“Now that you’ve learned how I’m alive,” said Victor, “it’s time for you to tell me everything you know.”
“Of course,” said Browning.
He began by identifying each member of THT’s inner circle, including the president and the most recent addition, The Director of National Intelligence. Victor was stunned to learn that Nick Hall and Alex Altschuler were still alive, and now part of THT’s senior management.
“That’s quite an accomplished team,” noted Victor when he had finished. “But the two women don’t make sense to me. From what you’ve said they’re both civilians, and aren’t world-class scientists. What are their roles?”
“As far as I can tell, they’re just the romantic interests of the two most important members of the team. I guess they get special privileges. Heather Zambrana is actually now married to Alex Altschuler. And Hall is madly in love with Megan Emerson, and they are due to be wed at some point in the future. I get the sense that this Megan has importance to the team in some other capacity, but I’m not clear what.”
“Go on,” said Victor.
Browning proceeded to tell the two men everything he knew about THT, leaving little out. He described the group’s mission, the location of their headquarters in Utah, and even Hall’s once a month pilgrimage to Hill to read the minds of terror suspects there.
Victor’s appetite for information was insatiable. He asked dozens of questions as Browning droned on for almost two hours. Whatever Browning knew, no matter how inconsequential it seemed, Victor wanted to know. The personalities and tendencies of every member. Favorite movies, favorite colors, ethical stances, group dynamic, cars they drove, reading interests, and more.
Victor seemed especially interested in information about Justin Girdler and Nick Hall, and Browning delivered. When he described Hall’s involvement in preventing a recent drone attack, he could tell Victor realized that this was the reason for Sayed Nazry’s angry call.
Finally, Browning’s data dump began to wind down. “I think we’re just about done,” he said, unable to answer the latest of Victor’s queries. “I’m repeating myself. I’ve told you everything I know.”
Browning paused for a moment and then raised his eyebrows, allowing a sly smile to cross his face. “Almost,” he added provocatively.
“What does that mean?” snapped Victor.
“It means that I know how you operate. You don’t leave loose ends behind. So even though I’ve been cooperative and given you a gold mine of information, there is no way you’re going to let me live.”
Victor hesitated, as if debating whether to lie or not. “This may be true,” he admitted, “but by being so thorough and enlightening, you’ve spared yourself torture. And when I kill you, I will make it quick and painless. Relatively,” he added, not the kind of doctor to tell his patient a needle wouldn’t hurt just before he plunged it home.
“As great as that sounds,” said Browning, “I have a better idea. Let’s forge a partnership instead.”
Victor laughed. “I have no doubt this would be your preference,” he said, “but you’ve given me everything I wanted. You have nothing left to offer.”
“This is where you’re wrong,” said Browning. “I did leave a few things out. Important things. I never answered the question of why I contacted you in the first place. Why I wanted the implants.”
“You didn’t have to,” said Victor. “You’re a gifted ex-NSA hacker, not part of THT. Which means you learned of the existence of the BrainWeb implants but couldn’t get any of your own. So you came to us.”
“That explains why I contacted you. But it still doesn’t explain why I want them. If you guessed the obvious reason, for surfing the Web, you’d be wrong.” Browning leaned as far forward as his restraints would allow. “Like you,” he added, “I’m after mind reading.”
Browning paused for a moment to let this sink in. “But unlike you,” he continued, “I know that the recipe still exists. And where to find it.”
Victor’s eyes lit up and he exchanged a quick, meaningful glance with his son. “That is interesting,” he said. “But how does that gain you anything? Now that I know you have this information, I’ll just force you to tell me.”
“Force away,” said Browning defiantly. “But you’ll get nothing. This is a powerful bargaining chip, and my only one. I gave you everything you thought was out there of my own free will. But not this. Cut off my fingers, pull out my teeth, but it won’t do any good. This is my only chance to survive. So even if you cause me incomprehensible pain, you won’t get what you want.”
Browning shrugged. “Although, I must admit,” he added, “I’d probably tell you something, just to stop the pain. But would it be the truth? Or would I be leading you into a trap?”
Victor studied his prisoner in silence.
“On the other hand,” continued Browning, “if you partner with me, I’ll tell you everything. I know where the data is, and other vital information. Neither of us can get it alone. But with your skills and my knowledge, we can get it together. If you agree to help me, we can both have a copy. And you won’t have to fear any traps. I’ll be right there with you when you go after it. You’ll know I’m not leading you into a landmine, because if one explodes it takes me out too.”
“You’re bluffing. There is no recipe. You’re desperate.”
“Not only is there a recipe for ESP, I can get you the full, detailed specs on the implants themselves. Hardware and software. Comprehensive.”
Victor’s eyes widened.
Browning realized the tech merchant was especially interested in this data. Something to explore further at a later time. “I’m not bluffing,” he insisted. “Make the deal. If you come to believe my info is bad, then kill me. Torture me to death. But if it’s good, the arrangement goes forward.”
“What terms did you have in mind?” asked Victor.
“You give me twenty implant sets. I tell you what you need to know to get the data, and you carry out the necessary operation to get it. I was thinking of hiring out for the job, but it’s become clear to me that you’re perfect for it. You keep the data and do whatever you like with it, but I get a copy. Then we go our separate ways. Which means, just to be clear, that you never come after me. You promise not to torture me or kill me. Ever.”
“And you’ll tell me what you know, right here, right now?”
“Yes. If you tell me we have a deal, I will. I know you could choose to kill me afterward, but you won’t. You’re a man of your word. If you enter into an agreement, you will honor it.”
“You had a deal with Lucas,” said Victor. “He didn’t honor it.”
“That wasn’t a deal, it was blackmail. Not that I had the leverage I thought I did. But it was a sham to begin with. And you aren’t your son. You’re a man who has built a flawless reputation over decades for his fair dealings.”
Browning waited patiently while the tech dealer weighed the variables in his mind. He knew what Victor’s decision would be. It was inevitable.
“Okay,” said Victor after almost a minute of silence had passed. “You have a deal. I’ll help you get the data. In exchange, you get a copy, twenty sets of implants, and the chance to continue living. So tell me where it is.”
“Outstanding!” said Browning enthusiastically. “I’ll tell you, but first, I’m curious. You seemed to be even more interested in the specs for the implants than in those for mind reading. Is that the case?”
“Very good,” said Victor. “This is true. Mind reading is an ability I would never want, and one I’d refuse to give to anyone in my organization.”
“Why not?” said Browning in genuine confusion.
“It’s relationship repellent,” he said simply. “Anyone with sense would avoid it like the plague.”
“Does that mean you only want the BrainWeb specs?”
Victor smiled. “Nice try. Just because I don’t plan to use it doesn’t mean I can’t find a use for it. The deal stands, as
is.”
“Of course,” said Browning. “And you won’t regret this. So here goes. The information is all bottled up tightly inside THT’s Utah headquarters. But trust me,” he added, “as long as it remains there, you have no chance to get it. That place has security that’s even beyond your capabilities to defeat. And even if you could mount a successful attack, this data would be the first thing destroyed.”
“Then there had better be more to this story,” said Victor harshly.
“Don’t worry, there is,” said Browning, a smug look on his face. “You see, the data will soon be coming out to play. An insider plans to arrange for a copy to be smuggled out on a data stick. I know when, and by intercepting key communications, I can learn how. It still won’t be easy to get, but for a man like you . . .” He let the thought hang.
“From what you’ve told me, those at the top of THT are all exceedingly loyal,” said Victor. “So who’s the insider planning to betray the group?”
A broad smile spread across Browning’s face. “Timothy Cochran,” he said simply. “The President of the United States.”
PART 5
Dennis Sargent
39
Dr. Dennis Sargent loved the name Dennis, perhaps more than any other Dennis in history. Not because the name in itself was so wonderful, but because it was so mainstream, so . . . usual. The kind of name that would inspire a talented young man to become a PhD in the new field of artificial human brain construction, instead of running away from home to join the army.
He was pretty sure there was at least one alternate universe in which an alternate him—not named Dennis—had done just this. A universe in which his father had gotten his way when it came to naming his son, with life-altering consequences.
Sargent’s father had been a fan of the novel Catch-22, by Joseph Heller. A huge fan. In fact, he was convinced it was the best book ever written, and in this he was not alone. A critic once complained that Heller had never written another novel as good as Catch-22, to which the author had famously replied, “Neither has anyone else.”
In the novel there was a character named Major. This was his first name. Also his last. Also his middle. And while it was true this name had been frequently used in all three of these slots, it had never been used in all three at the same time. But Major Major Major’s father had a strange sense of humor, which ended up destroying his son’s life, as anyone might imagine.
According to the novel, an IBM computer with a similar sense of humor had promoted Major to the rank of major long before he was due, unable to resist making him Major Major Major Major, a premature promotion that left him out of his depth and caused him to be resented by his men.
Sargent’s father thought the story of Major Major Major Major was hilarious—and relevant. Sargent was another name that could work as a first, middle, or last. There had been a Sargent Shriver. Why not a Sargent Sargent? Why not borrow a page from Heller and name his son Sargent Sargent Sargent?
Dennis Sargent’s mother had never been sure if her husband was serious about this or was only pulling her leg, but she had threatened divorce immediately, just on the off chance his love for this book had warped his mind.
Her threat had worked, winning her the right to name her son, but she had always felt she had dodged a bullet. So did Dennis when she told him of this close call years later. On that day he went from hating the name Dennis to loving it, shuddering at the thought of how many beatings he would have taken in school had his first name been Sargent.
Had this been the case, he would have run off to join the army, and didn’t doubt that a computer with a warped sense of humor would have promoted him to sergeant in record time.
Fortunately for him, none of this had come to pass. At least not in this universe. Dennis Sargent had been free to choose another path. And while he was one of the most driven men he knew, he was also the most content. He loved what he did.
Since he was eight years old, Sargent had believed that humanity was quickly creating its own successor, and that the species had very little time before it went the way of the Neanderthal.
Not that nature hadn’t done a brilliant job of constructing the human brain. It had hundreds of billions of components, was massively parallel, and required ridiculously small amounts of energy to power its astonishing capabilities.
But computer intelligence had advantages that would ultimately leave the brain in the dust. Computer systems could operate much faster than the wetware inside a human skull, and this advantage was only increasing as silicon photonic computing came online, essentially ramping up the speed of computer calculations to that of light. Computer memory was perfect and instant. And whatever an AI system learned could be instantly transmitted to all other computer AIs, now and forevermore.
Pretty handy.
But computer intelligence’s most important advantage would turn out to be its potential for evolution. Humans could evolve too, but could only produce one new generation every twenty to thirty years. AIs, on the other hand—once computer hardware became fluid, reconfigurable, so that both software and hardware could evolve together—could produce millions of generations before an amorous human couple could complete a single attempt at conception.
This was an insurmountable advantage, even if human efforts to produce additional generations were a lot more fun.
So Sargent had come to an obvious conclusion at a young age: if you can’t beat ’em, join ’em.
If you could simulate an exact copy of a human brain inside a computer, then at some point you could transfer your consciousness inside. At least theoretically.
Why not? Why not trade out all human parts for something nearly indestructible? Once science designed a robotic body that worked as well as a human one, but without being susceptible to poison ivy, death from the nick of a razor blade, or the need for a constant supply of oxygen and water, why wouldn’t we climb on board? As long as we could also replace our squishy brain with something more substantial, we’d become all but immortal while boosting our processing speed thousands or millions-fold.
In Dennis Sargent’s book, this would be the ultimate upgrade. And he knew it was possible he’d be alive when it happened, on the front lines—making it happen—and would be one of the first to reach this next level.
It was ten a.m., but he had been up for almost four hours, his nose to the grindstone, doing his part to push the frontiers of knowledge just a little further, bringing the goal just a little bit closer. He was taking a yogurt break at his desk, lost in his computer screen, when General Girdler rapped on his open office door.
Sargent swallowed a mouthful of yogurt—as vanilla as his first name—and swung around in his chair, somewhat surprised to see who it was. “Good morning, General,” he said. “What can I do for you?”
Girdler smiled. “I want to give you a heads-up. I just got off a call with the president. He asked me to tell you he’ll be calling you in ten minutes.”
“Me?” said Sargent it utter disbelief.
The general nodded.
Just the fact that the people Sargent worked with had routine access to the President of the United States, that he was a member of a club so exclusive it made the Manhattan Project seem as open as Facebook, was surreal enough. But this was next level surreal. He had never even been invited to a meeting with the president, but a one-on-one call?
“Okay,” he said warily, wondering if he had done something wrong. It was the only reason he could think of for the call. He doubted that the president was looking for his keen insight into foreign affairs or the economy. “Any idea what he wants?”
“Every idea,” replied Girdler good-naturedly, “but I’ll let him tell you himself. I’m late to a meeting as it is. Have fun,” he said as he left.
Sargent still couldn’t quite bring himself to believe this was real, up until the time that a computer-generated image of the president, in all his holographic glory, was in his office, greeting him and asking him to close the
door so they wouldn’t be overheard.
Sargent did as he was asked and motioned for the hologram to take a chair, resisting the urge to try to shake its hand.
“You’re probably wondering why I wanted to speak with you today?” said Cochran.
“That might just be an understatement, sir.”
Cochran smiled warmly, his charisma on full display. “The general has told me that you haven’t been fully occupied at THT for about a month now. After you completed your analysis of the implants’ interactions with the brains of both Nick and Alex.”
Sargent sighed. His efforts to compare and contrast results, looking for a difference that might account for Hall’s mind reading ability, had yielded nothing. Still, he had other ideas worth pursuing. Besides, he was also still performing duties as part of a group of universities and companies that had banded together to create a computer that replicated the position and functionality of every neuron in the human brain.
He reminded the president of this involvement, and that he could do this part of his job while remaining in Utah. “So even when I’m not fully occupied with THT duties,” he said, “I have more than enough work to do to keep me out of trouble.”
“It’s this other work that I wanted to talk about,” said Cochran. “What would you say if I told you I’m about to announce a dramatic expansion of this program? That I want to make it the next big-science moonshot for the United States? With considerable fanfare, I might add.”
Sargent’s mouth hung open. “You mean like the Human Genome Project?”
“That’s precisely what I mean. A joining together of huge numbers of institutions around the globe to make the creation of an artificial human brain humanity’s next great, collective goal. With ample funding from the federal government.”
“That would be . . . incredible,” whispered Sargent, feeling like a little girl on Christmas morning who had woken up to find a pink pony in her living room. Or maybe a unicorn.
MindWar (Nick Hall Book 3) Page 23
