by Mazza, Ray
At one point he had written a set of programs for Day Eight that could accurately diagnose many medical conditions by having a computer ask patients questions and then comparing answers to a large database of data archived by doctors.
Much of Trevor’s other work had been programming genetic algorithms that he handed off to the lab coats upstairs. He was usually told “good job” or “thanks” and then never saw them again – he would just promptly get a new assignment. Like a covert Delta Force operation – you didn’t know the big picture and you couldn’t ask questions; you just blindly did the task and did it well, satisfied that you were a small cog in a large, important machine.
That was the most frustrating part of his job – with all the levels of privilege and confidentiality, he rarely knew if his code was used, let alone what it was used for. Back when he wrote technical manuals for mathematical software, he found satisfaction in seeing his work in print. It had been boring as holy-hell, but it gave that modicum of fulfillment that his position at Day Eight lacked.
“So what this means,” Fulton said, “is that Damon believes you had no intention of harassing Ms. Winters about their deceased child.” Fulton glanced to a framed photograph he’d balanced on a pile of books on his desk. It was a photo of Fulton and a young boy and a younger girl, standing behind a large sandcastle on the beach, smiling. The little girl’s feet disappeared into the moat of the sandcastle and she held up a small plastic shovel triumphantly. The little boy was sitting on the other side, wearing a blue pail on his head like a helmet and sticking a handful of seaweed into his mouth. Between thoughts, Trevor found himself impressed with the spiky-haired cop’s apparent dedication to his family. The children reminded Trevor of his sister and him, when they used to hunt for crabs at the beach. He doubted he’d ever be as good a father.
“So...” Trevor said.
Fulton looked back to Trevor. “So he got Ms. Winters to drop the charges.”
Trevor leaned forward, nearly tipping out of his chair. “What? Well that’s great! So I can go?”
“Wait, I’m not finished,” said Fulton. “Despite your harassment charges being dropped, you still resisted arrest.”
He slouched back into his seat. “So I’m still going to jail.”
“Hold your horses, Mr. Leighton, I’m still not finished. Mr. Winters has also posted your bail. In addition to that, his personal lawyers are handling a settlement with the city on your behalf. He has some leverage around here. So you’re free to go for now, if you sign these documents to accept their services.”
Fulton handed him a contract stating that Mr. Winters’ lawyers would handle all pending legal issues for Trevor, free of charge. He shook the pen and signed with vigor.
Was Damon helping him because there was a possibility the company could be held liable for Trevor’s “pain and suffering?” After all, wasn’t it their fault he ended up with a scary letter and got arrested?
He handed Fulton the documents. Fulton gave them a once-over and said, “Well, you’re free to go, Mr. Leighton.” Fulton handed Trevor a plastic bag containing his confiscated belongings – wallet, keys, and watch. “But you aren’t free to go too far. Don’t leave the state until the settlement has been resolved.”
Trevor nodded, and started to stand when Fulton leaned forward and whispered, “But between you and me, I don’t think you have much to worry about. Mr. Winters made a surprisingly generous donation to the department this morning. I wouldn’t be shocked if your charges...” Fulton looked around and leaned slightly closer, “just went away.” Fulton leaned back and spoke in his normal volume again. “You have a clean prior record and seem to be an upstanding citizen. Sometimes the department will go out of its way to assure people such as yourself are treated accordingly.”
Trevor thanked him and walked out of the police department into the bright daylight. It felt soothing on his face. He stood on the steps in the same spot he had two days prior and let his lungs fill with a deep breath of crisp afternoon air.
It seemed like things were going to be okay.
That notion dissolved when he woke to a sharp knock on his door at 5:30 am the next morning.
Chapter 12
The Winters Estate
Trevor woke to a knock on the door. He sat up, momentarily confused. It was dim outside. He looked at the cheap digital clock on his bedside table. 5:30 am. He’d gotten in bed for a nap, but slept sixteen hours. He felt refreshed, although his muscles still pulled painfully as he slung himself out of bed.
Another harder knock. Trevor crept quietly to the peephole. His door sat at the bend of the floor’s L-shaped hallway; he loved that he could see all the way down toward the stairs and spy on his neighbors while they came and went.
Trevor peered out. Damon Winters stared back with a bulging face, distorted by the lens. Damon? What the…? It’s Damon Winters!
Trevor called out, “Just a minute!” as he clambered back to his bedroom. He grabbed pants from the floor, wriggled into them, and finished clothing himself in a flurry from his dresser. He smacked a lamp to the ground while hopping around on one foot putting a sock on, but didn’t bother to pick it up; he just hit the wall switch to turn it off as he left room.
He opened the door.
“Hello Trevor, we’ve never formally met. I’m Damon,” he said, extending a strong hand.
They shook, and Trevor couldn’t think of anything better to say other than, “I know, nice to meet you.”
“I’m going to get right to the point,” said Damon, “You owe me.”
~
Damon took a seat on Trevor’s couch directly under the Einstein poster. He picked up a Cosmopolitan from the coffee table, glanced at the cover, looked at Trevor with a raised eyebrow, and tossed it aside.
“Listen,” said Damon, “I know you created a hole in our firewall. It allowed some of our equipment to flood the internet.”
Trevor recoiled. “I created the surge?” Why did he have to do that stupid hack? Just to get a few lousy movies?
Damon held up his hand to calm Trevor. “You enabled it to happen. You helped create this mess, and because of it, I have a problem. And I need a bright mind,” said Damon, “but turning to my core team for help is out of the question.”
“Why? What’s the problem?” asked Trevor, wondering what he could do that one of Damon’s elite couldn’t.
“All I can tell you now is that it relates to the letter you ended up with. It isn’t scrambled poetry, by the way. If you agree to help me, we can get to know each other a little better on the way to my residence in Greenwich. When we get there, I will decide if I can trust you, at which point I will fill you in on what you need to know.”
“Well, I’m not supposed to–”
“Don’t worry about coming to Connecticut. I’ll keep it between us, and it’s just a fifteen minute drive over the state line; the police won’t find out.”
Trevor rubbed his chin. At the mention of the letter from Allison, he found it difficult to think straight.
Damon added, “Keep in mind I’m doing you a favor by having my personal legal team handle your case. And with the trouble you’ve caused thus far, you should be thankful the lawyers are on your side right now. I would appreciate it if you considered this when deciding whether to help me.”
~
Damon Winters and Trevor Leighton sat in the back of a limousine driven by an elderly chauffeur whose smile was permanently etched into his face.
Damon raised the privacy divider and struck up conversation. Somehow he was able to get Trevor to talk all about himself – childhood, education, political and religious views – while Damon managed to say very little. All Trevor had gathered about Damon was that he didn’t want Trent Paxton – the mayor of New York City – to win the upcoming election.
As the morning sun began splashing through the windows, Trevor took a moment to marvel that he was riding in the personal limousine of a man who had more money and power than some small countries. A man w
hose company Trevor had accidentally screwed.
Trevor decided not to be scared. Yet.
~
A five-foot stone wall guarded the perimeter of Damon’s property, with oak and maple trees occluding the view of his house from the street.
A large wrought iron gate hung between two great stone pillars at the edge of the driveway. As they pulled up, the gate split in the center and swung open at the chauffeur’s command. They drove a few hundred feet to Damon’s sprawling mansion – a definite upgrade from the three bedroom that burned down fourteen years ago.
The mansion’s center section was constructed of light gray stone with three main stories, flanked by smaller two-story wings off either side, accented with multi-floor pillars, topiaries in the front, and white wood siding on the wings. A gray marble fountain big enough to sink a Land Rover stood in the center of the circular driveway.
They went inside, where Trevor gawked at the extravagance, and also at the eclectic design. Each room had a slightly different style, so the house felt cozy. The kitchen was minimalist, with marble on the floors and granite on the counters, and with sleek brushed metal appliances and wooden cupboards. Slender strips of mahogany accented the architecture. He didn’t see a fridge, and guessed it was hidden amongst the wood panels on the wall.
They walked down the hall past a library, with carved shelves full of books, guarded by suits of armor at the door. In the hall, it was nearly impossible to find a view that didn’t have an original painting or a tapestry somewhere in it. They walked past another room that consisted entirely of ivory-colored furniture, large mirrors, and decorative crystals that glinted from the light of the chandeliers. A bar room.
Everything Trevor saw was tasteful. Most pieces were things he would consider purchasing himself, if he had an inexhaustible bank account. When they walked up the stairs, they passed an autographed black-and-white photograph of Albert Einstein hanging on the wall.
“How much was that?” Trevor asked, indicating the photo.
“I picked that up from a dealer in Germany for 8,300 Deutsche Marks, which would have been about five thousand dollars. That was back in ‘98 before the Euro replaced the Deutsche Mark,” said Damon. “It’s one of my favorite pieces.”
Trevor had only paid ten dollars for his Einstein poster.
Damon continued to walk in silence. They eventually turned into a high-tech study bordered with desks and carved bookshelves. Antique globes and scraggly plants hid in the corners. Two plasma TVs sat mounted on the walls with wires running to three computers and also to a massive heavy-duty electro-optical device with a cockpit – if Trevor didn’t know any better, he’d have thought the thing was a time machine.
“Okay, I’m going to need you to take a seat in this,” said Damon, patting the device. “It measures an array of biofeedback and is essentially a lie detector, albeit an advanced one. Since I don’t have the luxury of time to get to know you better, I’m going to use this. If it makes you uncomfortable, you’re free to leave.”
Trevor was taken aback; anything that could judge his thoughts was disturbing. Nonetheless, he’d come all the way here. “Sure, I’ll leave right now,” he said sarcastically, easing himself into the device’s cockpit.
Damon turned on a nearby computer, then attached galvanic skin response receptors to Trevor’s upper and lower back, put a band around Trevor’s right arm, and lowered a helmet containing transducers onto Trevor’s head. Then Damon instructed Trevor to stare straight ahead into the lens of a video camera at the front of the machine, about a foot and half away.
“How come you have this sort of thing lying around your house?” said Trevor with a slight break in his voice.
“I had this specially made at one point in my life when I was absolutely fascinated with the human mind and body. I’m still fascinated nowadays, but on a different level than this machine can probe, which is primarily high-level physical aspects – temperature, stress, heart rate, conductance, and brain waves,” said Damon, pointing out parts of the machine as he spoke.
“Ah.”
Trevor had seen portions of equipment similar to this before, though not all in one unit. Sitting there with all the wires and probes attached to him, he felt like a modern-day Frankenstein’s monster. He wondered if he would feel electricity going through his brain, but then concluded that he knew better than that.
“Let us begin,” Damon said, seating himself at a desk behind a monitor and pulling his sleeves up a bit. “Eyes forward. I’m going to ask you a series of questions, which you should answer succinctly. Ready?”
“Ready,” said Trevor. He wasn’t ready, but he didn’t feel he had a choice. And he kind of had to go to the bathroom.
“Already lying, are we?” said Damon. “I can see you’re apprehensive, but we should begin. Just try to relax.”
Trevor only nodded this time.
“Okay, here we go. What is your name?” said Damon.
“Trevor Leighton.”
“Good. How old are you?”
“Thirty-two.”
“Good. What’s the name of your apartment complex?”
Trevor thought about this, he was stumped. “Either I don’t know, or it doesn’t have one.”
“Okay. Who is your employer?” asked Damon.
“Day Eight Corporation.”
“Do you have any other employers?”
Did Damon think he might be a spy from another company? “No,” said Trevor.
“Like I said, try to relax... Have you ever been diagnosed with a mental disorder?”
“Definitely not,” said Trevor.
“Remember,” said Damon, “as few words as possible.”
“Sorry.”
“If I told you confidential information, do you believe that you would be able to keep that information a secret?”
“Yes.” But what if Damon told Trevor he murdered his daughter? Or was part of a corrupt crime ring? Or what if he—
“I’m getting some anomalies here,” said Damon. “You don’t believe the answer you just gave me.”
“Well, I—”
“No need to explain. I’m glad you failed that one. Let me reword. If I told you confidential information, do you believe that you would be able to keep the information a secret, as long you believed there to be no strong moral basis for divulging said information?”
“Yes,” said Trevor, this time without question.
“Good. Much better. Moving on. Do you like children?”
“Mostly.” Trevor thought about the child he saw the other day when he was eating ice cream, he added, “But I’m not sure I’ll make a good parent.”
“And why not?”
Trevor had never put his finger on it. “I… I don’t know.”
“Okay, that will do,” said Damon. “Now I’m going to say a sequence of phrases. This time, do not respond. Merely listen to what I say and continue to look into the optical recorder.”
“Okay.”
“Here we go,” Damon began to read phrases, pausing for a second between each one: “Alpha. Day Eight. Trevor Leighton. Computers. Clouds. Paxton. Jail. Brain. Mayor. Yogurt. Stanislaw Ulam. FBI. Artificial intelligence. Apple. CIA. Allison. Quantum Mechanics. Zygote…”
Damon continued like this for fifteen minutes straight. Trevor thought he felt himself twitch at a few of them and wondered what that meant. Other words he didn’t even know. He tried not to let his imagination get carried away for fear of setting off some sort of alarm on Damon’s machine.
“… Oxygen. Wiretap. Child abuse. Fruit. President. Paradigm shift. Ezra. Thalamus. Damon Winters. United Nations. Aluminum. Flavor. Up. Accelerating returns. Omega.”
Then Damon went silent. Trevor heard him tapping at a keyboard and clicking with his mouse, but didn’t look because he was unsure whether he was allowed to break his stare with the camera lens.
After what felt like five minutes but was probably far less, Damon said, “Okay, you can get up now.”
<
br /> Trevor stood up, stretched, and rubbed his eyes.
“During that last examination,” said Damon, “I was monitoring areas of your brain in conjunction with other physiological responses to the phrases, such as your micro-expressions and pupil size. A micro-expression – if you’re not aware – is an unconscious and extremely quick muscular reaction in your face in response to something you see, hear, think about, et cetera. They’re so quick, in fact, that about ninety percent of the population never notices them at all. We make these micro-expressions all the time. If you’re good enough to read them, you can become a human lie-detector, though their usefulness goes much deeper than that.
“Using your micro-expression responses to the phrases paired with your brain activity,” Damon explained, “I measured your level of recognition of each phrase as it stood alone and as related to the other phrases, as well as your feelings about each. “Some phrases were relevant to my concerns while others were not, like the word ‘yogurt.’ Yogurt was a control. It would be an extremely rare case that your brain would show a connection between yogurt and the CIA. However, if there was a meaningful relationship displayed between ‘wiretap’ and ‘Day Eight,’ then I would have reason to be concerned. If we did this long enough, we might even be able to construct a crude model of your cortex,” he said, tapping on his forehead.
Trevor nodded. “Wow. That’s... invasive. So, is my brain screwed up, or did I pass?”
“Well, I can’t tell you if your brain is screwed up, but I can tell you that none of your recognitions or feelings set off any alarm bells.”
Damon walked over and patted him on the back, buddy-buddy like. “I apologize for the invasiveness. I had to be thorough, and we didn’t have the luxury of time to truly get to know each other.”
Damon kept his hand on Trevor’s back, and started walking, guiding Trevor out of the room. “Your brain didn’t register much activity on the phrase ‘paradigm shift,’” said Damon, as they turned into the hallway, still side-by-side. “But, my friend, your understanding of things – of life, of computers, of nature... even of God – is about to undergo a major one. A paradigm shift so dramatic, you won’t be able to comprehend its significance.
