The Siren Project

by Renneberg, Stephen

  The status bar hit one hundred percent and vanished. Mouse pulled the connecting cable free, locked his laptop shut and then all three of them started running for the rear exit.

  Mitch yelled into his radio, “G, we’re moving. Where are you?”

  Gunter’s voice crackled back. “Energy lab. Just finishing number four.”

  “Time’s up.”

  They ran through several corridors, past sleeping guards and laboratories, towards the exit, finding Gunter was already there, waiting for them. Once outside, all four ran for the hole in the fence, peeling off their gas masks as they approached the van. Mitch tossed his gas mask into the van's rear as he climbed into the passenger seat, while Gunter took the wheel. In a few seconds, they were speeding away from the Institute. Gunter handed a small radio transmitter to Mitch, who pulled the aerial out, and pressed the detonate button. A dozen thunderclaps rolled out into the night, signaling the destruction of fragile equipment and laboratories throughout the Institute. There'd been no sirens warning of the approach of the security force, but if EB’s timetable was correct, they would have been caught in the blast.

  Mouse buzzed Mitch on the intercom from the rear of the van. “I’m looking at the download EB sent us. We've got hundreds of files, blueprints, statistics, scientific reports. It's massive, everything you wanted to know about turning men into robots, but were afraid to ask.”

  Mitch knew he should have been satisfied, but EB’s strange words echoed in his mind, words that left him in no doubt, EB was the key.

  I AM CRUEL.

  * * * *

  “Okay Princess, give,” Mitch said, as he slipped into a chair beside her under the awning, outside the mobile home. “You’ve been in a trance since we got back.”

  Christa shook her head slowly, staring absently at the row of permanently sited vans lining the narrow road through the trailer park. “There’s nothing to talk about. She’s gone.”

  “The woman in the video?”

  “Number seven,” Christa spat the words bitterly.

  “You were close?”

  She nodded. “She was very gifted.”

  “Ah, from Psychomet?”

  “Metapsych,” Christa corrected.

  “She might still be alive.”

  Christa turned her head away from Mitch so he couldn’t see the tears forming in her eyes. “If she is, she’s one of their robots by now.”

  Mouse pushed the mobile home door open and jumped down excitedly, then stopped as if he had run headlong into a barrier.

  Mitch looked up. “What is it?”

  “We’re ready,” Mouse replied, glancing uncertainly at Christa.

  “I'm all right.”

  Mitch stepped up into the mobile home after Mouse. Christa breathed deeply, calming herself, then followed. Gunter sat at the table, beside a laptop and a stack of printouts. Mouse slipped into the seat in front of the computer.

  “We have started indexing the EB download,” Gunter began. “We still have a long way to go, but it appears to explain the scientific rationale of the brain conditioning technology itself.”

  “There’s a lot of technical crap in there,” Mouse added. “Molecular mumbo jumbo. We don’t understand a word of it.”

  “This data requires a level of scientific analysis we are not qualified or equipped to conduct. Curiously, the only nonscientific files refer to an extreme right wing militia group-”

  “Neo-nazi aryan master race loser types,” Mouse cut in. “You know the kind; my sister is also my mother.”

  “That is the image they portray,” Gunter said cautiously. “But that is not who they are.”

  “It’s a cover?” Mitch asked.

  “Ya. They are called the American Patriot’s Regiment, APR. They claim to have antigovernment anarchist sentiments, a distinctly paramilitarist nature and a secret training base in Louisiana.”

  “I ran a search through the FBI archives,” Mouse said. “They have a long and glorious history, documented down to the tiniest detail. The names, photographs and bio’s of all the leaders are there, including a string of weapons offences. Several have served time in both the military and prison. A very thorough dossier, and it’s total BS. When I got into the system logs, I found the entire file was loaded into the FBI system less than seven months ago, even though the APR’s supposedly been shooting up Louisiana state forests for more than fifteen years.”

  “That kind of elaborate cover story requires a lot of preparation,” Christa said. “Did you cross check the prison records? Or circuit court records for the weapons offences?”

  Mouse nodded. “Louisiana state penitentiary records match perfectly with the FBI archives. So do the court documents and files held by various district attorneys. US Army personnel records also show the service files of APR members. Not one of them above the rank of corporal. Two supposedly dishonorably discharged. When I dig behind the data to the system logs, I find all these records, in all these different systems, were loaded within a three day period. It’s a very comprehensive cover.”

  Christa thought for a moment. “So if you weren’t doubting what you saw on the screen when you called up the names, you'd never know they were fakes?”

  “Correct.”

  “How hard is it to get to the system logs?” Mitch asked.

  “Not hard, but it’s not about hard. It’s about credibility. FBI agents, or local police wouldn't check this stuff. They'd believe what they see. It'd require a proper computer audit to find the fakes.”

  “Did EB tell us this stuff was faked?”

  “No, but he had to know I'd find it.”

  “Why do you say that?”

  “Because, in case you haven't worked it out yet, EB is a computer genius,” Mouse said simply, “And he's seen my code. He knows how I work. He knew how deep I'd dig.”

  “That’s giving him a lot of credit,” Mitch said thoughtfully. “But you might be right.”

  “EB’s download contains copies of orders coming from the APR, requesting weapons, vehicles, designating individuals for conditioning,” Gunter said. “There are no names signing these orders, just authorization codes. I assume the APR leaders have no real authority, and whoever does, prefers not to use a name that can be traced.”

  “Fake identities and fake organizations,” Christa said. “It's a tangled web.”

  “We are not sure if the conditioning list is of people already conditioned, or people who will be, once the technique is perfected,” Gunter explained. “There are also references in the EB download to a paramilitary operation using a mobile conditioning unit based on the east coast. It appears the devices we saw in the Newton Institute were older designs. There is a newer, smaller model we haven’t seen yet.”

  “Any details on what this operation is?” Mitch asked.

  “They are going to attack a major political convention in New York City.”

  “Do we know why?”

  “No,” Gunter replied. “There are thousands of files, and we have not had time to go through them all. If EB has given us a file with all the details, we have not found it yet. Or perhaps EB does not know.”

  “How long have we got?” Christa asked.

  “A few days.”

  “We have to warn Gus.”

  “We will,” Mitch said.

  “They are planning on many casualties,” Gunter added.

  “They want it to look like a terrorist attack?” Christa asked.

  “Ya. Their website reeks of mindless, ignorant hatred, but the EB communiques have no trace of that. They are clear, lucid and precise.”

  “They're not gun toting rednecks, and this isn't a mindless anarchist plot,” Mouse said, “Although they want it to look that way.”

  “The rednecks may be the fall guys,” Gunter said. “The people putting this together are professionals. Rogue intel or military types.”

  Mitch nodded. “We've met them already.”

  “Was there anything about the invisible Dr Stein
us?” Christa asked.

  “EB gave us a more detailed version of the dossier Knightly had on Steinus,” Gunter replied.

  “Does it tell us his middle name?” Mitch asked.

  Gunter looked puzzled. “No, why is that important?”

  “Because his first name is Erich. If his middle name started with B, he would be E. B. Steinus. EB.”

  Gunter flicked back through the dossier and shook his head. “No middle name. There is an employment contract with the Newton Institute, and an order transferring him to ‘the Arizona Facility’, whatever that is, but no indication where the facility is. Steinus’ dossier tells us he is a clinical neurologist. From his file, a very brilliant man.”

  “What exactly does a clinical neurologist do?” Mitch asked.

  “They study the nervous system,” Christa said. “The part of the body which responds to external stimuli.”

  “You knew this already?”

  “Yes. Everything to do with this technology is classified, but now that you know what he is, there’s nothing to be gained by further secrecy.”

  Mitch exhaled slowly, weary of the secrecy games. “I guess it makes sense. If you want to condition the brain, you have to know how it responds.”

  “This whole thing is about how responsive the brain is to certain influences,” Christa explained, “And how to pattern the brain to get the response you want.”

  “So we have a brilliant egghead figuring out what makes the brain tick for Uncle Sam, we’ve got someone siphoning off left over technology from the Strategic Defense Initiative, and we’ve got this expensive research institute turning monkeys into Nintendos.” Mitch said, drawing the pieces together. “Is there anything else about this facility in Arizona?”

  “The Newton Institute sent several modified AM-X accelerators there,” Gunter replied. “The monkey in the chimp room came from Arizona. It was brought up here to test the latest prototype particle accelerator. In fact, that whole set up in the chimp room was shipped up from Arizona.”

  “I think EB liked that monkey,” Mouse said. “He sent us its history, medical records, photographs, even what kind of food it liked.”

  “Maybe it was his pet?” Christa suggested.

  “He was upset when I put the monkey out of its misery,” Mitch said, then his eyes widened. “EB's at the Arizona Facility! That's where the monkey was!”

  “That chimp’s head was wired by Steinus,” Mouse said. “Once he had that level of control over a chimp brain, the powers that be must have realized he was for real.”

  “Even so,” Gunter said, “There is a great difference between the brain of a chimpanzee and the brain of a human being.”

  “That's for sure,” Mouse said. “They might be able to make a chimpanzee quack like a duck, but that doesn’t mean they can make a man walk like one.”

  Mitch’s mind went back to the Chimp Room. “If you can see through a chimp’s eyes, if you can make its hands and feet move like a marionette, all because some egghead runs a wire into its brain, I’m inclined to believe they can make a man walk, talk and quack like a duck, or any damn thing they want. If not now, then soon.” He thrust the memory of the dead chimpanzee aside. “So we have the technical readout. Do we know how this thing works?”

  “They use finely controlled particle beams,” Gunter replied, “That intersect inside the brain, to manipulate neurological connections. It is a physical process that requires a comprehensive mapping of the brain in question, followed by a precise restructuring procedure involving millions of connections being severed or stimulated.”

  “They hard wire the brain, the way they want it,” Mouse said. “Like a circuit board.”

  “Sounds complicated,” Mitch said.

  “The complexity is almost incomprehensible,” Gunter added. “A similar process happens naturally inside our own brains every day. Everything you see, every thought you have, triggers neurons to join and separate inside the brain. What they have figured out, is how to synthesize the process. When you think about it, it was inevitable someone would find a way to control the process.”

  “Imagine,” Mouse said, “If every baby born gets some early programming. We could all be voting for the same political party, buying the same car, choosing brand X over brand Y, and never realize it wasn’t our own preference. Or we could mass produce super soldiers with no moral dilemma about killing and no fear of death, and yet, with absolute, total obedience.”

  “Or eliminate crime, drug abuse, and mental illness,” Gunter countered. “End suffering. With that kind of understanding, we could unlock the true potential of the human brain, double the intelligence of humanity in a single generation. It could be an evolutionary step for the entire human race, the first evolutionary step designed by humanity, for humanity.”

  “It could unlock those psychic abilities dormant in everyone, but functioning in just a few,” Christa said, thinking of her own gifts and how someday they could be available to every human being.

  Mitch looked doubtful. “Noble thoughts, but whoever has his finger on this button, doesn’t have humanitarian intentions in mind.”

  There was silence, as they realized he was right.

  “This world is so screwed up,” Mouse said bitterly. “We turn everything into shit.”

  “So, we know what it is,” Mitch said, “Is there any defense against it?” He glanced sideways at Christa. “Apart from implanting self-destruct devices in our brains, which I think we all agree, is a really bad idea.”

  Gunter looked pensive. “It is a form of radiation . . . Radiation can be shielded against.”

  “You want us to wear lead helmets?” Mitch asked, only half joking.

  Gunter allowed himself a smile. “Perhaps. It is too early to tell.”

  “So what do we do with all this information?”

  “We give it to Gus,” Christa said without hesitation. “With the Vice President on our side, he can get a team of scientists working on it.”

  The other two nodded.

  “So Knightly and the egg-heads get EB's download,” Mitch said, “And take care of the hard science. We figure out what the Louisiana rednecks are doing, and what's happening in Arizona. Christa, you'll write Knightly a letter, setting up a meeting in New York. We won't risk the phones, not with Echelon breathing down our necks. Mouse, you arrange for air tickets, using fake ID's of course, and find a controllable location as our base. Gunter, get me everything you can on this convention in New York.”

  Gunter nodded, but looked troubled. When Mitch gave him a questioning look, he said, “All it takes is a few key people in key places to take control of the military, the intelligence community, even the government. That must be how they got control of Echelon. If this goes on, if it grows, they will control everything.”

  “Not if we find out who the robots are first.”

  “Then what?” Christa asked.

  “Then Knightly will have to eliminate them. What choice does he have? This will never make it to trial.”

  Chapter 1 1

  “Remember,” Mouse said, as he passed the small cardboard box holding the twenty disks containing EB’s download to Mitch, “We can receive your signal for both sound and pictures out to five miles, providing you don’t put too much concrete between us.”

  “It's New York. There's concrete everywhere.”

  “I know. Just stay in the open.”

  Mitch slipped the box into his briefcase, then gave Christa an enquiring look. “Ready?”

  “Yes,” she said closing her hand bag.

  Christa had mailed the letter to Knightly as soon as the plane had touched down, requesting only a meeting, not revealing the purpose. Once secure in the hotel, they lay low for several days while the letter was delivered and Knightly had time to reach New York for the rendezvous. On the street, Christa slid her hand under Mitch’s arm, completing the illusion of a couple enjoying a walk together. A few blocks away in a parked hire car, Mouse used the headphones to monit
or their progress while Gunter waited patiently behind the wheel.

  When Mitch and Christa approached the entrance to the Museum of Modern Art, Mitch surveyed both sides of the street warily. They'd decided to meet at a public place because of the reduced risk of ambush, even so, he still felt uncomfortably exposed. Pedestrians hurried about their business, cars jostled for position, but no one paid them any special attention

  “Looks clear,” he reported, speaking just loud enough for the microphone pinned to his lapel.

  Christa swiveled her shoulders slightly as she walked, displaying the street to the broach camera.

  “You sense anything?” Mitch said, giving a slight nod to the people around them.

  “What do you think I am? Radar? I have to concentrate on the person. I can’t just sweep the street.”

  Mitch smiled. “Damn. I thought you were a walking AWACS. What about energy fields, anything making your hair stand on end?”

  She paused, as if listening. “Nope, not a thing.”

  “Good,” he whispered as they turned into the Museum, paid the entry fee and made their way toward the book shop.

  Gus Knightly stood alone a few feet from the entrance to the book store, his back partially turned to them. He wore a dark overcoat, his hands pushed deep into the pockets, standing very still as if deep in thought. A smile flickered across Christa’s face as she saw him.

  “Right on time,” Mitch observed.

  “Told you he’d be here.”

  They slipped through the scattered museum patrons until they were only a dozen feet from Knightly, when Christa stopped. Her fingers gripped Mitch’s arm so tight, her nails dug into his skin through his coat.

  “Oh no!” she gasped, shocked.

  Mitch stopped uncertainly. “What is it?” He slipped his hand inside his coat toward his gun.

  Christa's face was white, her eyes riveted on Knightly. “Radar!” she whispered.