Five Tribes

by Brian Nelson

  He let out a long breath. “Not much to tell really. I’m overworked, but you knew that already. Let’s see . . . Jessica is really pulling her hair out, complaining about Olivia Rosario trying to take over the AI department.”

  Jane tried to image how Jessica—Ryan’s boss and a brilliant but severe woman—was taking to having her department become the epicenter of a political fight. “Is she?” Jane asked.

  “Most likely. I’ll admit she could certainly be more diplomatic. However, she does have some good ideas. She’s been pushing to update everything, which we definitely need. Like getting some quantum hybrids. And she’s got some bold concepts she wants to explore.”

  “Yeah, like what?” Jane honestly wasn’t that interested. She just wanted the distraction.

  “She wants to merge forced evolution with AI to create something very cool. A supercharged, super-smart AI.” She could see Ryan was excited about it

  Jane lifted her eyebrows. “Go on.”

  “She wants to teach it tomorrow.”

  Jane gave him a skeptical look. “What’s so hard about that?”

  “Everything. You see, consciousness is divided into three levels. Level I consciousness is your reptile brain that controls your body temperature, heart rate, hunger, things like that. That’s stuff that a computer can do now. Level II consciousness allows an animal to make a crude model of itself and its relationships to other animals, like the social interactions of a wolf pack or a whale pod. But level III consciousness, arguably, only occurs in humans. And it means the ability to make complex models in which the person is an actor and they can project the model of themselves forward in time. That’s what your prefrontal cortex does. In other words, it understands tomorrow.”

  “Can’t computers do that already? My iSheet always seems to know what I want to do next.”

  Ryan shook his head. “That’s different. That’s something called a prediction rule, like when it picks the next movie you want to watch. Believe it or not, that algorithm was invented during World War II to help allied bombers in Europe. It’s a conditional probability, which means it’s trying to predict a missing variable. It seems smart, but it’s not that smart. A lot of people think that computers are already as smart as humans. Not really. Right now AI is largely an illusion. It’s insanely fast when it comes to certain tasks, and some of the algorithms they have created are better than a human could devise, but they’re not conscious, and therefore can’t predict the future. Which, by the way, is something that our brains spend most of our day doing. But Olivia thinks we can use deep learning to finally do it. She wants to make a computer with a prefrontal cortex.”

  “Then what?”

  “Well, if she can do it, it would be an amazing forecasting tool because you can load it with data on a massive scale. In AI, the more data you have, the better the accuracy of your predictions. She wants to fill it with models of every known system: the weather, the stock market, economics, psychology, political science, military strategy—everything. It all becomes training data. Then she wants to feed it every bit of information that’s available in real time: every daily newspaper in the world, video feeds from every available camera, access to radio, streaming from television and the internet.”

  Jane gave a grunt to show that she was impressed. It was definitely ambitious.

  “I think this could be a game changer,” Ryan said. “It should become insanely good at forecasting the future. Much better than any human because—unlike a human—there’s no limit to how much knowledge you can put in its ‘brain.’ And that predictive power can be applied to a lot of things: geopolitical trends, predicting elections in foreign countries, energy prices, terrorist activity . . . I have to admit, it’s an amazing idea. I think her goal is to automate the entire Pentagon.”

  “To be honest, it sounds a little scary. Remember, just because you can do something, doesn’t mean you should.”

  Ryan shrugged. “There’s really no option. This is where AI has to go, and I’ve dedicated my life to AI. Besides, if we don’t do it, someone else will.”

  “So you’re going to help her?”

  “I’d love to, but I’m not sure if Curtiss will let me. He’s trying to sabotage everything she does. Did you know he put her office in the hall by the underground shooting range?”

  Jane couldn’t help but smirk. It was quintessential Curtiss.

  “I’m telling you, it’s going to backfire. People like her.”

  Jane honestly wasn’t sure whose side to be on. Her love for Curtiss did not run deep. But at the very least, she knew that Curtiss was wholly dedicated to the good of the United States. But this outside force—led by General Walden and Olivia Rosario—felt both political and corporate. People hunting for prestige and power, with the good of the country as an afterthought.

  “Just be careful, okay? And I mean about work and your allegiances. You don’t want to be caught on the wrong side of a political fight. Walden and Rosario are clearly trying to screw Curtiss. But just remember who we’re talking about. Everyone, and I mean everyone, who has ever picked a fight with Curtiss has ended up dead or seriously regretting it.”

  He smiled. “Yeah, okay.”

  “Besides, I need you, Ryan. More than ever.”

  “Don’t worry, I’ll be here.”

  “You’d better be.”

  Chapter Twenty

  The Death Trap

  November 7, 2026

  Russell Senate Office Building, Washington, DC

  Standing in the wreckage of Senator Peck’s office, Special Agent Bud Brown felt like he was inside an enormous barbecue grill. Everything around him was black and burned, and the smell of charcoal filled his nose. Yet he couldn’t help thinking that there was something beautiful about it. He moved to one of the surviving beams and noticed how the wood had been cracked into neat symmetrical squares, like the silver scales on a great snake. And even though the fire had been extinguished more than a day before, he could still feel heat radiating from the wood and stone. It was oddly soothing.

  The large bay windows that had been blown out by the blast had been boarded up with plywood. More plywood lay on weak sections of the floor, and three halogen lamps sat on orange tripods, giving the room light.

  At his feet was a large mound of ash—the remains of the Senator’s desk. Brown kicked at something metal that protruded from the pile and saw a molten blob of bronze that may have been a drawer handle.

  Brown had learned enough about explosives in his career to know this was the work of a professional. That was clear from the fact that all that had been found of Senator Peck was a piece of his hip bone.

  “One hell of a job,” Rogers said, as if reading Brown’s thoughts.

  Bud nodded. “How did they get so much ordnance in here without anyone noticing?”

  “It’s ingenious, really,” the old bomb tech said. “The bomber posed as a member of a paint crew. On the day they were supposed to do Peck’s office, three of the other painters called in sick, so the bomber had as much as six hours in here by himself.” Rogers pointed to sections of the wall that had been blasted out. “We’re pretty sure he used thin patches of plastic explosives, interlaced with thousands of metal filaments, probably not much thicker than a sheet of paper. He placed six of them around the room then painted over them, essentially making them invisible.”

  “Clever,” Bud said. He felt lucky to be here with Rogers, who had an amazing ability to re-create a crime scene.

  “Oh, it gets better,” Rogers continued. “C-4 alone just makes a big boom. It would have been enough to kill the senator, sure, but that wouldn’t be good enough for Finley. We know from her other bombings that she doesn’t like mangled body parts tarnishing her public image. That makes her look bad. It’s much better for her twitter ratings if her victims just sort of disappear. But to make Peck disappear, she needs a fire t
o cremate the body, and for that you need—”

  “An accelerant,” Bud said.

  “Exactly. Finley’s master bomber needed enough fuel to get the room very hot. Crematorium hot, I’m talking fifteen hundred degrees. That takes a lot of diesel. So what does he do?”

  Bud suddenly understood. “He puts it in the paint.”

  “Bingo. Not only that, he does it one better. It’s not just fuel. When the paint went on the wall it looked like it was textured, but it was essentially homemade napalm, with bits of aluminum salts to help it burn.”

  Bud nodded a moment, piecing it together. “So these sheets detonate, sending metal filaments through the senator and his secretary’s body, killing them instantly. Then the paint ignites, making the room into a huge oven, incinerating everything in it.”

  “That’s about right.”

  “The perfect death trap,” Bud said.

  Rogers nodded. “I’ve never seen anything this sophisticated. These people knew us. They knew our security. They exploited our weaknesses.”

  “Go on . . .”

  “These senate office buildings have always been a problem. I’ve told the Capitol Police as much on several occasions. With thousands of constituents and lobbyists coming in and out every day, security gets lax. Besides, the thinking has always been that if someone wanted to kill a bunch of congressmen, they’d attack the Capitol Building. Or if they wanted to assassinate a single low-level congressperson like Peck, they wouldn’t bother doing it in DC. They’d do it in their home district, where there’s much less security.

  “But here comes Finley. She didn’t want to do it in his home district. She wanted the public spectacle. And, most importantly, she wanted to send a message to every senator: she wants them to know she could reach them wherever they are. So she did her homework. Once again, the paint was key. See, the standard security screenings for explosives look for nitrates and glycerin. But acrylic paints often have glycerin added to extend the drying time, so painters often fail the test. When we questioned the Capitol Police, we found that they had gotten in the habit of simply waving painters through without checking their cans of paint. ‘As long as they didn’t have any weapons,’ the head of security told me, ‘they were cleared.’ That was how the perp smuggled approximately twenty pounds of C-4 into a highly secured area.”

  “Any leads on this ‘painter,’ Patrick Daniels?”

  “Fake name, of course, but someone went through a lot of trouble of getting him a very good fake identity: driver’s license, social security number, even a bogus credit history.”

  Bud could tell that Rogers was taking this personally. As someone who had advised the Capitol Police on security, he knew they’d been caught with their pants down.

  “So where do we go from here?” Bud asked.

  “I think we’ll probably find Daniels, but I suspect it won’t help a whole lot. What I want is the master bomber. He would likely have direct contact with Finley and could lead us to her. Even if he doesn’t, taking out the bomber will make me feel a lot safer.”

  “You said it’s the most sophisticated bombing you’ve seen. So who could have pulled it off?”

  “I really hate to say this, but my gut tells me it’s an EOD guy like me. Probably served in Iraq or Afghanistan or Syria. That was my first thought when I heard about the drone.”

  “Drone?”

  “Eyewitnesses outside the building reported hearing a high-pitched whir, just seconds before the explosion. We brought those witnesses in and gave them a library of sounds to listen to. It matched up with the latest microdrones. Smaller than a billfold, they can fly as far as two miles on a single charge and have state-of-the art cameras.”

  “But why? Isn’t it risky? It could have alerted the Capital Police.”

  “In the business we call it the ‘pattern of conception’—essentially the layout and complexity of an attack. And this one was very elaborate. These people were thinking, ‘Before we detonate a bomb that took a lot of work to plant, we want a last-minute verification that the target is really inside.’ To me, that says a vet, someone who is following SOP. You just don’t get this good unless your life depends on it. And that’s what happens in war.”

  “Okay, former military. But what country? Which militaries have the best EOD people?”

  “Britain,” Rogers said without hesitation. “They learned a lot from fighting the IRA. It was like an arms race, almost a hundred years of trying to outsmart each other.”

  “Could Finley’s master bomber be IRA?”

  Rogers opened his mouth and seemed about to dismiss the idea, but checked himself.

  “I suppose it’s possible. There must be a few of them still out there.”

  “It might be worth checking out,” Brown said.

  Rogers gave him a smile. “Who says you’ve lost your edge?”

  “My ex,” Brown said.

  Rogers laughed then went to talk to one of the biometric agents searching for evidence.

  Brown looked around at the wreckage. He thought of Peck’s wife and his orphaned children, and how Peck’s secretary, Samantha Stevens, had been engaged to be married in June.

  Then he thought about what Rogers had told him. It was quite an eye-opener. Before he’d walked in here, Bud had been thinking of Finley as a reincarnation of the Unabomber, a lone figure who had tried to convince the public that he was part of large grassroots political movement (he remembered how Kaczynski had written “we” in his manifesto). But unlike Kaczynski, this really was a team effort. Finley’s followers were loyal, well-trained, and worked together as a team. To pull off this bombing, she needed at least four people—the master bomber, the “painter,” the drone operator, and herself. This was a group of terrorists that operated like a tech startup.

  Brown wasn’t sure how they were going to track them all down, but one thing was for certain: Finley’s big gamble had had the desired effect. Every congressperson who had ever voted on a bill that benefited big oil or wasn’t climate friendly was now shitting their pants. Many had refused to even come to their offices, and every single one was requesting more security. Yesterday, Congress had voted for an “emergency recess,” and most of them had left town.

  Brown shook his head. With one assassination, Finley had shut down a third of the US government.

  At the same time, Finley was suddenly everywhere. The media couldn’t get enough of the story. A former Cornell professor turned ecoterrorist. Beautiful and articulate. Lethal and cunning. She was an avenging angel or a devil, take your pick. She reminded Bud of some of the radicals of the ’60s, like Bernardine Dohrn and Bill Ayers of the Weather Underground. White, college-educated terrorists who had been able to cultivate a fan club.

  There were other similarities to the ’60s, namely that America was once again fertile ground for radicals. Back then it had been about Vietnam and civil rights. Now it was about political deadlock, corporate control of government, and climate change. But one thing was the same—intergenerational anger. Young Americans were furious that this was the world they were forced to inherit. They were so angry, they were willing to kill.

  Where was it going to end?

  Bud pressed his hand against the blackened pillar and felt the heat still trapped inside, like the residue of Riona Finley herself. He felt her intelligence in the way she had pulled it off. A terrorist with a PhD. Connected, resourceful, well-financed. She had gotten them good. He didn’t like that, but he took the lesson: This was an enemy that had to be respected. An enemy that was going to take all their resourcefulness to bring down.

  At that moment, he honestly didn’t know if they were up to the task. It had taken the FBI sixteen years to track down an amateur like Ted Kaczynski, and many members of the Weathermen were never brought to justice because of FBI screw-ups and changes in Washington.

  In just the hour that he and
Rogers had been standing here, Finley had received tens of thousands of dollars in donations from her fans, and she was getting offers for help, recruiting new bombers, new drone pilots, new soldiers.

  She was growing stronger every minute. While they were standing in her wreckage.

  Chapter Twenty-One

  The Ambassador

  November 8, 2026

  Namibia

  Eric lay on his cot thinking. He had to get out of there. To make contact with the outside world. To tell Jane that he was alive. And he needed to get to a modern hospital.

  A part of him refused to admit that he was blind. But another part knew he had to accept it and imagine how he would live the rest of his life. Could he even function in the lab without his sight? And how would it change his relationship with Jane? Would she still . . . ?

  The more he thought about it, the more claustrophobic he felt. He was about to call for Khamko, to demand that he get him to a town or hospital, when he heard the children laughing in the doorway. It was a contagious sound and all by itself, it lifted his spirits a little. He reminded himself that he was not critically injured. In fact, despite the headache, he felt okay. Khamko had been right, it could have been a lot worse. If he had had serious internal bleeding, he’d be dead by now.

  So he stowed his dark thoughts away—worry about that later—and he opened his senses. He tried to count how many children there might be. At least four. He heard two with very high voices; they must be the youngest. He decided there were five. They hadn’t all spoken, yet he felt sure of the number.

  Then he felt one come closer. The others giggled. Eric tensed for a moment, feeling defenseless in the dark. Perhaps one was coming to play a trick on him. But he realized that wasn’t right. He sensed no malevolence, not even the coldness he’d felt from Naru.

  The presence stopped. Eric pictured the child looking back at his coconspirators in the doorway, summoning his courage.