Tainted Robes

by Joe Nobody

  Tainted Robes

  By

  Joe Nobody

  Copyright © 2018

  Kemah Bay Marketing, LLC

  All rights reserved.

  Edited by: E.T. Ivester

  Researched by: D.W. Hall

  www.joenobodybooks.com

  This is a work of fiction. Characters and events are products of the author’s imagination, and no relationship to any living person is implied. The locations, facilities, and geographical references are set in a fictional environment.

  Other Books by Joe Nobody:

  Apocalypse Trails: Episode 1

  Apocalypse Trails: Episode 2

  Apocalypse Trails: Episode 3

  Apocalypse Trails: Episode 4

  Apocalypse Trails: Episode 5

  Apocalypse Trails: Episode 6

  Secession: The Storm

  Secession II: The Flood

  Secession III: The Surge

  The Archangel Drones

  Holding Your Ground: Preparing for Defense if it All Falls Apart

  The TEOTWAWKI Tuxedo: Formal Survival Attire

  Without Rule of Law: Advanced Skills to Help You Survive

  Holding Their Own: A Story of Survival

  Holding Their Own II: The Independents

  Holding Their Own III: Pedestals of Ash

  Holding Their Own IV: The Ascent

  Holding Their Own V: The Alpha Chronicles

  Holding Their Own VI: Bishop’s Song

  Holding Their Own VII: Phoenix Star

  Holding Their Own VII: The Directives

  Holding Their Own IX: The Salt War

  Holding Their Own X: The Toymaker

  Holding Their Own XI: Hearts and Minds

  Holding Their Own XII: Copperheads

  Holding Their Own XIII: Renegade

  The Home Schooled Shootist: Training to Fight with a Carbine

  Apocalypse Drift

  The Little River Otter

  The Olympus Device: Book One

  The Olympus Device: Book Two

  The Olympus Device: Book Three

  The Ebola Wall

  Chapter 1

  Risk is dead.

  After reaching to close his laptop, William leaned back in his chair while he contemplated the day’s accomplishments. The software mogul checked his watch. “The official time of death is 10:05 p.m.,” he whispered. “Uncertainty is a causality as well, massacred alongside speculation. Unpredictability faces absolute, unavoidable obsolescence.”

  At least in the framework of business processes, those concepts would soon become obsolete. How long would it be before Webster’s removed them altogether? They were destined to become the “buggy whips,” of industry… of government… of humanity.

  Hope, however, was enjoying a resurrection of sorts.

  Amazing when you think about it, he mused, how a few lines of code could change the world so quickly and completely. Swirling the Cabernet Sauvignon, he inhaled deeply of the bouquet before indulging. He could feel the tension release its hold on his body as wine took effect. He paused for a moment, pensively considering how rapidly the world of his youth had become outdated, even archaic. In just the last few years, he’d watched the demise of the Blackberry, landlines, VCRs, and floppy discs. His teenagers had never dialed a public pay phone, didn’t understand what a long-distance charge was, and sneered at the idea of a bound book that contained local telephone numbers.

  He rose from the massive glass and steel desk, gently pushing back his chair. Stretching his arms high to restore circulation, he suddenly felt the need for fresh air.

  He padded across the main room, the gymnasium-sized opulence of the space having lost its ability to impress him long ago. He ignored the edgeless pool and Austrian marble deck, striding with purpose for the railing that overlooked Puget Sound.

  The inky black surface of the smooth water below shimmered now, mirroring the lights of the mansions and estates that lined its banks. It was a starfield of wealth and success, a flashy display of drive and determination; qualities that he admired most. Normally, the sight was gratifying. More than any other measure of his own accomplishments, he thrived in this neighborhood of titans, each palatial residence marking an industry giant, ingenious software guru, or masterful deal broker. Every tycoon had traveled a different path to success, but they all shared a common belief system that provided reassurance to him on those days when he doubted the future. He had only to take in the view from his terrace for evidence that the species’ inalienable determination to expand, grow, and advance was alive and well.

  His gaze followed the twinkling shoreline, eventually turning south toward Seattle. His mind continued its virtual journey on to San Francisco, Palo Alto, and Atherton. The captains of Williams’ industry congregated in Silicon Valley, elite billionaires who, like him, had made their fortunes via the marriage of creativity and technology. Eventually, his peers would realize the pending holocaust as well. William understood that their projects, while lagging several months behind his, would eventually forecast the same Armageddon. Data just doesn’t lie.

  Through his virtual, crystal ball, he had studied the very disconcerting predictions. “Within the next quarter of a century, 11 wars and 3 pandemics will plague mankind,” the output showed. “Drought, natural disaster, armed conflict, and diseases will do little, however, to curb the planet’s population growth. Only widespread famine will offset man’s innate desire to procreate. The next 24 years will bring 3 nuclear exchanges involving city-leveling warheads, 16 major earthquakes, 2 global crop failures, and a massive 38% increase in the occurrences of terminal cancers.”

  The digital prophecy had indicated that all 20 of the world’s largest economies would collapse from financial pressures and world events, their mortal wounds being either self-inflicted or imposed by outside influences. The unavoidable fall of the United States would trigger a domino effect that would eventually engulf every man, woman and child on planet earth.

  William sighed as he continued to stare toward the south where the other members of his elite peer group lived. What would they think once their analysis produced the same results? How would they react? “I’m sure they will want to coordinate efforts on something as significant as thwarting doomsday.”

  At least he wasn’t alone. He would contact them all in the morning. This was too big to let petty competition or personal distrust get in the way. Information like this would wilt even the starchiest of egos and foster unity. “We need to work together. This is bigger than any one of us, and that is saying something.”

  It had all started three years ago, innocent enough in concept and with anticipated results that were humble at best. The engineers and scientists called their new toys neural networks or artificial intelligence. A dream of science fiction was quickly becoming a reality.

  Hollywood and penned fiction, as usual, had it wrong. There were no “machine personalities,” or ultra-powerful cyber minds involved. AI had developed into a hive existence, more akin to honeybees, each insect completing its job, all of them working together to achieve a common goal.

  He had funded the project, a billion-dollar gamble that he hoped would allow his company to gauge potential business endeavors. The scheme was simple enough – create an AI system that would chew through millions and millions of data points, to predict how well a new product or service would perform. Using the data meant knowing if a market would support his product before he invested in it, thereby jeopardizing very little on new offerings and saving his company uncountable sums generally earmarked for marketing.

  A billion dollars was nothing. His bank account grew by more than that every month from the interest on his investments. “A
worthy risk… to eliminate risk,” he chuckled, his gaze never leaving the water below.

  He acquired an entire warehouse full of computer servers while the world’s finest software engineers worked to generate the code. Before they could even run the first test, the science of AI had made several leaps forward. At least one time the advancement was so impactful, they essentially had to start all over again.

  All the while, the big e-tailers were gathering enormous amounts of data on their customers. Terabytes of shopping, banking, and personal preferences were being stored and analyzed.

  The internet providers were watching as well, stashing away each click and keystroke that every single man, woman, and child initiated on their browsers. Newspapers and magazines were already digitalized, as was the federal government’s every move.

  Email servers all over the world knew about every message the internet carrier pigeons delivered. Cell phones converted their signals to computer-readable code before being transmitted. Even AM radio, the world’s oldest electric media outlet, was now broadcast using numeric strings. The virtual spies could surveil almost every click, backout and transaction on the worldwide web.

  William planned to build a vast AI monster that would gobble up every single byte of this information. Then he expected his new pet to tell him which software, web, and service ventures would succeed, and more importantly, identify those that would fail. Rather than having accountants pour over business models and sales projections, his massive banks of servers would pass judgment on an investment’s potential.

  He dubbed the project, “Gravity Well,” the beast’s inexhaustible appetite for input reminding William of a black hole that absorbed anything and everything, including light.

  A brief time after his project got underway, word drifted through back channels that he wasn’t the only one who had decided to take on such a challenge. The upper echelon of technology giants was nothing if not aggressive. In fact, within a year, every top-tier player in the information world was developing nearly identical capabilities. Given access to the identical mined data, it was inevitable that their systems would produce the same results. “The end is near,” he whispered, glancing to the heavens.

  With a heavy sigh, he returned his gaze to the water below, finding its melancholy black depth a fitting hue for his mood.

  The dark emotions infecting his soul weren’t motivated by any concern for his personal endurance. Hell, he had enough money to buy another island if he wanted. He could hollow out a mountain and build an entire city inside should he wish. He had more cash than God. He and his family would survive just fine. Besides, in a quarter century, he would be in his late 70s and probably wouldn’t give a rat’s ass what was happening on the global scene.

  No, what troubled William was the secondary application of the computer’s analysis.

  As Gravity Well’s proficiencies expanded, it had become clear that the system could produce an additional, unexpected benefit. Not only could the silicone brain recognize ill-conceived business plans, but it could also fix them. The engineers called the new phenomena “Alternative Diagnosis.”

  The development had impressed William. Not only did he have the world’s most powerful and accurate crystal ball, but he could also use the same tool to prescribe corrections. He could now model alternative timelines, plot parallel universes.

  Eighteen months ago, in a fit of frustration with Washington’s partisan gridlock, never-ending sequence of wars, and the overall political direction of the nation, he had pointed the resources of Gravity Well at the federal government.

  Every single day, every single hour, the world’s most extensive collection of computer servers had churned and burned, learning at the speed of light while digesting inconceivable amounts of data. Every federal budget. Trillions of emails, memos, regulations. And the entire known contents of every newspaper in the country.

  They fed William’s insatiable monster every piece of information available, the massive system able to consume the entire Library of Congress in less than an hour. Exhaustive volumes of historical records were absorbed in days, 50+ years of newscasts dissected and processed in weeks. Every book on policymaking, every speech ever given, every court ruling, and even the private purchases made by government employees were analyzed in minute detail.

  Gravity Well didn’t consume mountains of data; it gorged itself on entire mountain ranges.

  All the while, the system was making predictions. It called the latest presidential election with uncanny accuracy, its analysis flying in the face of every nationally syndicated pollster and political soothsayer. It predicted countrywide economic results months in advance of the official reports.

  Wall Street and the world’s financial markets were no mystery to Gravity Well, its forecast of the DOW and NASDAQ indexes’ performances accurate to within one thousandth of a percent. William could have doubled his fortune in a matter of weeks if he’d been of a mind to dabble in the stock and bond casinos.

  Then six months ago, he’d asked his new tool a simple enough question. “How do we fix mankind? How do we avoid doomsday?”

  The process had completed a few hours ago. He, and only he, knew the results. There was only one way to stop the apocalypse, and the thought of what was required to alter the future made him ill.

  William didn’t like politics. He had zero desire to be a hero. His philanthropy was substantial, but he was careful that his contributions were anonymous. He was a businessman. A geek. A capitalist and entrepreneurial nerd who shunned public exposure and didn’t understand the illogical need for celebrity.

  What darkened his soul was the undeniable path that he, and other technical titans, must take if the future were to be changed.

  “What will the others think when they find out?” he wondered again, a catalog of his competitors’ faces now racing through his mind. “How will they react? Do we have the will… the strength to save mankind? Is it worth it?”

  His pet had prescribed a cure, a specific path to avoid the end of days, and it wasn’t going to be easy. The core values of civilization, the standard for over 4,000 years, would have to change. Politics must evolve, a new type of society be established. Billions would suffer. Millions would die.

  “But they’re going to die anyway,” he whispered to the cool night air. “Do you have the intestinal fortitude to do this? Is it within you to change mankind’s direction? Isn’t it your moral obligation to try?”

  It was the kind of place that didn’t welcome strangers, a low-class watering hole that was only frequented by locals. Sitting right on the Mexican border between Texas and New Mexico, the surrounding community was called Anapra. Griffin didn’t know the history of the hole-in-the-road’s nickname and frankly didn’t care.

  The bar’s parking lot consisted of equal parts gravel, beer bottle caps, pull tabs, and cigarette butts. It was a shack, crowned by a red-rusted tin roof and dark windows adorned with neon lights. The advertisements reflected the cultural composition of the surrounding community, about half of them in Spanish and the rest English.

  If Anapra had been part of any east coast city, it would have been called a slum or ghetto. Here in El Paso, it was simply referred to as a barrio.

  Pickup trucks were obviously popular with the clientele, the parking area full of old, beat-up Chevys and Fords. These were working trucks, the steeds of choice for area ranch hands, oilfield workers, and tradesmen. Whiffs of hay and manure waffled from the beds, some of the tailgates covered in a white powder, the residue of either mortar or drywall.

  Griffin exited his black, government-issued sedan, hitching up his jeans and double-checking the sidearm holstered inside his belt and concealed by a jacket. Then he stuffed the gold badge in his shirt, taking care to make sure the thick neck-chain wasn’t visible. Stepping inside a watering hole like this as a solo lawman was dicey. The men in here didn’t like the police or any other authority for that matter.

  Worki
ng the southwest as a US marshal, Griffin was accustomed to the anti-government attitude prevalent in this part of the country. From some, the slightly unwelcoming demeanor was part of the legacy of independence that had built the Old West. Others harbored the resentment so common of a downtrodden, impoverished population. To those with a tainted perspective, reminders of government transgressions and arrogance abounded – the most horrific regional example being the treatment of the Native Americans. Most thought the tribes had been screwed by Washington dozens of times over the past 200 years. The marshal had to agree. Almost half of his DNA was Apache.

  The streets were mine fields, the asphalt broken and cratered where paved… balding crushed rock where not. There were no utility lights, fire hydrants, or sidewalks. Just an abundance of dust. City hall didn’t care about Anapra. The police only came here to arrest and harass, not to protect and serve.

  The elected officials in Mexico City weren’t highly regarded either. The cartels regularly conducted business in the area, their murderous rampages ignored by the government. Additionally, law enforcement turned a blind eye to the fields of shanty towns that lined the Rio Grande, even though they habitually harbored thieves and drug runners alike. It was apparent to the people here that they couldn’t depend on anyone but themselves.

  The latest immigration issues had generated even more of a divide.

  Strolling to the door, Griffin gently pushed the swinging plywood entry inward and let his eyes adjust to the darkness inside.

  The place reeked of cigarette smoke and stale beer. Somewhere in the distance, a jukebox was playing Spanish folk tunes, the music mostly drowned out by the background hum of conversation. No one even bothered to glance up at Griffin when he sauntered in.

  That quickly changed, however, the marshal drawing several glances as he walked the length of the bar. He didn’t mesh with this crowd. His clothing was clean, as were his hands and boots. He was a gringo. Not a regular for sure.

  The tavern was packed, Griffin having to trek almost to the far end of the pub before he found an open stool. In that short span, the noise level inside dropped significantly, all eyes on the stranger that had invaded their sanctum. Sneers and hard stares met the marshal’s gaze.