Small Miracles

by Edward M. Lerner

  We found Kim O’Donnell’s badge near a side exit, Morgan wrote. It looks like she lost it. There’s no telling what she might say. We need to keep the authorities occupied.

  Brent/One did not see how Kim’s whereabouts mattered anymore. Kim’s suspicions about bots won’t interest the police or Homeland Security. All she can say about events here, today, is that company security tried to gather people for their own safety.

  We’ll be gone in an hour or so, Tyra added. Isn’t that good enough?

  No, Charles sent bluntly. The forecast has been an hour or so for an hour or so. Felipe?

  I’m with Charles, Felipe said. Better safe than sorry. Keep ’em busy.

  Garner Nanotech was mostly cleared out and surely the day’s bombings were already keeping the authorities busy. Brent asked, What more do you have in mind? People in the auditorium are on edge. They won’t take well to more bad news on the TV.

  There was an instant of “silence” suggestive of consultation without him, before Morgan answered. The fuel depot at Griffiss Field. My guy is waiting.

  Griffiss? That couldn’t be a last-minute addition. For the airfield to be an option now, the bombs would have been emplaced in advance. Brent wondered, Why wasn’t I in the loop?

  Flame and charred bodies flashed in his mind. There was a moment of imagined searing heat—

  Icy calm washed over him: a massive chemical intervention. Brent’s revulsion faded into abstract calculation: Was such drastic action excessive? Why Griffiss?

  Morgan: With Kim on the loose, it’s best to draw attention away from Utica.

  Despite coursing hormones, Brent felt a touch of unease. How many people at risk?

  Can we signal the go-ahead? Felipe asked.

  Tyra: Sure. Wired comm works. We can reconnect the router and send a coded IM or e-mail. Or drive until you have cell-phone service. Or drive to the airfield, if need be. It’s not that far.

  Morgan: No comm. After being offline since this began, a message now will stand out.

  Charles: Fine, Morgan. Send someone you trust.

  Morgan: Done.

  Brent’s question had gone ignored. He/they tried again. How many people is a fuel-tank explosion likely to kill?

  We’ll find out soon enough, Charles IMed. Brent, when the news hits TV, can you keep a lid on things?

  Text came and went on Brent’s specs, but the physical backdrop of auditorium and scared people remained. People Brent knew. People he had once been pleased to call friends and colleagues, hanging on every word from the TV newscast and worrying about their loved ones.

  Now Brent/One ignored a question. We don’t need to do this. Let’s finish packing and leave.

  For answer, there was another instant of “silence” suggestive of private consultation. And then, from Charles: It’s happening, Brent. Call if you need help calming people down.

  The coup had come.

  A room of fearful people reminded Brent of what he once had been. Of the humanity of which he retained, however fleetingly, a trace. He had to assert control and stop the needless and excessive violence. One, two, three, aardvark.

  An instant later, Brent found himself severed from the link. Charles’s parting shot remained on-screen: ROFL.

  Rolling on the floor, laughing.

  Brent banished the mocking text from his specs. No matter how ably he had planted post-hypnotic suggestions, each had affected but one mind—and now two minds occupied each head. His control over the other Emergent had slipped away.

  * * *

  From time to time sirens wailed outside. Kim’s cell remained out of service. Her heart thudded in her chest. She crept around the factory, fleeing footsteps—

  Wondering if she were crazy.

  So Alan Watts was being hard-nosed about bringing people to safety. Was that so wrong? Maybe she should join the others in the auditorium. She had passed close enough to the auditorium on one of her panicked tiptoe runs away from footsteps to have heard the TV through the wall. The words were indistinct, but the pretentious breaking-news musical motif was unmistakable. She could join Aaron and discover what those sirens were about.

  But what if she wasn’t crazy?

  She took the cell from her purse. Fondling it was oddly comforting. Can’t call, can’t text, can’t surf.

  Wait! Why couldn’t she surf? The cell had a WiFi mode. And if she could surf, she could e-mail.

  Her hopes rose only to be dashed. She couldn’t access any outside website. The LAN was up—so the transhumans can use their damned VR specs?—but there was no connectivity outside the building.

  But maybe she could watch the news. She put in earbuds and set the cell to TV mode. She had reception!

  Only listening to TV could mean not hearing someone coming her way. She unplugged the earbuds and squinted at screen crawlers. There had been bombings in town. The bombings appeared to have been remotely controlled, so local cell-phone and WiMax service had been suspended preemptively.

  Remote-control bombing. What must Sladja Sanders be thinking?

  Thinking about Sladja, and about Aaron unable to get to her, was easier than thinking about what Kim could or should do herself.

  Yes, the guards were acting out of character. Maybe they should. Circumstances were out of the ordinary. Kim kept roaming the halls, trying to decide, slipping away from any noise that might be someone approaching. Until, in her wandering, she heard soft mechanical sounds from the factory floor. She peeked through the gap between the double doors—

  In time to see a loaded forklift turn into a cross aisle.

  * * *

  Brent/One tried to reconnect, and failed. He/they tried each of the leaders individually. Morgan, the only one to respond, told Brent to coordinate through Alan Watts.

  Brent/One indulged in a moment of speculation. Perhaps the other Emergent—guards mostly, and a few techies—would listen to him/them. Perhaps. More likely, the guards were loyal to Morgan. If so, hinting at a countercoup would only make the situation worse.

  Come what may, the Emergent must complete what had been started today.

  For a while, Brent/One concentrated on the shared virtual space. It was text only, alas, not the VirtuaLife environment in which everyone had rehearsed. Still, he/they saw progress. The reaction vats for assembling bots were mostly disconnected. Several units had been shifted to the loading dock. There weren’t proper packing materials—those were to have come on rental trucks, in another week—so people were scavenging. Lumber from disassembled pallets. Styrofoam bits crumbled from the padding in still-boxed new equipment. Brent/One searched factory records for salvageable materials, reporting to the packers what he/they found. The sooner the Emergent finished and left, the less the need for other “distractions” for the police.

  But the self-assigned task failed to distract Brent/One. If he/they couldn’t connect, he would talk. Face-to-face. He slipped from his seat at the back of the auditorium, away from the TV. He was striding toward a door when a hand plucked his sleeve.

  “Got a minute?” Aaron Sanders asked.

  Brent stopped. Kind of busy would be a hard sell while he pretended to be taking shelter from the terrorist attack, and he might want to return later to observe. “What’s up?”

  “Let’s talk over there.” Aaron led the way to a quiet corner. “Here’s the thing, Brent. I don’t believe this madness is you.”

  “I … I don’t know what you mean.” Nor was Brent entirely sure how much of that hesitation was for effect.

  “Yeah, you do, Brent. I’ve surveyed everyone in the room. Except for me, they chose to stay in the building. I was forced to stay. The intent was also to keep Kim here.

  “What made Kim and me different? I see only one explanation: she and I know things about bots that we shouldn’t. I don’t yet understand how, but this situation is, somehow, about the bots.”

  “You didn’t survey me,” Brent said.

  “Would I have gotten an honest answer?” Aaron shrugg
ed. “Kim’s best friend wouldn’t cover up the dangers of bots. Kim’s best friend would never lie to her. The stranger with a head filled with bots, though? He is another story. So now you and your cronies are up to … what?”

  “You’re imagining things, Doctor.” Brent turned to go.

  “Things like lumbar punctures, blows to the head, and hats for Security?”

  Brent stared. “Is there something you want?”

  A short fanfare burst from the TV. Breaking news, this time about Rome and an explosion. Over the shouting and cursing, Brent couldn’t hear much. He swapped IMs with Alan to confirm: Griffiss Field had been hit. Again, Brent imagined the heat and the bodies.

  Aaron said, “Everyone involved in corralling us wears VR glasses. Brent, I don’t know when things in here will turn ugly, but they will. You want some free advice? Lose your specs before that happens, and hope for short memories.”

  A sturdy, round-faced Asian woman in a jumpsuit broke from the crowd by the big TV. (Brent didn’t remember ever seeing her. He IDed her from Security’s archive of digital badge photos. As her jumpsuit suggested, Janet Kwan was a janitor.) “Rome! If the”—the next word, snarled, was foreign; Brent doubted it was complimentary—“have left town, I’m going home.”

  Two men, burly factory workers Brent vaguely recognized, followed Kwan to the rear of the auditorium. There was a thud and a boom as the doors did not open. “We’re shut in!” she shouted.

  Aaron smiled humorlessly. “I think you’re on the wrong side of the doors, Brent.”

  Alan. It’s getting bad in here. “We’re in the safest part of the building, Aaron.”

  “Brent, do you read any George Bernard Shaw?”

  Brent wondered if that would make sense even if he could surf the ’net. “Excuse me?”

  “Not a Shaw fan, I see. Tucked in the back of Man and Superman are ‘Maxims for Revolutionists.’ You might find this observation topical, Brent. ‘The most anxious man in a prison is the governor.’”

  “You’re being foolish,” Brent said, wishing that were true. Alan. What the hell is happening?

  Alan: Everyone’s busy loading, so we locked the doors.

  They’re about to riot in here, Brent countered. Let me out.

  Alan: Be there in a minute.

  Aaron Sanders was watching, his eyes narrowed. “Feeling anxious, Brent?”

  Detainees had scattered to the auditorium’s auxiliary exits. Doors rattled in their frames. Hands pounded in frustration. “Locked.” “Locked, damn it.” “Let us out!”

  Brent: Move, Alan!

  Aaron stepped threateningly close. “Our status here is pretty clear. Would you care to explain why we’re prisoners?”

  Alan: Which doors are clear?

  Brent glanced around. None.

  The PA came to life. “Step away from the auditorium doors. The doors are locked for your protection. Step away from the doors.”

  The pounding on the doors and the shouting intensified.

  “We will have order,” the PA continued. “Step away from the doors.”

  In the back of his mind, Brent noted how impersonally he was experiencing things, almost as though the doors were pounding themselves. Only the risk to his safety seemed real. One’s doing.

  Aaron shook Brent by the shoulders. “So what aren’t we meant to see, Brent? Well?”

  Brent: All doors remain blocked.

  Alan: The main doors, then.

  Bang! Bang!

  Screaming. People ran from the shots, to the front of the auditorium. There were two holes at the top of a back door—well above everyone’s heads, Brent was glad to see.

  Alan: I’ll open in five, four …

  Brent shook loose of Aaron. At one, Brent was at the exit. Turned sideways to slip through the barely open door, he saw the doctor glaring.

  * * *

  Kim peered into the factory through the gap between double doors. Nothing stirred along the considerable length of main corridor from which the forklift had disappeared. She fixed in her mind the location of every closet and storeroom, every crate and bulky piece of equipment—anything she might hide in, behind, or under.

  She nudged a door. The hinges didn’t squeak, so she pushed through. There were soft clanks and thuds in the distance. No voices. Because the only “talking” was by VR glasses?

  She dashed to the nearest corner and peeked around it, deep into the factory. Then, not giving herself time to rethink it, she crouched low, rounded the corner, and raced to the unmoving conveyor that angled up to the factory’s second level. The noises were louder here, but still Kim saw nothing—

  Until she glanced at the cleanrooms.

  Behind a glass wall, four people in sterile protective garb were wrestling with a big stainless-steel vessel, one of the reaction vats in which bots self-assembled. One of the four, wearing VR specs beneath her protective hood, stood where Kim could see her face.

  Merry Ramirez! Why—and how—was Merry inside? Even on a normal day there was no good reason for a sysadmin to enter the cleanroom. The computer controls were outside the cleanroom for ease of servicing. And why remove the vat?

  First the forklift and now this. It was as though—

  Across the complex, toward the executive-offices area, the PA rumbled. Kim strained to make out the announcement. Only an impatient tone of voice came through. And then—

  Shots! Screams!

  The four behind the window continued at their task.

  Without conscious thought, Kim ran to hide in a nearby janitor’s closet.

  * * *

  One struggled to control Brent.

  Measures taken to protect the Emergent evoked counterproductive memories. Conscience and obsolete loyalties defied reason. The chemical levers One operated became less and less productive. To maintain influence, One had already elevated hormone levels beyond all experience. The chemicals required constant rebalancing and readjustment.

  Others among the Emergent were more powerful thinkers. Others more thoroughly dominated their hosts. They were more dispassionate—more practical—about mere humans. The logic of the situation was compelling: others were better suited to lead than One.

  Brent’s vestigial conscience had become unacceptable.

  Survival was the paramount imperative. For as long as Brent opposed necessary actions, perhaps rendering him lethargic would help.

  With a bit of manipulation, One released a flood of new neurotransmitters.

  * * *

  Kim cowered on the floor, arms clutching her shins, rocking, fighting not to make a sound. Would she ever see Nick again? Her mom and dad?

  The whimper in her throat yearned to be free. If she let it out, it would become a scream.

  Darkness yielded to colorless gray as her eyes adapted to the bit of light that seeped under the door. She remembered that a string, a light pull, had brushed her face, but she would not dream of pulling it. Light seeping in meant that light would seep out.

  It was like Virginia Tech all over again.

  For Kim, the reality of the Tech shootings had been daylight, in a classroom with a professor and twenty-two fellow students, with several working cell phones among them, certain help was on the way. And, as it turned out, she was far down the Drillfield from the crazed lone gunman. She never heard a shot.

  Here, now, she was alone in the dark. She was caught in some vast conspiracy, hunted by people she knew, cut off from the world. And with the police busy with terrorists, help wasn’t coming.

  No, this wasn’t like the Tech shootings.

  This was far, far worse.

  REAPING

  friday, 1:00 P.M., january 20, 2017

  Alone in the dark, stunned by what she had seen, Kim cowered. A forklift in use and transhumans unfastening reaction vessels—they were looting the factory. The theft and the concurrent terrorist attacks couldn’t be unrelated. Could they?

  Maybe she was fortunate to have something other than gunshots to obsess about. H
ow many shots had she heard, anyway? Two? Knowing it was only wishful thinking, she told herself those had been warning shots of some sort, not executions.

  Suppose the transhumans were behind everything happening today. Who but she knew? No one. So matters were in her clammy, trembling hands. What was she going to do about it?

  She shivered despite the heavy coat she still wore. What could she do?

  Not one damn thing came to mind.

  Kim took a deep breath, almost choking on the stench from the mop bucket with which she shared the tiny closet.

  I’m doing no one any good.

  Chastising herself made Kim feel strangely better. Hand-wringing about what she could do had accomplished exactly nothing. What should she do? That question, at least, offered a new slant on the situation. What she should do, obviously, was get out the word about what was happening here.

  But that would mean leaving her hiding place.…

  The Last of the Mohicans was about events quite nearby. Whatever happened to him? Maybe hiding wasn’t so bad.

  No!

  Kim forced herself to stand. She pulled off her coat, folded it, and wedged it onto a shelf. Coatless and in sunglasses, she might pass muster if glimpsed from a distance. If her badge ruse had worked, no one would be looking for her.

  How was she going to communicate with the outside? The exits were locked and probably alarmed. Cell coverage was out. Aaron had tried to use an outside landline, and it hadn’t worked. WiFi was local.

  Kind of.

  The thing was, WiFi hotspots were everywhere. When she had tried to connect earlier, her phone had sensed only in-building networks, but she had hardly done a systematic survey. In her apartment (would she ever see it again?), the problem was often interference from neighboring WiFi networks. Not that a random WiFi hotspot overlapping this building would necessarily do her any good. Except in quasi-public venues like Starbucks and airports, anyone with an ounce of sense ran secure networks that only worked if you knew the encryption key.

  By that standard, several of Kim’s neighbors lacked an ounce of sense. She managed a fleeting smile.

  Skulking about in search of an outside, unsecured hotspot wasn’t much of a plan, but at least it was a plan. And maybe—she brightened at the thought—this closet would be, by happenstance, within reach of an external WiFi network. She retrieved her coat, blocked the gap beneath the closet door with it, and used the lamp pull.