Three Days in April

by Edward Ashton

  “Well?”

  I shrug.

  “That one ran cleanly. Let’s try the next.”

  I work my way through the files, largest to smallest. Each runs perfectly.

  Until the last—­the friendly little buckyball. That one crashes as soon as I launch it.

  “Well,” I say. “There’s your problem.”

  Doug scowls.

  “That’s what the guy who fixed my arm said, right before he told me that I owed him eight thousand dollars.”

  I stare at the screen.

  “This doesn’t make sense,” I say. “I know this bot. I use the schematic for a molecular cage almost exactly like this as an example for dimwit rich kids. It’s not that complicated.”

  “So how do you fix it?”

  “Wait a minute,” I say. “Let me check something.”

  I swipe open my course folder and search for the molecular cage config file. I’m thinking that maybe I can run a simple diff on the two files, but when I pull them up side by side, Doug’s is over twice as large. I pop them both open. The schematics are similar. The spec files are almost exactly the same. I come to the ends of the files without finding any serious difference.

  Except that Doug’s is still twice as big.

  “So?” Doug says. “Do you know what’s wrong?”

  “Yeah,” I say. “There’s a whole lot of stuff in here that shouldn’t be.”

  11. TERRY

  Elise is gone.

  She’s not dead. If she were, I’d be able to contact her phone, and an avatar would say “Sorry, Elise can’t speak with you at the moment. She’s dead.” She has a cloud avatar, of course, but it has no more idea of where she is than I do.

  The only thing I can think of that would cause every trace of her to drop off the networks would be if she, her phone, her house, and all her other networked gear were completely vaporized.

  Which she told me very clearly two days ago is not, in fact, what happened.

  Tariq said yesterday morning that they were going somewhere safe. It didn’t occur to me to ask whether “safe” actually meant “on the surface of Mars.”

  “House,” I say. “How many locations within sixty miles of Baltimore are completely inaccessible to any public networks?”

  House has to think about that for a minute. She pops up on my kitchen wallscreen with one finger pressed to her lips. Her silver forehead wrinkles in concentration.

  “Two known locations,” she says finally. “One suspected.”

  “Where are they?”

  “Known locations are the interiors of containment units one and two at the Chesapeake Fusion Facility. Suspected location is within the NatSec facility in Chantilly, Virginia.”

  “Seriously?” I ask. “That’s the best you can do?”

  She shrugs.

  “You asked for locations that are completely inaccessible. There aren’t too many of those around these days.”

  Okay. Elise is probably not in either of the known locations, and I somehow doubt that Tariq would have taken her to the suspected one. So where does that leave me?

  “Fine,” I say. “Get me a connection to Dimitri. Vid to the wallscreen.”

  She disappears while she pings Dimitri’s system, then pops back up long enough to say, “Sorry. No luck. Here’s one of his avatars, though.”

  It’s the bear.

  “Terry,” it says. “So good to hear from you. Dimitri would very much like to speak with you, but he is sleeping at the moment. Can I help you?”

  I glance at my chronometer. It reads 10:45:15.

  “I’m not sure,” I say. “When do you expect Dimitri to wake up?”

  It shrugs apologetically.

  “I do not know. Dimitri has not slept well for the past three days. I have no interest in waking him any sooner than I must.”

  “Can you have him contact me when he wakes?”

  “I will. Good-­bye, Terry.”

  “Disconnect.”

  I walk into the living room, and drop onto the couch. I have some design work that I could be doing—­that I should be doing, honestly. My client is expecting a first pass for review at the end of the week. There’s no possible way I’m going to be able to concentrate on color palettes and furniture layouts and placement of objets d’art right now, though. There’s not much point in worrying whether or not you’ve got the Renoir placed in ideal lighting when the world is swirling the drain.

  “House,” I say. “Vids. News. Local. Centrist.”

  The wallscreen cuts to two men on low couches facing each other across a coffee table. The overlay identifies the clip as an interview with NatSec Acting Director Dey, livecast today at 09:00. I recognize the interviewer. His name is John Flaherty. He’s been doing interview feeds with celebrities and politicians since I was in grade school.

  The interviewer in this case is much more famous than his subject, who I’ve never actually seen before. Dey has only been in the job for a few months—­just since Director Stevens resigned. I know there was some sort of scandal around that, but it must not have been too interesting, because I can’t for the life of me remember what it was about. Dey is short and thin, with dark skin and hair, and a heavy black mustache that curls around the corners of his mouth and almost down to his jawline. He’s wearing a dark brown suit that looks to be a ­couple of sizes too large.

  “Good morning,” says Flaherty. “We’re here today with NatSec Acting Director Augustus Dey. Thank you for joining us, Mr. Dey.”

  “It is my pleasure to be here, John,” says Dey. He has just a hint of an accent, somewhere between South Asia and a private British boarding school.

  “Let’s get right to business,” says Flaherty. “Two days ago, this nation suffered the most devastating terrorist attack in its history, with a total of almost fifty thousand casualties. What has NatSec been able to learn about this attack, and what are you doing to make sure that it cannot happen again?”

  Dey smiles.

  “No preliminaries, eh, John? Very well. First, although anti-­terrorism protocols have been implemented, there is in fact no hard evidence as of yet that what happened in Hagerstown was a terrorist attack. No group has claimed responsibility, and due partially to our own response to the strike, very little physical evidence was obtained that could be used to help explain what happened. We have several competing theories as to what actually caused the deaths of the good ­people of Hagerstown. So far, however, no proposed mechanism has been shown to be fully capable of producing the effects seen there.

  “Second, we at NatSec are currently doing everything in our power both to determine who or what may have been the cause of this tragedy, and to ensure that such a thing cannot recur. Both our physical and virtual agents have been on twenty-­four-­hour duty cycles since Sunday afternoon, and they will remain so until this situation is fully resolved.”

  Flaherty leans forward.

  “I hope you will forgive me,” he says, “if I note that you have not fully answered my question.”

  Dey’s smile broadens.

  “I will forgive you. I’m sure you understand that there are limits to what I can say in a public forum.”

  Flaherty nods, but he doesn’t look convinced.

  “Of course, sir. On a related topic, in the past hour, accusations have arisen that NatSec agents may have carried out a number of targeted killings last night against leaders of the UnAltered Movement. Can you either confirm or deny that such operations may have been carried out?”

  Now Dey leans forward, and his smile disappears.

  “You surprise me, John. I will not dignify that question with an answer, except to say that the purpose of NatSec is to protect the lives of American citizens, not to end them.”

  “Quite so, sir. However, you must have taken note of the feeds coming from the so-
­called UnAltered Movement since Hagerstown. Many of them have been forcibly redacted, but my organization has been able to retain enough over the past two days to paint a picture that borders on incitement to terrorism. Is this not so?”

  Dey leans back and crosses his legs.

  “I cannot comment on any ongoing investigation. You know that as well as I do.”

  “I understand, Mr. Dey. However, hypothetically speaking, if NatSec were to make a determination that an individual or organized group was engaging in incitement to terrorist activity using public feeds, would you not be obligated to take forceful action?”

  Dey’s face remains calm, but his voice takes on an icy tone.

  “As you know, John, this is the United States of America, and the First Amendment is still in full effect. That said, there are laws governing public incitement to violence, and they have repeatedly been determined to pass constitutional muster. If we or any other law enforcement agency made a determination that these laws were being broken, it would be our obligation to take action.”

  “And would such action include targeted killings?”

  Dey scowls.

  “I believe I already answered that question, Mr. Flaherty.”

  “So you did, sir. So you did.”

  I pause the feed. A tap, tap, tap is coming from my foyer.

  “House,” I say. “What’s that noise?”

  She pops up on the screen, sitting on the couch next to Augustus Dey. She winks at me, and slings an arm around his shoulder.

  “Someone is knocking on your door,” she says.

  “Knocking? Who is it?”

  She leans over and nibbles Dey’s ear.

  “Unknown. This person carries no traceable electronics.”

  Which is why he’s knocking, obviously.

  “Can I get a visual?”

  House hesitates. She leans away from Dey, and her face and voice become suddenly serious.

  “No visual available.”

  My heart gives an alarming thump in my chest.

  “What?”

  “No visual available. The entry camera is not functioning.”

  The knock comes again. I feel a nervous stirring in the pit of my stomach.

  “How long has the camera been out?”

  “Forty-­five seconds.”

  “Is the camera at the building entrance functioning?”

  “It is.”

  “So show me visuals for anyone who’s entered the building in the last five minutes.”

  House hesitates again. I really don’t like where this is going.

  “No visuals available.”

  “So nobody has entered the building in that time?”

  “Unknown. The entry camera for the building was not functional for thirty-­five seconds during that period.”

  The knock comes a third time, slightly louder. Someone is at my door.

  Someone with the power to ghost the panopticon.

  I’m on the third floor. There is no back door, no fire escape. I’m frantically considering tying together bedsheets and climbing out the window when a muffled voice comes through the door.

  “Terry, are you there? I hope I’m not disturbing you, but I really need to speak with you right away. Please open the door.”

  It takes me a moment to process the voice, and another to check that I haven’t wet myself.

  “House—­” I begin, but my voice cracks. I clear my throat and try again. “House. Open the door.”

  I get to my feet. My hands are trembling, and I can feel the adrenaline washing through my system. I hear the door swing open, and footsteps in the foyer.

  “Jesus H. Christ,” I say. “What are you doing here, Tariq?”

  “Well at least this is all starting to make sense,” I say. “You’re gonna be my brother-­in-­law in a month. When were you planning on telling me you’re with NatSec? Does Elise even know?”

  Tariq shifts uncomfortably on the couch.

  “I don’t know what you mean,” he says. “I am certainly not with NatSec. I have not checked their hiring profiles, but I am fairly sure they do not employ performance artists.”

  I laugh.

  “Right. Performance artist. Is that even a thing? God, I feel like such an idiot.”

  He puts a hand on my knee, then snatches it back when he catches my expression.

  “Terry, please. I assure you, I am what I claim to be. If I were associated with NatSec, I would not need to ask for your help.”

  I lean back, and run my hands back through my hair. The fight-­or-­flight is draining out of me, and I feel almost giddy.

  “Look, Tariq. I said I feel like an idiot, not that I am one. If we’re going to continue this conversation, you’re going to need to explain some things to me. First, if you’re really just a simple street performer, how exactly did you manage to ghost my building’s security systems?”

  His eyes slide down and away. I have no idea why NatSec would hire this guy. He’s a terrible liar.

  “I do not know what you mean.”

  “House,” I say. “How is my entry camera?”

  “Functioning normally.”

  “How was it when Tariq was standing in front of it?”

  “Not functioning.”

  “And how was it before Tariq arrived?”

  “Functioning normally.”

  “That, my soon-­to-­be brother-­in-­law, is what I mean by ghost. You’re invisible to the panopticon. That’s not an easy thing to be, and as far as I’m aware, the only ­people who are able to manage it are NatSec agents.”

  “Is it not possible,” he says, “that your camera is malfunctioning? Perhaps this is simply coincidence.”

  I lean forward.

  “So you’re saying that my entry camera has a glitch, which happened to show up exactly when you did, and which spontaneously resolved as soon as you were no longer in front of it?”

  He shrugs, but still can’t meet my eyes.

  “This is possible, is it not? Correlation does not prove causation.”

  “And the fact that my building’s entry camera had the same glitch sixty seconds earlier—­again, just when you happened to be passing in front of it—­is also coincidence?”

  Tariq’s eyes are fixed on the floor, and for a moment I’m reminded of the clerk at the Jolly Pirate.

  “I have never claimed to be an ordinary man,” he says quietly. “I have made a career doing unusual things. But I swear to you, these things have nothing to do with NatSec.”

  I draw a deep breath in and blow it out. Dimitri is the only person I know for certain is with NatSec in some capacity. He’s never said so outright—­I’m pretty sure they’re not allowed to admit it—­but he’s never really denied it either. Tariq seems pretty sincere, and I’m starting to feel bad about badgering him.

  “Fine,” I say. “You’re not with NatSec. Let’s just assume you’re actually a vampire. What can I do for you?”

  “I need your help,” he says. “But for Elise, not for myself.”

  That gets my attention.

  “Elise?” I say. “Where is she? Is she okay?”

  “She is fine. She is safe. But . . . I must tell you that I have not been entirely honest about what happened in Hagerstown.”

  I sit bolt upright, and cover my mouth with both hands.

  “What? Tariq, I am shocked! Shocked! You certainly had all of us fooled.”

  He scowls.

  “I know you all think me a liar, and perhaps you are right. In truth, much of what Elise remembers of that day is correct. She did speak to a sentinel, and its sensors captured her face and her voice. It is likely that they also witnessed some part of her escape.”

  “On your ATV?”

  His scowl deepens.

  �
��That does not matter. What matters is that NatSec has evidence that she was present in Hagerstown, and that she did not die there. I do not believe this has come to the attention of anyone who matters—­but if it does, I fear that I will not be able to protect her.”

  I roll my eyes. He’s right about that, anyway.

  “So,” I say. “What exactly do you intend to do about this?”

  “This is why I need your help,” he says. “I intend to destroy the evidence before it is noticed.”

  Gary throws open the door just as I’m raising my hand to knock.

  “Evil Wizard!” he says. “Cave Lady! Welcome! What brings you here so soon after we finally managed to get rid of you?”

  “Hello, Gary,” I say. “Can we come in?”

  “Sure,” he says, and steps aside with a flourish and a bow. “Why not? I run a boardinghouse now. Make yourselves comfortable.”

  We enter, and he closes the door behind us.

  “If you’re looking for Anders, he’s up in his room doing super top-­secret stuff that I’m not supposed to know anything about. I’ve got it up on the living-­room wallscreen. Wanna watch?”

  “No,” I say. “Not really. We actually came to talk to you.”

  Tariq perches on the edge of the couch. I sit beside him, and Gary drops into one of the recliners. There’s what looks like some sort of molecular diagram rotating on the wallscreen.

  “Hey,” Gary says. “Here’s a fun fact: Last night, I’m pretty sure I watched your pal Dimitri whack a guy. Care to comment?”

  I stare at him. He stares back, with bland half smile on his face.

  “What are you talking about?” I finally ask.

  “Dimitri,” he says. “You know, the super scary guy who showed up at my door on Sunday morning looking for Anders, presumably because he was peeved at your little . . . whatever it is you two have going on?”

  “Yeah,” I say. “I know who Dimitri is. You saw him hit somebody?”

  “No,” Gary says. “I did not see him hit somebody. I saw him whack somebody: one Christopher Cai, in fact—­noted racist, UnAltered rabble-­rouser, and man about town.”