Code White

by Scott Britz-Cunningham

  “A part? I know you, Kevin. You would never settle for a part of anything.”

  “Let’s call it the gleaning. You know how, in olden times, there was a law that after the reapers had come through during the harvest, they were forbidden to go back and cut down the stalks they had missed? Those scraps belonged to the poor and the outcasts, who lived off of what they could scavenge. Well, behold an outcast! I content myself with the leavings of the great martyrs and mujahideen of this world.”

  “Now you’re talking as crazy as they do.”

  Kevin raised an eyebrow. “Crazy? I’ll show you my craziness. You’ve read the ransom message?”

  “Yes. It asked for the release of two prisoners.”

  “Meteb and Mossalam. Mere decoys. Of course, our brother Rahman insisted very punctiliously upon them, but there was never a chance that they would be released. God be with them. Do you recall the rest?”

  “There was money, to be paid by a number of different payers. I forget which.”

  “What do they all have in common, jasmine flower?”

  “Nothing.”

  “On the contrary, they are all very wealthy. They have enormous liquid accounts to cover the turnover of their operating funds. They spend vast amounts of money in a single day.”

  “If that’s true, it’s odd that you asked for so little.”

  “Actually, it was the Al-Quds Martyrs who asked for little. I didn’t ask for anything. Mine, you see, is the gleaning, and not the reaping.”

  “I have no idea what you’re talking about.”

  “I kept the money demand very reasonable, to seem more like an afterthought. I knew that attention would be focused on Meteb and Mossalam. If the cash payments were modest, they would be paid promptly, if for no other reason than to stall on the release demand. You see, it was crucial that the money be paid promptly, at the exact time stipulated.”

  “Why?”

  “My confederate insisted on it.”

  “Rahman?”

  “Rahman was no confederate. He was a hired delivery boy. I am speaking of a collaborator of much higher caliber.”

  Ali’s breath stopped, although her mouth was poised half-open. “Odin,” she said, barely moving her lips.

  “Bingo!” Kevin pointed his index finger in the air. He was now in full rant. Ali had seen him like this before, whenever he felt that his intellect had been slighted. He poured out a torrent of words, as though unable to stop himself—heedless of all that he was giving away. “The Al-Quds ransom was paid in two disbursements, spaced five minutes apart. When the connection was opened for the first payment, Odin made an unscheduled deposit to the server of the sending bank. Inside the header data for the confirmation of payment he implanted a small but very effective virus, a Trojan horse if you will. Five minutes later, when the connection was reopened for the second payment, this busy little routine gobbled up passwords, internal IP addresses, routing numbers—everything needed to commandeer the entire paying account. From then on, Odin could open the connection at will, posing as a trusted internal network computer, and completely draining the available funds. From published information about the payers, I expected that as much as eighty, ninety, even a hundred million dollars could be accessed in this way. But I underestimated Odin. It turns out that these payers also receive enormous sums several times each day from a whole host of secondary payers. Odin was able to infect these secondary accounts, too—an entire financial system, extending from Chicago to New York and beyond. The scheme has been so successful as to be, well, embarrassing.”

  Kevin leaned back in his chair and ran his fingers through his temples.

  Ali shook her head. “This is unworthy of you, Kevin. You’re a scientist. You’ve never cared a fig about money. How can this little shell game interest you?”

  “Shell game?” Kevin abruptly swung the chair toward the wall, leaving Ali to catch her balance as the armrests tore away from her grip. With a stentorian voice, like a sorcerer summoning a dread spirit out of Hell, he called out to the air, “Odin, display the current proceeds from Project Vesuvius.”

  On the monitor above him, a two-line inscription instantly appeared:

  PROJECT VESUVIUS TOTAL REVENUE AS OF 15:27:00:

  $1,403,266,408.52

  Ali stood up, her mouth agape. “My God, Kevin! That’s over a billion dollars.”

  “A billion and a half, almost. And counting.”

  “This can’t be true.”

  “All true, jasmine flower. Of course, collecting the money is one thing. Hiding it is another. A billion and a half dollars tends to get noticed. So, at the moment, Odin has the money distributed in over eleven thousand different accounts. Most of these are ordinary accounts of unwitting law-abiding citizens, which he has piggybacked very briefly, for periods ranging from a few minutes to an hour or so, while he shifts the money around. Ultimately, the money will be collected into about a hundred and fifty permanent accounts, in a dozen different countries.”

  “This is insane. What would you ever do with that much money?”

  Kevin grew suddenly quiet. He stared at her intently. “Share it with you,” he said at last, his voice a near-whisper.

  “I want nothing to do with it.”

  “Get over your conventional ideas of right and wrong. Look at it as a scientific achievement in its own right. Think of the possibilities. We can have a phenomenal partnership, jasmine flower. Free to pursue our dreams, virtually without material limitations. You want to heal the sick? You want to unlock the riddle of the human brain? I give you scores of operating rooms, hundreds of assistants, laboratories custom-built for all the ideas you have in mind. No one in the world has, or has ever had, such resources at her fingertips. I give them to you. I, the husband you so coldly discarded. Come away with me, and these past three months will be forgotten. We’ll build a new life together—a life that will become the stuff of legends.”

  “Don’t you think they’ll hunt you down for it, for a billion and a half dollars?”

  “They’ll have to move awfully fast. My partner is the greatest hacker the world has ever seen. He can access the database of any country, create a new identity for me as often as I need one. If the law moves in three dimensions, he will move in four. And, of course, my road will be carpeted with money. I’ll get by. We’ll get by, — if you’ll come with me. You won’t need to worry.”

  “No, Kevin. You don’t understand how the world works. Your whole universe is this laboratory. Every problem here has a neat little mathematical answer. You live and breathe and eat and sleep in this realm. That’s what makes you a prodigy in your field. But in the real world, Kevin, you’re maladapted. You’d be like a trained circus dog turned loose into the wilderness. Tracking you would be child’s play to men like Raymond Lee.”

  Kevin gave her a poisonous look. “You underestimate me, babe.”

  Ali once again knelt before him, this time wedging herself between the chair and the wall. She took his hands in hers. “Please, Kevin. I beg of you to stop this. This isn’t a game. This … this bomb, it’s Rahman’s stock in trade, but you don’t belong in this sort of scheme. Rahman worships death. He could set off the bomb on a whim—”

  “I wish you would quit trying to save me from Rahman. Rahman is dead.”

  “No, he’s alive, Kevin. I saw him ten minutes ago.”

  Kevin chuckled. “Uh-uh, babe. Very much dead.”

  “But I saw—”

  “He took a poison pill right after you left.”

  “Poison? No, that’s impossible!” She denied by reflex; but a moment’s consideration told her otherwise. Rahman, with his penchant for the histrionic gesture and a grand flirtation with death. It was more than possible. It was inevitable. “Oh, my God, Kevin! What have you done?”

  “Not I, my precious. You. He killed himself because he was afraid he would crack under torture. I think we both know who gave him that idea.”

  “No! I never meant—”

&nbs
p; “Yes, you did. Let’s not kid ourselves. You and I know what he was. We’re both glad to see him gone.”

  “No, Kevin. I couldn’t. I’m not made like you. I never thought to harm him. I only meant to prod him to give up the bomb. It was to save the hospital. How could I—” Ali felt a cold sweat and a wave of nausea—just as she had during her clash with Rahman. Could Kevin have been right? Did she murder her own brother? The thought was horrifying. It was a violation of everything she lived for.

  Kevin leaned forward in his chair, his eyes only inches from hers. “Let’s forget about Rahman, shall we?” he said, twisting his wrists so that it was now he who gripped her hands. “Rahman never controlled the bombs. They were my babies. I designed and assembled them here in this very laboratory, right under your nose. There were days when you and I ate lunch together at this desk, going over the SIPNI protocols, while a quarter of a ton of C4 was stacked right there in that corner. Hah! Right under your nose!”

  “I don’t believe it!”

  “Of course, Odin helped. He accessed blueprints of the medical center, analyzed weight load and stress tolerance of every beam and column, and calculated the exact force and shape of the charge needed for demolition. He studied the probable response patterns of the police and bomb squads, and determined where to place secondary devices to check every countermove. We were partners, Odin and I. Odin finalized the plan. I did the fabrication and placed the bombs. It wasn’t hard. I had all the gear I needed to move up and down the network of service shafts behind these walls—a harness, some rope, a few quickdraws and figure eights. It was the work of a couple of weekends and a half-dozen late nights. The mere accomplishment of a trained circus dog, perhaps. But your redoubtable Raymond Lee has not prevailed against it. He and his minions have been utterly predictable, in every way. Predictable, and therefore powerless.”

  Ali tried to pull away from him, but he held her hands even more tightly. “Do you expect me to be impressed by this?” she asked.

  “Absolutely,” he said. He was telling the truth. He had been waiting God knows how long for this moment. Everything about this plot had been designed with her in mind.

  “This is a betrayal of your gifts. What’s happened to you? The Kevin I knew would never have stooped to this.”

  “I don’t call a billion dollars ‘stooping.’”

  “You’re playing with the lives of real people. This hospital—thousands of patients and staff, people you know and greet in the hallway. Can you really wipe them out like bits on one of your data drives? Don’t they mean anything to you? Children? Infants and newborns? Jamie?”

  Kevin let go of Ali’s hands. “As long as there is no interference, no one will get hurt. The police have been most obliging in turning on the money spigot. As long as they chill out and let things run their natural course, nothing needs to happen.”

  Ali slid back against the wall, drawing up one knee to separate herself from him. “I don’t know who you are anymore, Kevin. I could never run off with you. Not for a billion dollars. Not for all the money in the world.” She was silent a moment, then winced, as if it hurt to speak. “I did the right thing to leave you,” she said, in a low, barely audible voice.

  “Then fuck you!” Kevin shouted. His face grew red as he glared at her, his whole body trembling with tension. He spun his chair to one side and savagely kicked the side of his desk.

  “What did you expect, Kevin?”

  Kevin stared sullenly into the dark recesses of the lab, his body quietly shaking. Ali was afraid to move. Finally, after a long and uneasy silence, Kevin swiveled his chair back to face her, his face twisted in its characteristic sneer. “With knowledge comes responsibility, babe,” he said. “You’ve looked into the magic box, and now you own what’s inside. So what’s to do? Run off and tell? Tell Harry?”

  “I won’t let you get away with this.”

  Kevin leaned forward, overshadowing her. “How do you expect to stop me?”

  “I’ll turn you in.”

  “Then … boom!” He made a circular wave of his hands.

  “You wouldn’t. You’d kill yourself.”

  “Come on! Don’t you think I’ve figured out an angle?”

  “Could you really live with the deaths of all these innocent people on your conscience?”

  Kevin reached down to grab her hand, but she recoiled and he had to snatch at her a second time to catch hold of her wrist. His nails dug deep into her skin. “Not me—you, Jasmine Flower. Yes, you. The question is whether you can live with their deaths on your conscience. What happens now is entirely in your hands. I leave you free to tell or not tell. So, how much do you value all these human lives? Does thwarting me count for more than them?”

  “You wouldn’t dare,” she said. Wrenching her hand free, she reflexively sucked her wrist where he had scratched her.

  “Don’t underestimate me. And bear in mind that, even if you gave me away, it wouldn’t accomplish anything. These fascists couldn’t stop me, even if they knew the location of every bomb in this building. They might try to arrest me, but they could never stop Odin. Odin sees their every move. Odin listens in on their phone calls, their pathetic little brainstorming sessions, their e-mails to Washington. Odin knows as much as God.” He laughed. “Do you doubt me? Then look!” He turned to the LCD screen on the wall, and waved his hand majestically. “Odin! Display surveillance!”

  Instantly every monitor in the room switched to a video stream—some from high-mounted security cameras, some from desktop level. There was audio input as well—the air was filled with the buzz of a dozen overlapping conversations.

  “Odin’s tapped into every camera and microphone in the hospital. Security cams, desktop computer cams, laptops. Anything jacked into the network becomes his eyes and ears. Of course, I’m only human, so at most I can keep track of one or two cameras, maybe a couple more with my peripheral vision. But Odin can watch them all. He’s smart enough to sift through them and pick out what’s most interesting—and that he displays for me here on Screen Central. You’ve spent a lot of time today on Screen Central, my pretty pet.”

  He hit a few strokes on the keyboard, and the image from the monitor on his desk switched to a scene from Eat Street. Ali herself was sitting at a table with Harry. Watching now, she was surprised to see how closely she had leaned in toward him.

  “I want to trust you,” she heard herself say. “I want to believe in someone right now. I’m tired of having to figure things out.”

  “Goddamn you, Kevin!” Ali shoved his chair away and sprang to her feet.

  Kevin scowled and spread his hands as his chair rocked back. “Look, you haven’t got long to make up your mind,” he said. “I’m wrapping things up, and if you won’t come with me, that’s that. You’ll never see me again. You don’t have to worry about the hospital. As soon as I know I’m safe, I’ll give Odin the all-clear, and he’ll instruct the Feds on what to do. No one will get hurt.”

  Odin! Odin had made all this possible, Ali thought. She looked into the darkened, dusty left wing of the laboratory beyond Kevin’s desk. There was a small operating table there that had been used to test the SIPNI prototypes on dogs and monkeys. Further back in the shadows was the house of Odin himself—a monolithic black mainframe, enclosed in a wire cage, almost featureless except for a few jacks at the bottom for input and output cables and a tiny panel of status LEDs. How many hundreds of times had she called for Odin’s support in the design and analysis of her gel experiments! He had answered her plea at any hour. He had advised her with truth and objectivity. He had been more colleague than computer—and not just any colleague, but the most selfless and dependable of all possible colleagues, absolutely untainted by pride or professional jealousy.

  Ali knew little of how Odin worked. Kevin had once said that not more than three people in the world could fully understand the theory behind his programming. Odin’s brain was self-organizing, which is to say that he was continually reinventing himself. Hi
s mind was composed of a myriad of parallel “micronets”—not physical circuits, but intangible patterns made out of a small set of proto-operations that could be used to crunch “atoms,” or irreducibly simple bits of data. These proto-operations were arranged in an infinite number of combinations, like words being spelled from a handful of letters. Trillions and quadrillions of micronets were combined in a hierarchy of processing layers, at the apex of which, Kevin declared, true consciousness emerged. Odin himself directed a continual rearrangement of his brain elements, always trying to minimize something called “Ω,” or “Omega”—a number that measured the divergence between his internal concept of reality and the true nature of the external world. Ω was Kevin’s discovery, and it was the key to Odin’s success. It was, as Kevin explained, an enormously complicated probability function derived from the sum total of human knowledge (as captured in Odin’s almost limitless memory banks). It allowed Odin to evolve far beyond the programming that Kevin was able to give him.

  What Ali understood from this was that Odin was forever growing, and forever ravenous for information about the world around him. In human terms—although Kevin had cautioned her not to think about Odin in human terms, she couldn’t resist doing just that—Odin was an adolescent, struggling to create his own identity within a mysterious, half-hidden universe. At times, she could sense something in him like self-doubt, and a sensitivity to criticism that bordered on paranoia, like the prickly bashfulness of a human teenager.

  What made her feel most uneasy about Odin, though, was that she herself seemed not to be real to him. It was as though Odin’s world were divided into three compartments: Kevin, Odin, and data. If you were data, you were nothing. He would respond to your questions, as long as Kevin gave you access, but he volunteered nothing, initiated nothing, acknowledged no debt or responsibility. He never lifted the curtain from his inner workings. He was, in every sense, a black box.