Watching implant-generated footage was like playing a first-person shooter video game, since the recipients’ eyes were the camera, but this had been like playing a first-person shooter from the victim’s perspective. In this case, that victim was Victor, although nearly identical footage was also available from Eduardo Alvarez’s perspective.
Cochran could follow Victor’s darting eyes as he searched for a weapon, and his surface thoughts as well, which the software translated from Spanish to English and printed next to him. This was a fascinating feature, since what a man with implants thought, and what he said, were often very different. But in this case Victor had been gagged, so his thoughts were all they had, along with Lucas’s words, which had also been translated from Spanish to English and printed beside him.
Victor’s mind had been reeling throughout, but his thoughts were more consumed with regret than with fear. And with pain. Pain from misreading his son so badly. Bitterness from what was clearly the ultimate betrayal. He had been impressed with his son’s ability to kill with equanimity, but he had been a fool. Lucas had only pretended to be squeamish at first, fooling his brilliant father with remarkable ease.
The footage played out until Lucas pulled the trigger, and then it abruptly ended. It may have looked like a video game, but players only had one life in this first-person shooter.
“What the hell?” mumbled the president in revulsion. “That was the coldest thing I’ve ever seen.”
“We could tell that Lucas was ruthless,” said Girdler, “but there was no way to see this coming. I had assumed he was loyal to his father.”
“Apparently,” noted Siegel, “so did his father.”
“How screwed are we?” asked the president.
“Well, not as screwed as Victor and Eduardo Alvarez,” replied Girdler, “but pretty screwed. Shit!” he thundered, an unstoppable eruption of frustration.
Cochran waited a few seconds for him to calm down. “So we’re now blind to Victor’s organization,” he said. “We have no one left in his camp with implants. And Lucas doesn’t appear to want to place any more of them.”
“We can’t be certain of that,” said Mike Campbell. “Things change. Lucas’s hold on the organization may turn out to be tenuous. And he’s still evolving.”
“But if nothing changes,” said Siegel, “we’ll never be in his head, or see through his eyes. And the implant sets he has will just gather cobwebs rather than being implanted in more of our enemies.”
“I don’t know about that,” said Girdler. “Even if he doesn’t regain the appetite to place the implants, why leave that much easy money on the table? At minimum, he’d give them to a high-ranking member of his father’s organization to place, for a percentage, to make some money and turn a possible rival into a friend. Our program could re-emerge from Victor’s ashes yet.”
The president sighed. “Even if it doesn’t, Justin, we still have the placements Victor has already made, which will pay off for many years to come. But we have to at least consider rolling up Victor’s operation right now, while we can. Regaining our property. Given what just happened, Lucas is a bigger threat than Victor. Unpredictable. And anyone who can kill his own father the way he did is in an entirely new class of ruthless. We know where he is right now, but once he moves we no longer have eyes.”
Girdler shook his head. “Lucas won’t stay without implants for long. I give it a month or two at most. And we know all of Victor’s current hideouts and codes. Even without being inside Lucas’s head, we won’t have any trouble putting him down whenever we choose.”
“So you recommend we just sit tight?” said Cochran. “Wait this out?”
“Yes!” said Girdler emphatically. “When Victor decided to limit distribution, we thought the program was going south. But then he implemented a strategy that might have been more useful to us than the one we expected. So you never know. This may still turn back in our favor.”
The president stared at the head of THT for some time. “Okay, Justin,” he said at last. “We’ll do as you suggest. Sit tight and see what happens. But not forever.”
“Understood,” said Girdler.
Cochran took the temperature of the civilians around THT’s virtual table, who had remained silent. While they were distressed by the recent turn of events, they each agreed that nothing rash should be done.
“I know this has been a shock to the system,” said the president, addressing the entire team, “but if any group can find a way to make lemonade out of what just happened, it’s this one. Good luck.”
“Thank you, sir,” said Girdler. “And sorry to break in like this.” He shifted his gaze back and forth between the president and Bob Siegel and raised his eyebrows. “I hope we didn’t interrupt anything too important.”
“Not at all,” said Cochran evenly. “Just another routine briefing.”
34
Troy Browning couldn’t believe his eyes and ears. Holy shit! Had he really just witnessed what he had just witnessed?
He fell back against his chair and stared at what was now a blank screen. Amazing.
But he shouldn’t be amazed, he realized. This was yet further evidence that he was special, destined for great things. The universe itself would always look out for him, the chosen one among humanity, always provide. He was special, and the universe had special plans for him. The conversations he had just overheard, just eavesdropped upon, were but another manifestation of this.
Still, it was impossible not to be euphoric at the mighty demonstration of his destiny the cosmos had just delivered.
A demonstration in the form of Timothy Cochran and Bob Siegel.
Browning had been forced to resign from the NSA almost a year earlier. But he had taken it in stride. He knew it would end up being a blessing. He didn’t believe in God, but he did believe in fate, that the universe itself had a guiding consciousness, that the universe itself found ways to influence the future of mankind, and that he was the instrument of this influence.
He couldn’t fault his bosses and colleagues for not understanding his destiny. How could they? They knew his genius was unmatched, but that was the limit of their understanding.
Of course they thought he was out of his mind, a little off. How could they not? Could an amoeba understand the first thing about a sperm whale made up of hundreds of trillions of cells? Could an amoeba understand the behavior of a man?
Of course not.
So they spoke of the fine line between genius and insanity. They mistook Browning’s clear-eyed understanding of his own greatness for delusions of grandeur.
He didn’t have a messiah complex, as they accused him of. He was the messiah.
So for almost two years the Deputy Director of the NSA, Eric Silver—Browning’s boss and the agency’s highest-ranked civilian technical expert—had gone to great lengths to keep him on, recognizing his genius but afraid of his glorious visions. Without him, none of the advances the NSA now took for granted would have occurred. Silver and his colleagues had known he was doing groundbreaking work, so despite their fear of him, their awe at being in his glorious, supernova presence, they had no other choice but to let him finish what he had started. He was the Einstein of his generation, and no one could even come close, with the possible exception of Alex Altschuler.
Browning had singlehandedly revolutionized communication security. He had developed protocols to ensure that no high-level video or audio communication could be intercepted, and that even if it were, an eavesdropper would receive nothing but gibberish. His creation wasn’t absolutely foolproof, like quantum encryption would be, but it was the closest that had ever been achieved.
When the president and his Director of National Intelligence wanted to have a private video-call, the NSA could assure them that their connection was absolutely secure. And it was.
From everyone in the world except its creator.
Browning had made sure he could hack his own invention whenever he wanted. Other scientists, br
illiant in their own right but nothing compared to him, had scoured his code, his tech, to make sure he hadn’t established a backdoor for himself, but his methods were so advanced he knew they wouldn’t find his means of ingress in a million lifetimes. And they didn’t, of course.
Idiots.
And when his bosses could no longer take it, could no longer handle being near the blinding light of his brilliance, despite the fruits that it produced for them, they had finally forced his resignation and escorted him from the building. A day later four other top scientists had made subtle changes to his protocols, designed to ensure that he couldn’t hack into his own baby, just as an added precaution.
Except that he had been several steps ahead of them, long having monitored the computers of those who had been tasked with making the changes. They were among the best in the world, but they might as well have been children trying to win a sprint against Usain Bolt. Their efforts were futile, and played right into his hands. Now the NSA slept like a baby, confident that he had been shut out for good.
He had signed an agreement with the agency on his way out the door. They would continue to pay his salary indefinitely, and would not put him under surveillance. In exchange, he agreed to keep NSA’s secrets, to cease working in areas they deemed to be sensitive, and to see a psychiatrist twice a week.
The NSA had honored this agreement for all of twelve hours. Ironically, this was twelve hours longer than he had done so.
The agency had clumsily attempted to monitor his computer and cell phone, but he rigged a program to let them think they succeeded, feeding them nothing but vanilla boredom, shrugging off their pathetic efforts at surveillance as easily as he might shoo off a fly.
Morons.
His goal was to intercept the most restricted conversations in the nation, and nothing could stop him from roaming the airwaves at will, like the god he was—least of all Eric Silver and the NSA.
He had begun by monitoring the top people in Washington. The president, Secretary of Defense, Director of National Intelligence, Director of the NSA, Secretary of State, and too many others to possibly name. He programmed an AI of his own, not as sophisticated as Nessie, but plenty powerful enough to monitor thousands of conversations at once and alert him to those he would find especially interesting.
He would gather dirt on power players across the country and across the globe and blackmail them to build knowledge and power. And then he would find a way to save mankind, a thundering train about to plunge over the edge of a cliff. All he needed was for the universe to signal to him how this messianic feat should be accomplished.
In the meanwhile, he was prepared to be patient. And being a fly on the wall was a fascinating pastime. Who needed a movie theater when you could make a bowl of popcorn and enjoy a front row seat on the political machinations of a United States president?
Not long after he had begun his efforts he stumbled across the find of the century, a secret organization named THT. The identities of three of the key players had blown him away, including two who forced him to rethink the definition of the word deceased. The famous Nick Hall, alive and well and reading minds. The great Alex Altschuler, equally healthy. And finally, that little shit, Drew Russell, who fancied himself in the same league as Browning and Altschuler. Talk about delusions of grandeur.
But all of his eavesdropping successes paled in comparison to what he had just learned. It was the opportunity he had been waiting for, without knowing it. The universe working its sleight of hand to inspire him from offstage.
His eavesdropping had revealed a bombshell, an earth-shattering development that he would use to change the course of human destiny.
ESP. Perfect mind reading. The blueprint for how to turn anyone—everyone—into a Nick Hall. It couldn’t be coincidence that this was falling into his lap.
He had known about mind reading, but not that the recipe for both the implants and ESP was as alive and well as Hall and Altschuler themselves. And—glory of glories—President Timothy Cochran was planning to go behind the backs of his own people and find a way to pull the data out of the impenetrable lair Altschuler had built for it in Utah.
Mind reading was the answer Browning had been looking for. Part of the universe’s grand purpose, and he would not let the universe, or mankind, down. Mind reading was the key to healing the planet, to bettering mankind.
He had long known he was the savior. Now he finally knew the means he would use to carry out this divine responsibility.
The world was headed for disaster. Humanity was a mess: selfish, self-absorbed, hateful. But now he had the means to cleanse it. He would get the data for himself. He would package it and release it to the world.
Right now, having to manufacture implants and push them through the brain in a complex pattern to activate ESP was slow and clumsy, and not universal. But when he released the data, this would change. The gold rush would be on. He would give the world the plans for the Wright brothers’ Kitty Hawk flyer, and the world would give back a supersonic jet.
Governments would see the danger in finishing second in this new arms race. Such a huge number of scientists would devote their all to researching this transformative ability—in universities, government labs, and private basements—that progress would be unprecedented in the annals of science. Hall’s tiny taskforce was remarkable, but when every great mind across the planet and endless resources were put on the problem, it would be solved within a year or two. Universal ESP would be available to all.
And this is what would save humankind from the self-destructive course it was on.
Not that the utter transformation of a species would come without costs. He wasn’t delusional. Worldwide mind reading would be disruptive in the extreme, would cause chaos and disorder. Much of civilization would collapse. Billions and billions of people would probably die before it was over.
But given that all of humanity would inevitably die if those harboring self-destructive impulses were not purged, the cost was a bargain.
Universal ESP would quickly bring down the wicked, the selfish, the hateful. Those who emerged from the ashes of the old order to pick up the pieces would be a changed humanity. Caring. Empathetic.
Mind reading would allow people to bare their souls to one another. To feel each other’s pain. To fully open themselves up to love and compassion.
Minds that were truly open to all could not harbor evil, could not be destructive. A new race would emerge, one based on cooperation rather than competition, on understanding rather than antipathy.
This desperately needed cleansing would thin the herd severely. In his estimation, less than one in twenty would ultimately survive, but these were the wages of sin. And one in twenty survivors beat the alternative, which was species extinction.
Few would understand that he was triggering such tragic losses to save humanity from itself. To allow ESP to expose the ugly stain on humanity’s soul, so that it could finally be eliminated, once and for all. And the most religious would understand this the least, painting him as the ultimate monster.
Which was ironic, since he was just taking a page from the playbook of the god they believed in with such passion.
Talk about thinning out the herd. God had wiped out all life, save for a few representatives of each species that could fit on an ark. And drowning was a horrible way to go. If God had been willing to make the sacrifice of committing nearly absolute genocide to wipe out the wicked and create a new beginning for mankind, could Troy Browning do any less?
And Browning’s solution wouldn’t just spare Noah and his family, but likely tens of millions who were pure enough to embrace the sharing of thoughts, forging a compassionate society in which evil could not take refuge, ensuring a glorious future for humanity.
The universe was purpose driven. This development proved it, and that Browning was the chosen savior. It wasn’t just an accident that a man of his genius, his vision, had appeared when he had, and had been presented with this opport
unity.
He had been accused of thinking he was Jesus Christ, but this couldn’t be further from the truth.
He was nothing like Christ. Christ had been a sham. He, on the other hand, was the real deal.
Browning would be the messiah Christ was supposed to have been. He would bring peace and love to the world, and save humanity from itself.
Christ had preached a good game, but nothing had changed. He had failed to fulfill a single one of the messianic prophecies contained in the ancient scriptures. The Bible stated that the Messiah would build a third Jewish temple and usher in an era of world peace, ending all hatred, oppression, suffering, and disease.
Hardly. None of these things had come to pass. The opposite in many cases. After Christ’s passing there were more wars, not less. Many in his name.
The early Christians had a ready explanation for these failures, of course. These and other prophecies would be fulfilled, they argued, during Christ’s second coming. The first must have just been a dress rehearsal. Unfortunately, after Christ’s followers had patiently waited for over two millennia, his return was still stalled, by what Browning could only guess were technical difficulties. Meanwhile, not only were hatred, oppression, disease, and suffering not extinct, they didn’t even appear on the endangered species list.
Fuck waiting for a second coming. Waiting for a Messiah who had failed to get the job done the first time around.
Humanity was about to experience Troy Browning’s first coming. And that would be enough.
Once all the dust had settled, of course.
35
Troy Browning continued to think through the glorious future he would bring about, but his initial ecstasy at the opportunity gave way to a sober assessment of the difficulties involved. It wasn’t time to celebrate just yet. There were still daunting hurdles left to clear. Hurdles that could easily stop even the most talented of men.
MindWar (Nick Hall Book 3) Page 20
