Five Tribes

by Brian Nelson

  Olivia literally felt like she was flying through space. She didn’t so much see the rotation of the earth but felt it. Looking to her left, she saw the dark edge of night slowly approaching.

  “Are you ready for more?”

  “Yeah!” she said.

  “Okay, hold on to your hat. Eleven, show me Grand Central Station.”

  With a flash, they were transported to the white marble lobby of the New York train station. Olivia saw people (life-size in the iSheets) rushing to catch trains, buying coffee, reading their iSheets. The din of conversation, shoes clapping and squeaking on the floor. It was almost like being teleported there.

  Olivia looked closer at the info bubbles above each person.

  Adam Shifter, Louisa Lopez, Kamran Madani, Robert Reece, Koki Inoue.

  Below each name was their mood (worried, guilty, afraid, anxious), proof that Ryan had integrated the latest facial analysis software. If they were getting on a train, it gave their destination. If they were getting off, it listed their likely destination, such as their place of employment. But it also seemed to know their routines like “heading to Starbucks,” proof that Ryan was using their payment data.

  Olivia turned to Ryan, her eyes wide. “It’s so cool!” She began moving around the room, looking at each person (and their data).

  “There’s more,” Ryan said. With a point and a flick of his hand, Ryan zoomed in on a middle-aged man dressed in an expensive suit with silver hair. He was talking on his phone. Robert Reese. Senior Vice President, Merrill Financial Group. Anxious. “Eleven,” Ryan said, “What’s Robert Reese saying?”

  “He’s talking to his wife, telling her how much he loves her and appreciates her.”

  Olivia’s eyes widened. “Is it intercepting his call?”

  “That data is available from NSA’s PRISM program, but it actually takes several minutes to come through, so Eleven is actually reading his lips. If Reese were typing on the iSheet it could get a good idea of the text from his finger movements.”

  Olivia nodded. All this data, she thought. Amazing.

  “Can it go deeper? I mean can it extrapolate as to why someone is behaving a certain way?”

  “It can try.”

  “Eleven, why do you think Reese is feeling anxious?” Olivia asked.

  The reply came instantly: “He’s afraid that his wife is going to find out he’s having an affair.”

  Olivia couldn’t hide her surprise: “How do you know that?”

  “His facial expressions tell me his emotions are oscillating between guilt, smugness, and arousal. His phone records show four hundred messages to a woman named Amy Maxwell, who is not his wife. At this very moment his mood is changing as he becomes more confident his wife doesn’t suspect anything. His increasing sense of arousal suggests he’s thinking of seeing Amy again.”

  Olivia shook her head in amazement. This was just a random person waiting for a train, one of millions that Eleven could observe if he chose, and yet he was able to learn things about him that not even his wife knew.

  “Okay, I’m impressed.”

  “I’m just getting started,” Ryan said. “I wanted to give you a look at individual surveillance before I got to the good stuff. Remember all that training data we gave Eleven? I started with simple games, but eventually I gave him everything I could find about politics and history and economics and psychology.”

  “Yeah.”

  “Well, that allows him to see the big picture better than any AI system in the world. He can analyze the interrelations between different institutions, different political groups, and different cultures in real time. He sees it as one huge, elaborate game with 8.2 billion players. The best way to demonstrate this is if you ask him a question about what’s going on in the world.”

  Olivia gave it some thought. She wanted to pick something current to test Eleven’s real-time capabilities. The story making the biggest headlines this morning was the financial crisis in Italy that was threatening the entire European Union. To avoid going into default, Italy was begging for a bailout from the EU. Expected cost: one trillion Euros. But the latest twist was the discovery that Italy had been defrauding the EU for a decade, to the tune of another five trillion Euros. As a consequence, Europe had divided into two camps, those who wanted to preserve the union and pay for the bailout, and those who wanted to suspend Italy for its duplicity and mismanagement.

  “Eleven, do you think Italy will receive the bailout?” Olivia asked.

  Again, the reply came instantly. “There is an eighty-five percent probability that Italy will face suspension from the European Union at this time. However, if the truth about the allegations of fraud is revealed before the European Parliament’s vote, the probability drops to fourteen percent.”

  Olivia and Ryan looked at each other. “What truth?” they asked simultaneously.

  “The charges of fraud are false. Italy did not embezzle five trillion Euros.”

  “How do you know that?” Ryan asked.

  “The documents given to the EU parliament alleging the fraud came from the PCI—Italy’s communist party—and were given to them by Russian agents. The publication of the documents perfectly coincided with a fake news campaign launched by Russian Intelligence.”

  Olivia turned to Ryan “Is this true?”

  “Yes,” Eleven replied.

  “It could be,” Ryan said. “Fake news has become so prevalent that I had to create a lot of algorithms to help Eleven distinguish fact from fiction. And because he has access to NSA’s PRISM data, he can find, decrypt, and analyze any data they have access to—which is just about everything. PRISM also allows him to track internet traffic to its source, including news stories.”

  Eleven continued, “I have traced the fake news campaign to three internet nodes, two in Estonia and one in Latvia, all of which have been used by the Russians previously. The Russians are hoping that the European Parliament will suspend Italy before the truth about the fraud allegations is exposed. This will allow Russia to achieve two strategic goals: weaken the European Union and bring an exiled Italy into Russia’s sphere of influence.”

  “Holy shit!” Olivia said. “Does anyone know about this?” Again the question was directed at Ryan, but Eleven answered. “This information does not appear in any published form anywhere in the world or in any government record that I can access.”

  “You mean you figured it out yourself?” Olivia asked.

  “Yes.”

  “When?”

  Eleven responded, “When you asked me your question about the proposed bailout.”

  Olivia’s head began to spin as she tried to get her mind around what just happened. The first thing was the speed, the number of operations must have been in the vigintillions per second (1063). But that was only half as amazing as what Eleven had done in that time. It was given a question, then it went looking for information to answer it. That meant it had to decide where to look and how to approach the problem. That in itself was revolutionary. But then it was reading that information, analyzing it, and reaching a conclusion. Eleven was making judgments, predicting the future.

  “It’s really thinking,” she said.

  Ryan nodded slowly. “Yes,” he said.

  She pulled out her phone.

  “What are you doing?” Ryan asked.

  “Calling Walden . . . and securing our funding. We are going to change the world.”

  Chapter Fifty-One

  Death of the SAn God Cagn

  Namibia

  “The day we die a soft breeze will wipe out our footprints in the sand. When the wind dies down, who will tell the timelessness that once we walked this way in the dawn of time?”

  —Sān song

  Eric cleared his rifle and chambered a new round. He scrambled up the rock formation to join Karuma, and together they eased thems
elves around the rock ledge and into the glow of the cooking fires. From here they had a vantage point over the camp. Eric’s heart sank as he took in the scene.

  There were no fewer than twenty-five men with rifles. They had taken most of the women and children and had them face down on the ground. //Kabbo’s father, Nǃxau, lay dead in a pool of blood. //Kabbo was kneeling in the dirt beside him, weeping. Among the poachers was a young Asian woman, petite and beautiful, wearing expensive chino pants and a turquoise blouse with a mandarin collar. Her jet-black hair was held up in a pristine bun crossed with Chinese hairpins. She looked like a tourist on safari, and she was talking casually in Mandarin on a satellite phone, seemingly oblivious to the violence around her.

  A large Chinese man grabbed Kebbi-an and held a pistol to her temple. He kept shouting something to the prisoners, but since it was not in Sān, they could not understand him.

  Then a bushman that Eric had never seen before stepped into the firelight and began to translate.

  “You stole five hundred thousand dollars’ worth of ivory from us. We know it was you. Give it back to us or we will kill all of you. Beginning with this old woman.”

  There was murmuring among the women and crying from the children.

  “This is your last chance. We will spare no one.”

  Khamko suddenly stepped from the shadows, hands held high above his white head.

  “I know where it is.” He turned to the big Asian. “Let her go.”

  Two of the mercenaries came and flanked Khamko, pushing him toward the Chinese woman. The woman kept talking to someone, relaying information. Finally she looked at Khamko. “You know where it is?”

  “Yes.”

  “Tell me.”

  “If I tell you, then nothing will keep you from killing my people. I will go with you and show you, but you must take your soldiers and leave.”

  She pursed her lips in thought, examining him through narrow eyes. Then she turned her back on him and spoke into the phone. Ever so faintly, Eric imagined he heard a woman’s voice on the other end of the line.

  Eric suddenly felt a cold sweat break over him, for he suddenly knew their plan. The woman and a few of the men would take Khamko away, but the rest would stay and massacre the Sān. It was the only thing that made sense—business sense. The only way to ensure their ivory was never stolen again.

  The woman turned back to Khamko. “Okay, come with us.”

  Eric motioned for Karuma to take a position off to his right. Then he sighted on the chest of the big Chinese man. He was just about to fire when he noticed something moving in the shadows. Three figures were stalking closer with spears in their hands. It was Naru, Gǃkau, and !Nqate. They must have been in the cave when they heard the shooting.

  He watched Naru signal the men into position, then her eyes lifted for a moment and she saw him. She gave the faintest nod, then they attacked.

  Eric quickly changed targets, knowing that one of Naru’s spears would take the big Chinese man down. Eric fired on one of the mercenaries to his right. He crumpled and fell.

  When Eric looked back at the big Chinese man, there was a spear through his chest. The man gave a loud moan of shock and despair, but somehow he didn’t fall. Instead he turned and began shooting at Naru and the others. They scattered and ran. It took another five seconds before the man fell to his knees.

  Another Chinese man grabbed the petite woman and they ran for cover. In mere seconds the Sān had killed three of the mercenaries and Eric had shot two. For a moment the soldiers were panicked; they didn’t know where to return fire. One stumbled in his confusion, and Eric shot him. Another fell from one of Karuma’s arrows. But the mercenaries recovered quickly. One opened fire on Eric, and he had to abandon the high ground. With Eric no longer firing, the other mercenaries turned their guns on the Sān with terrifying effect. Women and children were trying to run to safety, but the mercenaries shot them as they ran.

  Soon three mercenaries were shooting at Eric. He scrambled off the rock formation, the rounds smacking the stone around him. On sandy ground once more, he fired three shots to hold them back, then ran the full distance around the rock formation. It probably took no more than ten seconds, but in that time the battle had turned into a massacre. Blocked from reaching the cave by the mass of mercenaries, many of the Sān had run into the trees and bushes for cover. But since many of the soldiers had night-vision goggles, the Sān were getting slaughtered. They didn’t understand that they could be seen. He saw the muzzle flashes from the men’s rifles and heard the rounds zipping into the woods. Under the thunder of gunfire was the wailing of women, the confused cries of children. Then he heard a voice from the bushes, calling out in Sān. “Please stop, you’re killing us!” But the mercenaries didn’t understand her language and they didn’t care.

  Then he recognized Karuma’s silhouette as he dashed into the thick brambles. One of the soldiers—a white man—saw him too and was tracking him with his night-vision goggles. The man raised his rifle to fire.

  Eric shot at him, but in his haste he missed. The man, professionally composed, turned while taking a knee and honed in on Eric.

  The first bullet whizzed by Eric’s ear with a supersonic buzz. He ducked back behind the rock face, wishing for all the world that he had some of their high-tech armor. Just one shirt and I’d kill all of these motherfuckers.

  He crouched low and returned fire, trying his hardest to aim. The poacher cried out and grabbed his leg. As he tried to roll away, Eric pressed his advantage. Holding the rifle steady at his shoulder—he took careful aim.

  Bang! Bang!

  The rounds kicked up dirt in front of the man.

  Click.

  He was empty.

  He had to think fast. Off to his right was one of the cooking fires, about halfway between him and the mercenary. They formed a perfect triangle—Eric, the gunman, and the fire.

  He wasn’t sure it would work but he had to try. He sprinted for the fire, the wounded man still shooting at him, bullets zipping past him. Once he reached the fire, he rushed the injured man. Momentarily blinded by looking toward the light, the man ripped off his night-vision goggles. He pinched his eyes shut and tried to aim again, but it was too late. Eric was on him and wrested the rifle out of his hands, flipped it around and fired into his face.

  Gasping, his chest heaving, Eric turned away from the ghastly sight. He looked around, trying to assess the situation, but it was impossible. It was complete chaos; he couldn’t focus. Frightened Sān were running to and fro screaming and shouting, while the gunfire boomed and echoed, making it impossible to think. He saw Gǃkau valiantly emerge from the trees and try to cast his spear, but he was cut down by a barrage of bullets before the weapon could leave his hand.

  Then in the midst of all the chaos he saw Nyando, the four-year-old girl he had carried to the cave that afternoon. She was weeping uncontrollably, disoriented and terrified. Her arms were held out and her wrists dangled, as if she had been burned. She didn’t know where to go, running one direction, then changing her mind and running the other way.

  “Put her out of her misery,” he heard one of the mercenaries say.

  Out of the corner of his eye, Eric saw a man raise his rifle to shoot her. Eric fired at him, forcing him to take cover. At that moment Eric’s left hand exploded with pain, and the rifle fell from his grasp. He instinctively clasped the wounded hand. His good hand felt the blood-soaked wound and his good thumb went clean through the center of his other palm.

  Another bullet whipped past his head. Get moving or you’re dead. He stumbled toward Nyando, but she was at least forty yards away. The mercenary he had seen fired at her but missed.

  Then he saw Khamko, his white hair soaked with blood. His eyes blank and vacant. Summoning his strength, the old Sān cast his spear at the mercenary. The heavy metal tip passed clean through the man’s neck, and t
he man crumbled. Khamko quickly gathered up the frightened girl, but he was so weak that he stumbled under her weight like a drunken man. Eric saw the tracer rounds zipping past the two helpless souls as they tried to reach the safety of the cave. Eric had to help them. He sprinted for the mercenary that Khamko had killed and snatched up his rifle with his good hand. He knew his time was short. Even if he weren’t hit again, he would soon go into shock from the wound. He fired in the direction the shots were coming, although he could not see clearly where the enemy was. They seemed to be all around, up in the rocks and hiding in the woods, taking advantage of the darkness.

  Suddenly Khamko himself was hit, multiple rounds bursting through his thighs and stomach. He collapsed to the ground. Nyando tried to cling to him, but Khamko said something to her and she ran for the cave.

  Eric reached the old man a second later. He fired three more rounds, but with only one good hand he had to drop the rifle to help Khamko. He lifted the small man over his shoulders and ran. The bullets were passing all around him now. The orange tracers appearing on either side of him and splashing against the rock in front of him. Then an orange trail erupted from his stomach. How could that happen? He felt no—

  He collapsed. Then the pain hit him. It was unbearable. Oh, God! Oh, God! He looked at Khamko, and their eyes locked.

  “Come, my son, you have more to do.”

  Eric knew he was right. He closed his eyes for just a moment, tempted to stay in the darkness, but then he forced them open. Clutching his bleeding guts with his wounded hand, he stood once more. He used his good hand to grab Khamko’s wrist then began dragging him. The old man was barely conscious, but he kept repeating. “Leave me. Help the others.”

  Eric ignored him. He felt his abdominal muscles ripping wider, but he didn’t stop. He would at least get Khamko to safety. But the pain . . .

  Finally they reached the cave. He propped Khamko against the wall as best as he could, under an ancient painting of the hunting Sān.

  “Now go. Save Naru. Save Karuma.”

  “I will,” he lied, for he knew that he was too hurt to do any good. He could already feel his extremities—his fingers and toes—getting cold from the shock. He would go out again, of course, but they would finish him quickly. There were just too many of them and they were too well armed.