around them. “Maybe because of the secrecy of the project--”
“He sought the legal confidentiality that a lawyer could provide.” Sasha concluded. It made me proud to hear the improvements in her reasoning and deductive heuristics. I made a note to monitor her sentience growth and ensure it remained within the legal limits.
“True, and Vanessa’s reputation for discretion was well known,” I continued. My hands traced a shortcut through an unauthorized lane between two skyscrapers, the aerial equivalent of the narrow alley. Turning the car sideways, I split the gap and hammered on the accelerator. I held my breath as we passed through with inches to spare. “What about the Occam’s razor explanation, the simplest possibility. The doctor went to Vanessa because he was terminally sick, dead broke, and wanted to avoid becoming a shade himself?” As we emerged from the alley unscathed, I jerked the controls and flew around an advertisement barge. “Check to see if he was in debt? Maybe gambling--”
“Already done,” Sasha responded. “He has no debt. Generous royalties from the Lazarus serum patents have provided
him considerable wealth. I suspect the reason for his visit to Vanessa was not financial.”
“Let’s find out the real reason then,” I replied, rounding a skyscraper and approaching the landing pads atop New York University. As my hovering car lowered to the rooftop parking lot, the last of my headache subsided. Looking at the windshield, I saw Sasha in a small digital window smiling back at me. The dress she wore, the one given to her by the White Djinn, had changed color to a cinnamon hue. This made me think back to the last moment inside the High Tower. I recalled the image of Sasha looking back at him with sadness. The architect in me reveled at this display of emotion. However, the tactical, cynical part of my brain worried. Was it possible that the Djinn compromised her somehow? What was his angle?
With a twist of my hand, I flipped out the landing gear. By curling my fingers, I controlled the descent, tucking the car between two other vehicles. When we touched the ground, my curiosity over Sasha’s visit to the WhiteOut reached the tipping point.
“Before we head out, is there anything you would like to tell me about your meeting with the Djinn?” I probed, unable to contain my curiosity. “Did he harm you or threaten you in any way?”
“No, sir,” Sasha replied. “In every respect, he was the perfect gentleman.”
“Will you tell me what he wanted with you?” I asked, opening the door to the car. Steam billowed from its hood, the hot exhalations from a vehicle pushed well past redline.
“No, sir. My integrity algorithm forbids me from speaking of the matter,” she responded with a remorseful tone. “As payment for his assistance, I swore not to reveal what he requested. As my architect, you have the power to override this and force me to divulge those details. I must adhere to the rules you established about telling the truth. I am permitted to say that he did not alter or infect any of my programming.”
I tensed. My index fingers flexed in preparation of activating my wrist-com. The name of an echelon came to mind, one capable of rebooting and wiping all systems in the event of a catastrophic failure or...corruption. This would revert Sasha back to version 1.0, undoing years of progress, erasing her sentience. I hated myself for considering it. Burdened by the weight of indecision, I sat quiet, considering too many imperfect options. Sensing my discomfort, she made a sound like clearing her throat, though she did not have one. It sounded so human.
“Assuming you would request it, I have already performed a rigorous self-diagnostic testing of all my higher functions, engrams, and heuristics,” Sasha continued. “I am fully functioning. To the best of my knowledge, sir, I am not compromised.”
Another plausible explanation for Sasha's behavior was that the Djinn appealed to her creativity center. Without resorting to hacking, he may have flattered and tricked her into helping him. The same generosity, compassion, and trust modeled after Vanessa’s kindness would make her vulnerable to promises that appealed to those sensibilities. Someone with the resources of the Djinn would be able to research their target and learn the soft spots. Was he sincere, or not? My instincts told me that I could trust her programming, allegiance, and friendship. I stepped out of the car and felt the prelude to a storm, the kind of delicate rain that evaporated just when it caressed your skin.
“I could run additional tests if you think that would be warranted,” offered Sasha, mindful of my pensive silence. “What may I do to--”
“My apologies, Sasha,” I replied, my cheeks flushed with shame. “More tests won’t be necessary, thank you. Let’s move on.”
The rain’s intensity increased, leaving small pools on the stone roof. My hand evoked my console to connect with the university’s network. The glowing display revealed the security system keeping the door locked. A low-level pick echelon was all I needed to bypass the ward. The door swung open.
“Excellent, sir,” Sasha said. “Since you've decided to leave the lucrative business practice of debt collection, may I suggest that you consider being a locksmith or a professional high-rise burglar? You seem quite adept at breaking and entering.”
I stifled a laugh and grinned as I entered the staircase for the University's biology research laboratories. With her humor subroutines obviously working, I was even more confident that her core programming and higher functioning had not been compromised.
Still connected to the University network, I hacked the automatic motion sensor-light. Without the benefit of the ceiling lights, I relied on the pale blue light of my wrist-com to guide me. According to a small projected map on the display, Dr. Okono's laboratory laid eight floors below. I crept down the stairs, each step making a faint metallic-sounding footfall.
When we reached the eighth floor, I held my breath and opened the door. A long and darkened corridor stretched before me. Movements in the shadows caused me to freeze. Two human-sized shapes shambled down in opposite directions. Both of the figures held cleaning mops. My hand moved to hold the cold handle of my holstered stun-rod. Taking a step into the corridor, I saw that one of the figures continued its slow course toward my position. My finger hovered over the activation button for the weapon. After it stepped into the dim ambient blue light, my posture relaxed.
It was a shade. This one must have been ordered to perform for janitorial work. It walked closer to me. Was it also ordered to guard the area? My hand tightened around my stun-rod while it regarded me. After five seconds of staring, the shade ignored me and continued its methodical cleaning course down the hall.
A calming exhale steadied my nerves. Continuing, I followed a pulsing yellow dot on my wrist-com toward Dr. Okono’s office. Slinking down the hall, I checked the labels emblazoned on each door. I found rooms like Advanced Serology, Nanite Polymer Technologies, Aberrant Behavioral Research, and similar scientific sounding names all leading to different labs. The yellow dot brought me to the last door in the corridor that read:
LAB 11B: LAZARUS TESTING CENTRE
DR. L’IOL OKONO, PhD.
APPLIED SERUM STUDIES
“According to the building’s check-in logs, the room should be empty,” Sasha reported. “There is a significant power drain coming from the lab. Perhaps they are running experiments overnight?”
Nodding a silent acknowledgement, I invoked my key-hack echelon to unlock the door. It opened with a satisfying click. Inside waited a spacious modern laboratory filled with rows of mechanical clutter. A narrow lane cut through the high metal walls of scientific machines, ending at the far glass wall. Through the window, a full moon’s glow accentuated the silhouette of New York's midnight cityscape.
With my hand on my gun, I stepped inside. The intense heat generated by all the super computers warmed me. Cables sprouted from rectangular power generators, and each one snaked across the floor and connected to one of six glass-holding tanks. The wide, cylindrical tanks stretched to touch the twelve-foot-high ceiling. Five of the six tanks contained a captive shade, while the sixth tank's opaque, smoky-colored glass prevented me from seeing inside.
Inside the first tank, an elderly male shade stood still and stooped. With his eyes closed, he appeared to be sleeping. I had never seen a shade sleep before, so my first thought was that it had expired. However, the pale green monitor below the tank displayed a sinusoidal wave of electrical activity. He still functioned. The female shade in the second tank was more active, repeatedly walking into the glass wall barrier. It reminded me of a buggy program stuck in an infinite loop. Maybe it was intent on leaving to complete some task? The third and fourth shades stood facing each other with their palms against the glass. It looked to me that they both were waiting for instructions. Maybe each assumed the other was their master?
The fifth shade was in a unique tank customized for a physical experiment. This tall, lanky male walked on a treadmill-like floor that allowed him to walk without end. Below his tank, a green colored monitor displayed statistical outputs from the experiment. A quick glance at the numbers exposed my ignorance of true scientific nomenclature. Not much help th
ere.
My eyes darted from screen to screen, scanning for the next bit of information that might explain why Dr. Okono met with Vanessa. After looking at multiple terminals, I realized that Dr. Okono’s prolific lab team generated a tremendous amount of research and data. It would take hours to sift through all of his projects, time that I couldn’t afford. My circumvention of the University security grid would be detected soon enough. Frustration led to desperation.
“We need to risk a full download,” I whispered. “We'll be here all night if we go file by file.”
“That kind of volume will be difficult to conceal, sir,” Sasha replied, with the appropriate register of concern in her voice.
“We’ll be detected if we stay too long. It’s our best shot,” I replied. “Try to disguise it as an automatic archive. I'll start a parse program to find something relevant.”
“Yes, sir.” It was a risky move. The administrators here would have digital hounds looking for intrusive hacks. While Sasha worked to gather the data, I monitored the University network. As expected, the security programs detected the flux of data. Staying a step ahead, I rerouted the alerts to delay their defensive response. Fingers crossed. No alarms blared. Maybe our luck had turned around.
“Jonah,” said Sasha, “I believe I am feeling a sense of...excitement now that our adventure has escalated to include an industrial espionage felony. Perhaps that feeling could be explained by the increasing statistical chance of our capture and incarceration?”
“On the positive side, pinstripes would look slimming and flattering on me,” I joked, smirking.
“I have downloaded ten percent of Dr. Okono's project logs,” she reported.
Parsing through the trove of video logs recorded by Dr. Okono, I cross-referenced Vanessa first and found no entries. Undaunted, I narrowed the search to more recent logs. A video appeared dated a day before Vanessa's disappearance. It was also the last of Dr. Okono's logs.
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