by PJ Manney
“You’re kidding,” said Talia.
“Go!” said Tom. “Steve’s following you.”
Talia crawled on her belly through the duct, the building rumbling around her, her head and GO above the rising waters. She panted, “Where’s Steve . . . . . . ave . . . to wait . . . for him.”
“I promise you he’s behind you. Keep moving. Only ten more feet, then you can stand.”
“If you let anything happen to him . . . ”
“I’m trying to save you both. Move!” said Tom.
From Major Tom’s satellite view, the exterior of the Prometheus building was destroyed. Bloody bodies littered the ground. He ran an estimate of casualties among the Prometheus employees: explosions or weapons killed 5 percent; drones rounded up an additional 10 percent.
“Talia! Turn right, you’ll see a—”
“Go up . . . here?” She was climbing the ladder already.
“Yes,” said Tom. “Then open the door. Be careful.”
She scrambled up the ladder, leapt onto a platform, and flung open the door, still holding her camera up. Steam permeated the air. Loud male voices bounced off the tile walls and reverberated through the facility. She could hear showers running and locker doors slamming. And laughter.
“Just stop playing golf, for the love of God,” said an old naked man, holding a towel and gesturing with it at a younger man. “I can’t fix you! Square your shoulders, keep your head down, line your feet up to the hole, follow through. This isn’t rocket science!”
A towel-clad thirty-something threw his hands in the air. “Dad, I watched the Palmer videos, bought the auto-caddy and the roboswing corrector. What more do you want from me?”
But Dad wasn’t listening.
Filthy and dripping, Talia stood in an elegant men’s locker room among two dozen naked, betowelled, and half-dressed men, ranging in age from thirty to eighty-five. Conversation quieted. All the men stared at her.
Dad whipped his towel around his waist and marched up to her. “Young lady, how the hell did you get in here?”
“You didn’t hear the explosions?” asked Talia.
“Barney,” another older man interrupted. “That’s the tunnel door.”
Barney barked, “I know that, Connie!” He peered at Talia closely. “You are not a member of this club. How do you know about the tunnels? And what explosions?”
Younger members could be heard murmuring to one another, “What tunnels?” “What explosions?” “I thought that was a closet!” “There are tunnels?”
The tunnels were a secret Cold War relic in Silicon Valley. The clubhouse had been built in 1962 for the Stanford University elite, as well as aerospace engineers and executives who worked on communications, ICBMs, and NASA projects. They had taken no chances, using the tunnels first as nuclear war bunkers, then to provide cover from the rain between their companies or university and the clubhouse without ever coming to the surface if they felt like it. Most members had forgotten about them. Many decades later, the country club was the playground to the Valley’s remaining elite.
Major Tom knew the history because Carter was a member and purposefully maintained the tunnels between Prometheus and the club for his own use, in case he needed an escape route. Peter Bernhardt never knew about them, but Tom knew what Carter knew when he had died.
Talia pointed at a man holding a dry towel. “May I use one?” When he didn’t respond, she added with false sweetness, “Please?”
He handed her the towel. She attempted to dry off.
Through the open door behind her, a soaked, dirty, and disheveled Steve stumbled into the locker room. His handsome face had acquired more wrinkles over the last two years, and his fringe of black hair was strewn with flecks of gray. His large and warm brown eyes caught the sight of Talia and went huge, pupils dilating. His beloved was safe. The GO’s picture went dark as the camera pressed against Steve’s shirt.
The hug lasted a long time.
Tom sent the couple a message.
Talia glanced at her GO and couldn’t stifle a manic giggle. She turned to the club members. “I’m supposed to say, ‘Carter Potsdam says, “Hi, and thanks for keeping the door unlocked.”’”
Barney’s jaw went slack, and Connie looked like he’d pass out. The other members were silent. Talia grabbed a bewildered Steve’s hand and pulled him with her, grabbing dry towels from the shelves as they went. The crowd parted reluctantly, making a path for the couple to leave the locker room.
They wandered until they found an empty function room in the clubhouse. The event hall was white-washed and mahogany-beamed, filled with upholstered dining chairs and tables covered in brightly colored linens. The camera caught a quick image of a banner hung from the small dance floor: AdVentures Capital Family Dinner. Tom supposed it might be canceled.
Outside the floor-to-ceiling windows, there were men in golf clothes running toward Sand Hill Road. The image dropped quickly to the floor. Talia and Steve collapsed in an exhausted heap. The GO camera focused on the ceiling.
“You can’t stay here,” said Tom through Talia’s GO.
“Give us . . . a goddamned minute . . . for God’s sake . . . ” panted Steve.
“Talia,” said Tom, “I need you in Los Angeles immediately. And Steve, I want you on the Zumwalt, to protect you.”
“Hell no,” said Steve. The camera hadn’t moved.
“This is part of a global attack,” said Tom. “I need to keep you safe and out of the Valley. This is the first front of a war and we don’t know the enemy.”
“Are you crazy?” said Steve. “Our people are dead! You’re the target. And I don’t want Talia standing in front of you!”
Their breathing grew slower and shallower. No one said anything for 42.3 seconds.
“Okay, I need to get to the injured,” said Steve. “Where are they?”
“Noninjured are taking them to Stanford Hospital,” Tom replied. “Ruth sent word there that they are not to be arrested and to lie to authorities about their identities if necessary. Since we built a new neuroscience wing in her name, I think they’ll listen.”
“Then I’ll go there,” said Steve.
“No. You can’t. The attackers will find you. We need you and your expertise elsewhere.”
Talia let out a sigh. She picked up the GO and looked in the camera. “What time’s the flight?”
“As soon as you can get to Moffett Field,” said Tom. “I’m operating the airport remotely and found a pilot to fly the old Potsdam jet. Also, some students are dismantling a Suburban in the hangar. With crowbars. They think it’s a new kind of engineering project. Ignore it. Amanda won’t be pleased we’re taking the jet, but hopefully she’ll never find out.”
“But you don’t care what she thinks, or what any of us thinks, do you?” said Steve.
“I care more than you’ll ever know,” said Tom.
Talia sat up wearily. Steve grabbed her arm, saying, “You can’t . . . ”
She continued to rise and gently disengaged from his grasp.
“How does he still have control over you?” Steve asked.
“I don’t know,” she muttered.
“I can’t do this anymore,” Steve said. “I won’t.”
“Please, love,” said Talia. “I need you more than he does. Help me.”
“Not now. I won’t let you,” said Steve.
“It was never about you letting me, was it?” she asked. “Really?”
“I love you,” Steve said.
But Talia was already on her way out the door.
CHAPTER TWELVE
Major Tom’s satellite search for Virginia-class submarines sent him new data. A sub matching the kidnappers’ vessel had surfaced off the coast of China and sent an encrypted message to a server in Wenzhou. He recorded the location and encryption but needed someone more skilled to break it. He sent it to Miss Gray Hat.
And he kept trying to contact Veronika by any means possible. Via her GO. At TCoMT. Her car ha
d simply vanished. It could only be on purpose. He had no idea whether it was her or his enemy’s doing.
The first inkling of their enemy’s plan was emerging. A concrete-haired and facial pore–free reporter got to the scene suspiciously fast and was already doing his stand-up, his flak jacket so new, the price tag was still on it.
“The digital entity known as Major Tom, formerly in life a terrorist known as both Peter Bernhardt and Thomas Paine, has destroyed the company he once created: Prometheus Industries.” The camera panned around the carnage. “Sources say this is part of a greater plan to destroy what remains of North America for his alleged new ally, the People’s Republic of China.”
Was someone trying to start a fight with the Eastern Empire?
Miss Gray Hat voice messaged Ruth and Tom. “Received full access to Rick Blaine’s identity files for the Prometheus employees’ re-identification. Recommend sharing these with Veronika, since she seems to have expertise and knows him. Chinese message decryption will take longer than assumed. Will get back to you.”
Tom eventually got a text message from Veronika: Got files from Miss Gray Hat. Will do what I can. I’m busy. Cryptos are crashing. It’s a global 51% attack. Will be in touch.
“Wait,” said Tom. “What the hell? You’re okay?”
“Yeah. For now. Let me try to save our money.” She went dark.
Our money. Tom had to laugh. She was taking this fourth Musketeer stuff seriously. He decided not to bother her. Their money needed saving. He tracked cryptocurrency fluctuations, and it wasn’t only the Shell that was plummeting. There had been global attacks on cryptocurrency server farms. If any entity controlled 51 percent or more of a currency’s blockchain mining and computing power, then a single majority controlled both the mining and auditing power of the currency network, as if a banker simultaneously minted a currency, told you how much it was worth, and then repeatedly spent the same money over and over again without showing you an accurate audit. Any currency attached to the attacked blockchain was untrustworthy and potentially worthless in as little time as it took for the news to spread. Which was no time at all.
LooseChange, Bittybits, Foolsgold, Beads, NonStaters, and Rupeedupees were all on the verge of collapse, along with the businesses and regions that used them. The flow of fear and speculation looked like a plague spreading at the speed of digital communication.
Hundreds of millions, if not billions, of people were about to lose their money.
With destructive coordination so meticulously organized, this suggested a global group of attackers who had planned this long in advance, with complete access. This wasn’t only a “Phoenix Club,” multinational corporation, or government. This was something more.
To pull off a 51 percent attack of most of the important data-carrying blockchains in the world would require vast power. Who had that kind of power? It wasn’t the former United States. He was back to either Russia or China. And China kept coming up in his analyses. It was time to find out why.
Tom swamped Veronika’s text message systems again: We need to talk!
Finally, he received a voice reply. “The hell, dude! Said I’m busy.”
She had locked down her cameras to his view, so he couldn’t see her, her room, or what she was working on. It was a conversation in the dark.
“Do you want to stop this?” asked Tom.
“Whaddaya think?” snarked Veronika.
“Then we follow the money.”
“Har dee har. Didn’t know uploaded entities could be so hilarious,” said Veronika.
“I need your help for that. Not the currencies themselves,” said Tom. “The reason for the theft.”
“Who knows?” she said.
“But we do know,” said Tom. “We just don’t know that we know.”
“Dude, no more koans!”
“It may be tied to China and Dr. Who,” said Tom.
“Why?”
“The sub surfaced off the coast of China . . . I think they’re bringing her ashore.”
“Shit . . . ,” said Veronika.
“All of this has to be connected. What do we think they will do with her?”
“Like, Dr. Who’s the ideal person to use to corner, like, the identity market. They’ve already destroyed and cornered monetary markets.”
“I think it’s more than that. If you corner all the markets, you also corner humanity,” said Tom.
“Whoa . . . ,” said Veronika. “You really think it’s the Chinese?”
“There’s not enough data to speculate. And they may not be alone,” said Tom. “We need more information on the ground. There are too many countries and multinationals threatened. But the Chinese are the biggest players. Makes Russia look like a bunch of whiny Luddite trolls in a cave. This is a substantial weapon for the Chinese.”
“They may not see it as a weapon. Every tool is morally neutral,” she said. “You have to assume it will be used for both good and evil. Swords and plowshares for the win.”
“You know you’re quoting me back at me, right?”
“Shit,” said Veronika.
“But yes, each time a new disruptive technology is created, we fight the same damn fight all over again. So evil doesn’t win. And if they’re targeting me, they don’t want me to stop them.”
“Mad props to you, dude,” said Veronika. “Who else can say that?”
Miss Gray Hat sent a text message to Tom and Ruth. It was the decrypted message the submarine had sent to the server in Wenzhou: Doctor is ready. Meet Qi Jiguang.
All roads led to China.
CHAPTER THIRTEEN
In a back alley in San Pedro, California, near the Port of Los Angeles, a pair of former UC Berkeley robotics students-turned-entrepreneurs and their dedicated employees—both human and robotic—worked out of an anonymous warehouse down by the docks. Its last tenant had been a cheap Chinese electronics importer, but that business had folded with the troubles. Inside the rusty structure, the new tenants fabricated the world’s oldest profession.
Rick Blaine had convinced a sexbot manufacturer in California that he wanted VIP treatment for his VIP friends.
Talia had tried to clean up on the forty-five-minute flight aboard Carter’s old private jet, but she still looked bedraggled after her escape from Prometheus. Arriving at the entrance, she wore a microcamera transmitter on a pair of AR glasses, so Tom could see and hear what she could, even if the GOs were shut off.
“I don’t like this,” she said aloud.
“Have we ever trusted anyone, Talia?”
She stopped at the unmarked door and didn’t ring the buzzer.
“Is there a problem you see that I don’t?” he asked.
She didn’t answer, hesitated for a moment more, then rang the bell.
A voice through a speaker said, “Look into the camera to your right.”
The small monitor had a camera and a screen with instructions. Talia pressed her hand into the palm scanner and looked into the retinal display, which was more sophisticated and foolproof than an iris scan. Even Thomas Paine had fooled iris scanners with implants. She knew the camera was recording facial biometrics like ears and pores, too.
“Thanks for confirming your data. Come in.”
A buzzer sounded, and the door clicked open. She entered, and the door automatically shut behind her. The inside of the warehouse was vast. A sign hung from the rafters in a sexy font made of human sexual positions. It read: COMPANIBOTS. She walked through aisles with shelves of wire spools, component parts, and 3-D printers churning out acres of silicone skin in all the colors of the human rainbow. She watched it emerging and couldn’t help but touch it: pores, follicles with human-like hair, the mottling and depth of many colors that a dermis and epidermis take from a blood supply and exposure to the elements.
A few aisles down, skinless animatronics were being tested for consistent movement and reliability. The underpinnings of a human-like robot looked anything but organic, with tiny silicon chips;
servos; gyros; silicone; and flexible metal “flesh” to pad out a pliable human shape, titanium bones, and wires. Lots and lots of wires.
“Over here!” yelled a youthful, unseen voice. Talia and her camera followed the voice. Near the center of the warehouse, two young men were immersed in mixed reality, their hands moving, and subvocalizing with a throat microphone to live or virtual AIs. They were about thirty years old. One had a prosthetic left arm that he didn’t dress with his company’s remarkable fake skin. He seemed to revel in its mechanical complexity. He wore a haptic sleeveless shirt under his short-sleeved tee. Tom couldn’t see if he had haptic leggings under his jeans. His black dreadlocks flowed out the back of haptic headgear, which looked like a motorcycle helmet. The only thing he was missing was a pair of goggles. Tom assumed he wore MR contacts. The other man had his back to Talia. He wore older goggles, with no tactile input. There was a fat “G” carved in the back of his red buzzcut. Both seemed agitated. The cryptocurrency drop would affect their business, too.
Talia cleared her throat. The redhead turned first and swished his virtual workspace away. She pointed at his head. “‘G’ for Greg?”
The man in the haptic suit swished his work away, too, and said, “No, I’m Greg.” He and his partner shared a concerned look.
“Does that make you Will?” she said to the redhead. “What’s the ‘G’ for?”
He nodded and self-consciously rubbed the back of his scalp. “Green Bay Packers. They don’t play much now, but I can’t let the world forget they were America’s team.”
Greg and Will rose and walked quickly across the warehouse floor. Talia tried to keep up.
“Sorry for the rush,” said Greg, “but the crash has vendors and distributors in a frenzy. We’re trying to hold it together. But Rick Blaine insisted—”
“I appreciate it. Hey, that skin I saw was amazing,” said Talia.
“Best in the business,” said Greg. “We can’t give you a same-day custom model, so you need one off the rack. We’re hoping this inventory still heads to Singapore in a week, so there are options. My usual pitch is, What’s your pleasure? Pick your skeletal characteristics and combinations. Male or female or intersex? Young or old? Tall or short? Thin, muscular, fat? Genitals of all sizes, configurations, and mileage, including models with all possible sex characteristics together or none at all. Skin color in real, plus some fake shades. Same with eyes and hair. We even have some alien and cartoon characters. All legally licensed, of course. They also vary in tech. Some are body-density dolls with bendable joints you carry around. Some are true companions with autonomous movement. They’re programmable and learn with each interaction. They can spouse for life, if you wanted a very predictable and controlled relationship.”
