Robert Ludlum's (TM) The Utopia Experiment (A Covert-One novel)

by Kyle Mills

  “Really?” Klein said, though it was unlikely this was something he was unaware of. “Why not?”

  “Speaking just between us, he’s a megalomaniacal half-wit who has a huge say in what cutting-edge technologies get adopted by the military but can barely turn on a computer. On the other hand, he thinks I’m an arrogant jackass who doesn’t know his place.”

  “I won’t take sides,” Klein said with a barely perceptible smile. “You’ll be going as his aide.”

  “Seriously Fred, I could name three or four really talented people who’d do a great job on this. I don’t think the president understands how much this guy despises me.”

  When Klein spoke again, there was an obvious dismissal in his tone. “Oh, he understands perfectly. He just doesn’t care.”

  11

  Outside Baltimore, Maryland

  USA

  THE COMPLEX HAD THE FEEL of a meticulously whitewashed prison from the outside, but once through the gate everything changed. Buildings were widely spaced and partially hidden by landscaping designed to accent the graceful modern architecture. Cars were few and far between, with open-air trolleys ferrying young, casually dressed people through the immaculate, but vaguely Stepford, environment.

  It was impossible not to wonder what was going on behind the mirrored windows. Was it a cure for cancer? A sentient machine? Plans for a manned flight to Mars? Or was this just the home of DI’s accounting and human resources divisions.

  The company had always been incredibly diffuse—facilities like this were spread throughout the world, splitting the work into the bite-sized chunks that their founder preferred. Good science tended to be about the free exchange of ideas and constant peer review. But Dresner’s philosophy on development—and so many other things—went against the conventional wisdom. He preferred to break his technical problems down into their most fundamental components and then have them worked on separately by the best people he could find. His job—his genius—was understanding what those basic components were and how to put them together at the end.

  Smith got a scowl from a group of people power-walking along a well-tended trail and suddenly regretted not renting a Prius. Who knew that his little Triumph would feel like a diesel-belching semi truck inside the Eden that Dresner had created?

  He pretended not to see them and accelerated a bit, following the directions he’d been given to the visitor parking lot. It was hidden behind a stand of pines and the only other car was a generic black sedan with a man in an impeccable army uniform standing next to it.

  Smith had made it a point to be fifteen minutes early to avoid just this situation. Obviously, the general had anticipated his move and countered. Round one: Montel Pedersen.

  “No uniform, Colonel? Are you embarrassed by it?”

  In Smith’s extensive experience, tech people didn’t respond all that well to the trappings of the military. They didn’t seem to differentiate between strolling up in a neat dress uniform and leaping from a tank with a necklace made of human ears. Best to just go with the khakis and a polo.

  “My apologies, General.”

  Pedersen was about fifty, but looked older. His middle had spread enough that it could no longer resist gravity and had collapsed over what was undoubtedly a meticulously polished belt buckle. His hair was cut close where it still existed, accentuating a head that looked a bit like it was melting. He told people he’d been a boxer in his youth and it appeared that he’d lost more than he’d won.

  “Let’s be clear, Colonel. I have no idea what you’re doing here and I never agreed to it. But I didn’t have time to do anything about it.”

  “I understand, sir. I’ll do—”

  “You’ll do nothing, including speaking to anyone about what you see here today without my written permission. Is that understood?”

  Smith nodded submissively.

  Pedersen didn’t move for the doors, but instead tried to stare him down. While the general had never been the sharpest tool in the shed, he also wasn’t stupid. The sudden appearance of a younger, scientifically more literate soldier at this meeting would undoubtedly make him feel threatened. And making him feel threatened would degrade their relationship even further—something that Smith would have bet good money was impossible.

  The truth was that technology was a young man’s game and Pedersen’s grasp on it became more tenuous every year. Most people who worked for him thought it was a cruel joke that he’d kept his job this long and prayed nightly for him to be put out to pasture. In fact, Smith had already ignored seven messages from Pedersen’s staff wondering hopefully if this was the first step in moving him into the general’s job.

  God forbid.

  * * *

  PEDERSEN TOOK THE CHAIR at the head of the conference room table and Smith retreated to one halfway down the right side. He was fairly certain that he knew as much as Pedersen: The Merge had some kind of military potential and Dresner wanted to offer it to the United States. Beyond that, everything was completely in the dark. What kind of potential? Had apps been developed similar to the ones for the financial industry and politics? What rights would the U.S. have that other countries didn’t?

  “Gentlemen. You were early. Sorry to keep you waiting,” Craig Bailer said, slipping into the room.

  “I appreciate you having us,” Pedersen said, shaking the Dresner CEO’s hand.

  “Always a pleasure to meet with our incredibly well-funded friends from the military,” he responded with an easy smile and then stepped around the table to extend a hand to Smith. “Doctor. I’m glad you could make it. Christian appreciated your questions at the presentation. He’s very excited about that side of the program and doesn’t get to talk about it as much as he’d like. These days all we get is a constant barrage about the release date of our new Facebook app.”

  Smith just gave a nod and then let the two men sit before settling into his own chair. Bailer was a good two inches taller than his own six feet, with longish gray hair and a tanned face that exuded the same natural healthiness as everything else on the compound. According to a quick bit of research, he had the typical Ivy League background and had made his way around a number of tech firms before settling in as the head of Dresner Industries. Overall, his reputation was as a brilliant businessman with a much better-than-average grasp of the complex products his company produced.

  “So what are we actually talking about here?” Pedersen said, deciding to dispense with the expected pleasantries. “There weren’t many specifics given when you called this meeting.”

  “What we’re talking about is a military-grade Merge.”

  “A unique piece of hardware?”

  Bailer leaned forward and clasped his hands together on top of the table. “Of course. The commercial version would be too delicate for the application—our primary concerns there were size and weight.”

  “Are you going to show us a prototype?”

  “Oh, more than just a prototype, General. We have a heavily tested and proven design ready to go into full production. Right now there’s somewhere around fifty fully functional units for you to take for a test drive.”

  Pedersen was clearly as intrigued as Smith was, but doing his best to hide it. “Software?”

  “We’ve put together a military operating system built on the same platform as the commercial unit. It’s simpler, more robust, and more purpose-driven. Something you can expand on.”

  “You?” Smith interjected.

  Bailer pushed himself back from the table far enough to take in both of his guests. Pedersen was clearly irritated at the sudden inclusion of his new aide.

  “The United States will have the exclusive right to develop and use their own proprietary applications and to control weapons systems.”

  “So no other foreign army will be able to use Merge technology,” Pedersen said.

  “No other foreign army will be able to use the military version. To the degree that other countries can use commercial applications to t
heir advantage on the battlefield—for instance through audiovisual enhancements, GPS, or communications—they’ll be able to do so. What they won’t be able to do is access the military operating system, create military-specific apps, or control weapons.”

  “And you can guarantee that because your company is going to oversee software development for the Merge?” Smith said, studiously avoiding looking at Pedersen.

  “Correct. At the commercial level, we reserve the right to approve or decline any application. If we approve it, we compile it and put it up on the system. Because the Merge’s output is so heavily integrated into its user’s reality, the interface has to be very carefully designed. Vertigo is a serious problem, and then there are the obvious safety issues. We want to make sure that no one creates, for instance, a YouTube application that can be used while driving a car. With the military, though, that’s not as much of a concern. We’re confident in your ability to look after the safety of your soldiers.”

  “So we’ll be able to compile and integrate applications without your involvement,” Smith continued before Pedersen could jump in.

  Bailer shook his head. “We retain the access codes to the operating system. You’ll send your applications to us and we’ll integrate it into the operating system.”

  “That seems like a lot of control for us to give up.”

  Bailer shrugged. “If you’re not interested, we certainly understand. But I can tell you right now, these conditions are non-negotiable. Christian isn’t going to cede control of his technology. The risks are too great.”

  “Cost?” Pedersen finally managed to interject, obviously unhappy with being shut out of the conversation.

  “With full integration, we’re estimating about thirty-five hundred per unit.”

  The general’s brow furrowed as he made a few mental calculations, giving Smith an opportunity to ask another of the thousands of questions bouncing around his head.

  “I have to say that I’m surprised by this. Dr. Dresner has never shown any interest at all in military contracting. In fact, I’d go so far as to say he’s actively avoided it.”

  Bailer leaned a little farther back in his chair and nodded thoughtfully. “I can see why you’d think that, but you have to understand that Christian sees America and its military as a force for good. Though admittedly an imperfect and self-interested one. He believes very much in the potential of humanity, but understands that there’s evil in the world that needs to be dealt with. In fact, with his background, he probably understands that better than anyone in the room. What he sees here is an opportunity to help the U.S. be a bit more surgical than wiping out an entire Pakistani neighborhood to kill one suspected terrorist or destroying an entire country to depose a single dictator.”

  “Gentlemen…”

  Smith spun in the direction of the familiar voice and saw a screen set into the wall come to life with Christian Dresner’s image. “I’m sorry I couldn’t be there in person, I hope that Craig is taking good care of you.”

  “He is,” Pedersen acknowledged, but Dresner didn’t seem to hear.

  “Dr. Smith. I’m a great admirer of your work with prosthetics.”

  “Thank you. I’m anxious to see how we can integrate the Merge to make them more useful.”

  “We still have some work to do on that front, but the potential is almost unlimited. As you are a doctor and scientist I know you’ll agree that the devil is often in the details. People are so impressed by the integration of the Merge with the human mind, but they have no idea of the incredible challenges presented by complex inputs. Or how much I wanted to include a real-time factual evaluation of what people are saying in conversation but couldn’t because of the glacial speed of the cellular data networks.”

  His eyes became a bit distant as he lost himself for a moment in his own incredible mind. When he spoke again, he seemed to be talking to himself. “And then there’s the problem of sarcasm and humor. Absolutely impossible to code for…”

  “Maybe you should have just built it to make everybody happy,” Smith said, only half joking. “Then no one would care about the details.”

  An enigmatic expression crossed Dresner’s face but then disappeared when Pedersen inserted himself into the exchange.

  “I’m interested to learn more about the Merge’s offensive capabilities…”

  Dresner nodded politely but his eyes suggested that he was already disconnecting from the conversation. “Craig would be able to tell you more about that than I can. I’ll excuse myself and let him get on with the demonstration.”

  Smith chewed his lower lip to hide the anger he felt at Pedersen driving the man away. In truth, though, he wasn’t sure that’s what had happened. While he was normally fully prepared to blame the general for just about anything, the change in Dresner’s demeanor had come not at the question about offensive capability, but at his own comment about happiness.

  Pedersen pushed back his chair and stood, looking impatiently down at Craig Bailer. “Did I hear something about a demonstration?”

  12

  Outside Storuman

  Sweden

  WHEN HE WAS YOUNG, the darkness had crept up on him slowly—disguising itself as a passing shadow, using the constant chaos of his mind as camouflage. Now it attacked without hesitation or pretense, often prompted by nothing more than an innocuous comment or a brief scent from a forgotten past. And other times it came for no reason at all.

  Christian Dresner stepped out into the sweeping garden, his Merge sensing his position within the compound’s walls and shutting down everything but vision correction. The snow was falling in large, drifting flakes that absorbed the sound of his footsteps as he weaved through trees dusted white.

  Brushing off a lone bench, he sat and let the cold sink into him. Behind, the bunker-like building he’d just exited stood silent and, in many ways, equally cold. It was one of a collection of similar structures spread across the world. How many now? Ten? Fifteen? Maybe it was his aging mind that kept him from remembering. Or maybe it was that he felt nothing for any of them. They were less homes than self-​appointed prisons meant to make him feel safe. And while he recognized it was probably an illusion, it was at least a comfortable one. In these gardens, for brief, precious moments, he could sometimes make everything outside disappear.

  Not today, though. Today, his mind had decided to seize on the stories his long-dead father had told about the concentration camp. About how his initial confusion and fear had faded into a numbness impervious to the death and suffering of others. About how the cruelty of the guards and the desperation of the prisoners eventually became indistinguishable. And finally, about what it was like to watch your humanity slip away.

  When Dresner had first heard the stories—at what now seemed like an impossibly young age—his father was still trying to understand what had happened to his people and had been strangely desperate not to place blame. The average German had known nothing of what was happening, he’d said. Only a twisted few were responsible for the evil that had overtaken his country.

  He’d believed deeply in the communist ideal and had been proud to use his scientific gifts for the collective good. But then he began to change. The drinking had started, as had long bouts locked alone in the cold, mold-scented basement. He spoke less and less, but when he did, his words no longer forgave. Of course, the German people had been lied to, he would slur beneath the dim light hanging over their rickety kitchen table. But the truth had been right in front of them. They’d just refused to look at it.

  And so it had come as no surprise when Christian’s parents scooped him up and took him away in the middle of the night. Marxism hadn’t delivered the contentment and equality it had promised. Instead, it had become just another weapon to be wielded by men with no conscience—men willing to do whatever was necessary to hold the reins of power.

  It wasn’t the Nazis, his father had told him as they hid beneath the false floor of a farm truck. It was humanity itself. We w
ere nothing more than hairless monkeys, driven by the same violent urge to survive that had been built into our primitive ancestors.

  Of course, they had been captured at the first checkpoint. His father, a man of otherwise extraordinary intellect, had little in the way of guile. The German secret police, on the other hand, was populated by paranoid and sadistic men who understood how to use the dark side of human nature to turn neighbor against neighbor, to create a nearly inescapable web of informants, betrayers, and spies.

  He’d never seen his family again. It was only in the last few years that the Stasi records chronicling their fate had surfaced. His father had continued to work under the unveiled threat against the lives of his wife and child, but died after only a few years of being forced to labor eighty-hour weeks. No longer of any particular use, his mother had died of tuberculosis in a Russian gulag, and he had been abandoned to an orphanage in central Germany.

  His own intellectual gifts had been identified almost from birth but, as he grew, they became increasingly difficult for the local apparatchiks to ignore. He was eventually transferred to a boarding school where the state could decide whether he could be of use to the great Soviet experiment.

  For a short time he, like his father, had been a rabid believer. After years living in violence and squalor as the son of a traitor, he’d seen the bureaucrats enslaving him as saviors, and he’d seen the opportunities they gave him as proof of the egalitarian superiority of communism.

  Dresner could still remember the force of his need to belong to something greater than himself. To be understood and respected. To emerge from the shadow of his traitorous family and prove his devotion to the country that had embraced him despite his lineage.

  It was a strangely happy—almost ecstatic—time in his life. But it hadn’t lasted. The promise of communism gleamed bright and then quickly burned out. Just as his father had promised.