Open Secret

by Fiona Quinn

  Lisa flipped to the cover art for The Uprising. “We see that many of these themes from the first book have been debated in the public sphere, and they no longer have the same kind of punch, no pun intended.”

  A hand raised. “The developers are trying to create anarchy?”

  “The developers are trying to create sales,” James said.

  “Right.” Lisa flipped to another slide of bullet points. “Controversy equals free publicity. While that can be leveraged by folks working in a market system, we also have those with Russian interests paying close attention. They want to use issues that are already here, already creating problems, then they want to blow them up. Again, no pun intended.” She grimaced, and her face pinked up a bit.

  “Special Agent Kennedy has been keeping an eye on this in Eastern Europe,” James said, “where bot farms are making pop culture their vehicle for disruption through the ‘us-them’ narratives.”

  “Special Agent Kennedy,” Lisa said, “can you go over this next slide?”

  Rowan stood again. “The music score for The Uprising is already out and quickly becoming popular. What we anticipate in the themes in The Uprising, the second video in a series, based on what is gaining sway on social media, are the following.” He turned to the screen and read off:

  Environment is on the precipice v. climate change is a hoax/scam

  Women’s equality/respect/safety v. toxic masculinity

  Immigration v. Populism

  Vaxxers v. anti-vaxxers

  “Okay good. They didn’t dive into pro-life versus choice.” Came a sarcastic voice behind his back.

  “I’m assuming they have to save some themes for the next game,” Lisa said in all seriousness.

  “My guess is that The Uprising will be about doomsday scenarios,” Rowan continued. “Which player has the resources? How can they keep the distribution to a select few. That kind of thing. Another speculation is that in order to win, you have to amass those resources and allow photoreal video characters to die, taking the ‘us-them’ equation to the next level. And I believe these photoreal characters will be sympathetic, as in they could be your neighbors or colleagues, and you have to destroy them to advance.”

  “I was struck by your using the word ‘photoreal.’ Is that particularly important here?”

  “It helps emotionally train a player for a real-life scenarios. We use them in our training,” the colonel said.

  “We know from brain science that the mind can’t distinguish between real and not real,” Rowan explained. “That’s why special forces operators, elite athletes, and others are taught to visualize before an important event. As the player moves through the game, a person makes choices, they see their avatar—which is their symbol for themselves—move through a scenario to an outcome. This trains the brain. To have that same outcome in the real world, of course, you’d also have to train your body to be able to function that way. But visualization registers in the brain as real.”

  “Photoreal plus the hours a day that Special Agent Griffin mentioned seems very potent, then.” This woman hadn’t stopped clutching her throat since she first asked a question, a body language tell that she felt personally and imminently threatened.

  “The more photoreal the experience, the better the brain can integrate that training,” Rowan explained. “The more the brain will believe and behave according to the training. And these gamers are training for long periods each day, pulled in and rewarded with the hormone dopamine among others. It’s like a chemical addiction.”

  “And there’s nothing that can be done with the various social media platforms to shut this down if it’s being used as a Russian attack?” a congressional aid asked.

  “We’re a country of free speech,” James said. “Our enemies use our strengths as well as our weaknesses against us.”

  “It might be cheaper just to pay this Knapp guy a significant sum not to produce these games. Has anyone approached him yet?” a man in a black suit asked.

  “We don’t know who he is,” Lisa said. “Taylor Knapp isn’t the guy’s real name.”

  “Are you serious right now? The intel community can’t figure out who a game designer is?” a White House staffer exploded indignantly. “There have to be contracts—”

  “To get to those contracts, we need warrants,” Prescott explained. “To get a warrant, we need a crime. This is all legal.”

  “Free speech is why this country is great,” the colonel said. “It’s a judo move. Use your adversaries strengths against them.”

  “Okay, let me see if I can’t run this down for you,” Lisa said. “Because it’s best that you know just how difficult our situation is. The Russian-affiliated bots have information, both hacked and purchased through conventional means, that targets American consumer audiences such as those who use various social media platforms. The bots send messages, articles, and memes to United States citizens to solidify their already-held belief systems and to make them feel that those beliefs—whatever they are—are under attack. That is what a bot does. It creates social unrest by pushing people’s buttons.” She flipped back to the picture of The Unrest. “Taylor Knapp’s products The Uprising and The Unrest are examples of video games that are being used by post-Soviet countries to foment anger and controversy in America. Taylor Knapp’s works are prototypes of social engineering that do a number of things. First,” Lisa ticked off on her fingers, “they help solidify and entrench gamers in their personal ideology and belief systems. Second, they train the player to be angry and afraid. Third, it teaches the player that they will be rewarded for violent action. And fourth, it helps those of like minds communicate completely anonymously.”

  “So groups like the ones who stormed through city streets with tiki torches,” the colonel growled, “chanting that they will not be replaced, have a community of like-minded agitators and a means of communication to plot action in a way that is not discoverable by our intelligence agencies?”

  The room fell into silence as people processed this information.

  “These Taylor Knapp games,” the White House staffer asked, “what are we doing to stop them from planting seeds of discord in our society?”

  Rowan replied, “There’s an unusual synergy between Knapp and the troll farms, a natural symbiosis.”

  The colonels hand formed into a fist. “So we nip this in the bud.”

  “This is a new kind of warfare,” James said. “We’re behind the curve. We’re running to catch up. Money. Manpower. And a will. We lack all three. We need all three.” James’s gaze travelled around the table, focusing on the stake holders who weren’t already involved in solving this crisis. “We need you to go back and work with your people and help them to understand, this is getting away from us fast.”

  He let his words hang there until they began to sink in.

  Chapter Ten

  Avery

  Friday Morning

  Falls Church, Virginia

  Rummaging in the closet, Avery reached in and pulled out a pink shift. “Do you like this one, Mom?”

  “I don’t like clothes at all. Why wear them? They’re impractical.” Ginny shook an agitated hand, speckled with age spots. The loose skin of her upper arms jiggled with the gesture. “You have to put the darned things on, move them out of the way to use the bathroom, clean them, hang them. Just a bother if you ask me. No. I don’t like clothes at all.”

  “Well, Fanny and her family are coming over, and you can’t be naked for that.” Moving away from the closet, Avery reached into a drawer and pulled out a pair of underpants and a bra. She turned and stacked them on the bed next to where her mom sat wrapped in a towel. Ginny had combed her damp shoulder-length hair—now sparse and grey—straight back, and pushed the strands behind her ears.

  “I don’t want her here.” Ginny’s glare stabbed Avery in the back as Avery was once again digging through the closet, looking for her mom’s matching shoes.

  “Now, why not?” Avery didn’t want
them here either. She squatted, holding one beige sandal and one black flat. Either would do if she could find a match.

  “Is she bringing those bastards here with her?”

  “Mom, please. Those are your grandchildren you’re talking about.” Avery tossed the shoes back in the closet and crawled over to pull out the house slippers she spotted under the bed. Her mom could go casual for the morning. Avery would look for the shoes if Fanny was willing to take their mom somewhere. Anywhere. And give Avery a little peace and quiet. “Stop calling them bastards.”

  “What am I supposed to call them? They’re bastards. Fanny wasn’t married in a Catholic church. In the eyes of the Lord, Baptist churches don’t count.”

  “Mom, her husband is a preacher.” Avery worked hard to keep the exasperation out of her voice. “Of course she got married in his church. It was a legal wedding. They’re married. There are no bastards. These are your grandkids.” Avery’s patience was wearing thin as she got up off the floor. They’d had this conversation so often that Avery dreamed it sometimes.

  The bell rang, and Avery turned to go downstairs and answer the door. She stopped to look back. “Mom, get dressed, please, and come down to visit.”

  Ginny stuck her tongue out at Avery.

  Avery raised a stern finger. “And be on your best behavior while they’re here. Don’t make a row.”

  Ginny stood up, causing the towel to drop, grabbed her bra, turned her back to her daughter, and bent in half to fasten it behind her back, mooning Avery in the process.

  ***

  They sat in the den, each of the adults individually occupied.

  Avery was making her way through the first Knapp novel, The Unrest, on her Kindle, trying to get a feel for the tropes in this new genre, jotting notes on a pad.

  The two boys ripped up Avery’s magazines, making them into paper airplanes that they would let fly through the air, landing hither and yon. Rather than pick them up and launch them again, the boys tore more pages out and folded new planes.

  Avery watched the recipe for the chocolate mousse she’d wanted to try turn into the next projectile.

  This one landed in her mom’s lap, but her mother didn’t seem to notice. Ginny was muttering under her breath, “Strawberries in the garden, warmed by the sun’s rays,” as she rocked herself. “Sitting, and picking, and eating one after the other.” She stopped and pounded a fist into her chest, as a string of barking coughs erupted.

  Avery moved over to her, placing a protective hand on her mom’s shoulder. “Are you okay?” She turned to her sister. “Fanny, could you get Mom some water?"

  Fanny put her finger on the bright image in her magazine where she left off reading. "It's Stephanie, and you’re already up.”

  Avery’s mouth pressed into a tight line as she moved toward the kitchen. Her brother-in-law stood and followed her through the door. As Avery fished in the cupboard for a glass, he leaned a hip against the counter and crossed his arms over his chest. Power move number twelve, George’s go-to position, Avery thought as she prepared herself for some kind of scolding.

  She moved to the sink.

  “Avery, I have a burden pressing on my heart.” This was Curtis’s concerned preacher voice—the one he deployed when he saw a sin coming on. “The Lord our God has asked me to lay this at your feet.”

  Avery’s hand stilled on the tap; the glass hovered mid-air.

  “You work for Windsor Shreveport Publishing. We were informed today that Taylor Knapp’s second book is being prepared for print.”

  She filled the glass.

  “I believe that you have a role to play in this.”

  How could he know? Avery composed her face in a studied blank before she shut off the water and turned his way.

  “You could be a weapon against Satan’s tool coming to fruition.”

  Avery glared at her brother-in-law. “I’m definitely the wrong tool for that job. Are you asking me to confront management about their publishing the Knapp book? If I say anything to anyone I’d be risking my employment, Curtis. In case it isn’t abundantly obvious to you, my work is how I keep a roof over my head. And how I pay for Mom’s day care. It’s how we eat and have electricity.”

  “I’m not asking you to leave your employment. But you have to see you are in the unique position to be an instrument for Christ.” He went to the table and pulled out a chair, the metal legs scraping against both the tile and her nerves. “You can help shepherd this wayward lamb back to righteousness.” He caught her gaze, his eyes filled with moral conviction. “Satan, the great enemy, is causing mischief and damaging souls. You have to intervene on the side of Jesus Christ our Lord. The anti-Semitic narrative in his last book, The Unrest, created a dangerous atmosphere here in America, an environment of distrust by the peoples of Israel. They must know we are firmly in their corner. That we support them with our hearts and our might."

  He hadn’t heard a single word she’d said.

  “Think on the Old Testament Genesis 12:1-3 and God’s promise to Abraham. ‘I will make you into a great nation… I will bless those who bless you, I will curse those who treat you with contempt, and all the peoples of the earth will be blessed through you.’” He tapped his finger tips on the table. “And John 4:22 from the New Testament. In those words the salvation of the Jews is affirmed. We must reject anti-Israeli activities in the United States, and in this case, in the popular literature culture. We must reject, reject, reject any activities that attack Israel.”

  “I reject them. I want nothing to do with Taylor Knapp. I am equally appalled by the anti-Semitic themes that I’m reading in Knapp’s book.”

  “Inaction is the same as action! If you are not dynamically opposed, then you are propagating Taylor Knapp’s sins.”

  Avery blinked.

  “You must act to stop the next book from going to print.”

  “As if I have that kind of power,” Avery scoffed. “I’m a romance project manager. I edit love stories.”

  “You can do something. You probably have more power than you think,” Curtis insisted.

  “I do what I’m told to do, period. If I fail to do as I’m told, I will be fired. I have no backup plan. For me or for Mom. I need my insurance. I need my paycheck. This is a dumpster fire, and I refuse to martyr myself over the flames. Is that why you came here this morning? When you called and found me at home, it’s because Mom’s caregiver had car trouble. Someone has to stay with Mom twenty-four seven. You get that right? She can’t be left alone?”

  “Yes.”

  “And when you found out I was here, you didn’t come to see Mom. You said the kids had off of school and that they wanted to visit. But that’s an outright lie. It’s a sin to lie, Curtis.”

  “We try to bring the boys to see their grandmother as often as we can.”

  Avery rolled her eyes so hard she thought maybe she could see the gray matter in her brain.

  “This is, I believe, God’s hand. He allowed for all things to align, so that I might speak with you this morning.” Curtis tipped his head back and scrutinized her with what Avery assumed was a great deal of sanctimoniousness and loathing.

  She didn’t like his word choices or demeanor, but as far as this project went, she agreed, it shouldn’t go forward. As far as her being a righteous warrior and the person with the power to stop it, that was laughable.

  “This is indeed a critical time when dangerous forces are mounting up against the nation of Israel. We must pray for peace in Jerusalem. Romans 1:6 ‘God’s power for salvation to everyone who believes, first to the Jew then the Gentile.’”

  “That’s fine, Curtis. I’ll pray for Jerusalem. But let’s be practical here for a moment. This is a bigger conversation that we really need to have. And I’m just going to circle it around to refocus you on my minute to minute issues. I have an obligation, an oath I took to my father on his death bed, to protect my mom and keep her home for as long as I can.”

  “A generous oath, Avery. You
will be blessed in the Hereafter.”

  “Okay. But let me tell you, that there are days when I don’t think I can cope anymore. You could help. Fanny could help.”

  “Your father had life insurance.” Curtis scowled. “Hire more help. I don’t understand the problem.”

  Avery spread her arms out and rested her hands on the counter, borrowing from George’s book of stupid alpha-moves. “Mom’s got a little money in the bank, and it’s helping me afford Sally to come and stay here during the day. Mom’s money is dwindling fast. And by that I mean this is probably the last year I can make her funds stretch. Then what? What am I going to do?” She lifted a brow. “And you’re asking me to get fired. Do you honestly think that my losing my job will stop this project? Let me answer that for you. No. No, it won’t. I am easily replaced in this jobs market. So easily replaced that they would have someone sitting at my desk before the seat cools from the heat of my ass.”

  “Avery, please, language!”

  “Curtis listen to me. If I intervene for God to try to stop this book from going to print, Windsor Shreveport will fire me. Fired. Do you know what kind of job I could get after I was fired? None. Zero. Zilch. I’m over-qualified to be hired in a low-wage job, and people are scrambling to find any kind of work in my field. You’re asking me to become destitute.”

  “I am not. No.” He shook his head to emphasise his words. “And if you were to lose your job, preventing this book from going to print, the Lord would provide for you. You must believe that.”

  “Must I?” Acrid laughter slicked up Avery’s throat.

  Curtis raised his chin. “I would give you a job if it came to it.”

  “As what? Your secretary?”

  “Part-time secretary. We don’t have a full-time opening.”

  “Are you hearing yourself?” Avery slammed her fist on the counter. “If I lose my job, then you get Mom. You get that, right?”

  Curtis blanched. “Your mother,” he stammered out, “does better with you than with us. She feels her Catholic background… She feels that I… She would be happier…” Color rose in his cheeks as he puffed them out, then let his exhale hiss between his teeth, staring over Avery’s shoulder at the wall.