by Matt Richtel
From my back pocket, I extract my wallet. I pull out a piece of paper on which I’ve written the series of numbers and letters I generated before leaving home from the binary decoder.
The code looks like this: “214–5682 89Marina”
I know that “89Marina” stands for the address. What do the other numbers stand for?
I type them into the empty password spot. I put my finger on the “enter” key. I pause. Maybe they’re supposed to go in the reverse order, like Newton said. And like I said: Screw it. I hit “enter.”
The login screen starts to dissolve. In its place, a document starts to materialize. The first page reads:
InterneXt
Internet 2.0
Human/Data Transfer Technology
The information herein is copyrighted and classified. Use or copying of this information is strictly prohibited and may have deleterious medical consequences.
At the bottom of the page is the word “Next.”
I inhale deeply, hold my breath, and click.
A new page appears.
The first Internet protocols were developed in 1973, leading to the creation of the World Wide Web and mass adoption of the technology by consumers, corporations and governments. It has continued to serve its initial purpose of providing a decentralized communications medium that cannot be easily destabilized. But it has also become a liability. Confidential information delivered via computers can be intercepted, decoded, and changed. That presents problems for ordinary citizens, whose information can be compromised, but even more so for corporate or government (military) entities that need to rely on secure transfer of information.
In 2007, the Defense Advanced Research Projects Agency, the agency responsible for funding the original Internet, endeavored to create a new, more secure version of the Internet: InterneXt or Internet 2.0. Working secretly with several handpicked scientists, they undertook to study whether data could be stored and transferred—not on magnetic computer chips—but in human memory cells. The basic idea was to determine whether the expanse of human memory space might be used to encode information, unbeknownst to the carrier. Farfetched as it sounds, the prospective uses could be extraordinary, such as: having an unsuspecting civilian (child/old person) carry data across enemy lines; having someone encrypted with launch codes or mission critical information but who could not be hacked via a computer; eventually developing the ability to “program” fallow human memory centers with vast stores of data.
Unwitting human hard drives. The ultimate mobile storage devices.
I was one of the scientists involved in the project. At the time that I began working for Chuck Taylor, his intentions were not clear to me. I believed that we were exploring technology that might strengthen human memory capacity, not overwrite it.
I hope that I have met you in person. If so, you probably didn’t have cause to discover this file and read it (because I’ve told you the important parts and you’ve already written a front-page scoop).
If we haven’t met and you’re reading this, I’m probably dead.
I have discovered the extent of the project and its real purposes. I have learned that Chuck plans to send a group of Vietnam and Iraq War veterans to China. The reason given for the trip is the Pan-Asian Games taking place over Thanksgiving. Unknowingly, the vets will be carrying secure data. I am not certain if this is encoded information for mere testing purposes or if Chuck is actually transferring important military data to the Chinese.
I don’t know if any of this will make sense to you. It doesn’t have to. What I need from you are two things: expose the perpetrators and then destroy this file.
Without the information in this file, Chuck and his partners cannot reproduce their efforts. Herein are the scientific protocols that dictate how computers must be programmed to stimulate memory loss and to overwrite it. This is the only copy. All others have been destroyed.
Why am I including them here?
It is possible that you can use this information to undo damage done to your grandmother. I am sorry for what happened to her. Her adventurous mind and eagerness to hunt for new information and experiences made her hippocampus particularly susceptible to manipulation.
This was extremely unfortunate and it did not even constitute a success for Chuck’s purposes. He and whoever his partners are need people whose memories can be compromised but who remain functional. For their purposes, a nearly obliterated memory—a neurological wildfire—effectively renders the host useless.
But for my purposes, she appears to have retained sufficient communication skills. That is why I’ve encrypted inside of her the password that protects this file.
I am sorry also that I have made things so difficult for you to discover. Given Chuck’s seemingly limitless resources and capacities, I did not know where to turn. I tried to encrypt my clues in a way only you could discover.
Once you’ve brought the conspiracy to light, please destroy this file. The science included here, while still in its early stages, is among the most powerful innovations I have ever seen. It begins to meld the minds of humans and computers—and may eventually lead to a new Internet protocol based not on bits and bytes but on neuro-chemicals and programmable human brain tissue.
If I am dead, your grandmother’s neurologist may be able to help you. If he cannot help you, then you may not succeed.
On the page that follows is what looks to me like Greek. It’s a series of computer and scientific equations.
I am so entranced staring at them that I don’t hear a key enter the lock on the boat’s door, and only register what’s happening as the door swings open. I turn to see Chuck. He’s holding a duffel bag. Without saying a word, he unzips it and pulls out his gun.
He aims at my head.
“What took you so long?” he asks.
Chapter 62
I am trying to look at Chuck while glancing around the tiny compartment for some refuge or weapon or protective armor.
Then I realize my only hope sits on the table in front of me. I lift the laptop and hold it in front of my chest.
“Best not to destroy the top-secret science.”
“It’s not covering your nuts.”
“Chuck, you really think that you’re going to shoot me without someone hearing and calling the police?”
“People mind their own business here, especially when it’s hard to distinguish between all the noises.”
“What noises?”
Chuck reaches to his right to a compact stereo unit. He hits the power button. He presses “play,” causing the cabin to be filled with a John Cougar Mellencamp song. “I need a lover who won’t drive me crazy. . . .”
“What are you doing?”
He turns the music up to an excruciating volume. He lowers the gun so it is aimed at my lower leg. I start to turn away.
He shoots.
I feel a spasm of heat and pain rip through my calf.
He turns down the music.
“Put down the laptop,” he says.
I’m in too much pain to speak but, somehow, adrenaline keeps me upright—and then not so much. I drop the laptop to the table as I fall to the ground.
Chuck steps forward. He reaches into a sink. He pulls out a white towel, then tosses it in my direction.
“Not rubber bullets,” he says. “Try pressure.”
I lurch for the towel and press it against my calf.
“Son of a bitch.” I’m expressing my feeling about both my intense pain and the asshole who caused it. I look up at him. “One request.”
“You want to know how it all works?”
“I’d prefer to be shot to Springsteen.”
“Smug to the end, just like your snarky blog posts.”
He takes two steps forward and I inch instinctively backwards, scooting along the floor on my butt. I’m backed against the cabinets. I reach behind me, feeling for anything that can help me. On the counter next to the sink, I see a propane tank used for cooking. But
it’s too far away, and what the hell would I do with it anyway. I’m helpless, defenseless, coming up empty.
Chuck sits at the table and looks at the laptop.
“That’s your computer,” I say.
He nods.
“You downloaded the encrypted file or took it from Adrianna but couldn’t figure out how to open it.”
He nods.
“You couldn’t open it without me.”
Now I’m thinking maybe I can stall Chuck and hope an earthquake or tsunami will save me—or at least kill both of us.
“Not without you and your grandmother. Not without you getting inside that curdled brain of hers.”
“Couldn’t you get the code out of Adrianna?”
“We tried. Trust me. We had plenty of leverage with that boy of hers. She spent a few days sitting in this chair thinking about how much she loved the Newton kid and being reminded of her duty to her country. But she convinced us that she didn’t know the password. In fact, she convinced us she’d destroyed it and that this file was empty. She said she and that disloyal neurologist had destroyed all the key science when they discovered our true intentions—how we planned to put this wonderful technology to work. But I sensed she kept the protocols and algorithms alive. Scientists love their families but not as much as they love their science. She and Pete were gaga over the possibilities. So I sensed someone would come here eventually to try to open the file, maybe salvage the science but keep it out of the hands of the bad guys, namely me.”
“You’ve been watching the boat?”
He points to the corner of the boat compartment, just a few feet to my right. Near the ceiling is a small black cylinder.
“I get alerted if anyone enters.”
Below the camera is a fire extinguisher. I turn back to Chuck.
“May I sit so I can elevate my leg?”
He’s distracted by the document.
“Go ahead.”
Pain shooting through my limb, I climb up onto the bench along one side of the cabin. I then lie back, elevating my foot. If Chuck was paying attention, he’d realize that I could have done the same thing while on the floor.
He’s enjoying his obvious upper hand, so much so that he’s set down his gun.
“What’s the big picture: mass use of brain tissue to store data, or just rewire a select few to carry military and trade secrets?”
“You have no notion of the concept of sacrifice.” He looks up at me and continues. “We are at war, not over land or even values but over data. The nation that controls information will rule.”
“You’re talking about news and media and advertising—that kind of information? Mind control.”
He shakes his head and scoffs, like I’m a child.
“Nat, everything essential gets communicated to computers and stored on them. From our Social Security numbers and bank accounts to our military operations and launch codes. As individuals and as nation-states, our sovereignty and safety depend on safekeeping our data. And guess what? It’s not safe in the slightest. Our banks get hacked, the Pentagon compromised, and do you have any idea how often some punk from Eastern Europe or the Isle of Man hacks into a major corporation and gets trade secrets, customer credit cards, the name of the CEO’s mistress and the filthy e-mails she sent him?”
“And you think you’ve found a better way?”
“Maybe. Maybe we can take some of the critical information off the grid. Forget about laptops or smart phones—we’re creating the ultimate in mobile computing. It’s a device that can walk in and out of the room on its own.”
“But how to get the data out of people’s minds?”
“Different ways. The oral tradition worked for your grandmother. Or maybe we develop ways to execute a program. For instance, you know that angry Vietnam veteran that you tracked down?”
I nod, grunt in pain, and move just a bit more down the bench.
“When he hears a certain song by the Doors, he starts telling a story about beating the shit out of his best friend in high school. It’s a story that has all kinds of critical information in it that we need to get to a CIA agent in Beijing whose phone is tapped and computer compromised.”
I think he’s blowing my mind but it might be that blood loss has begun to impact my concentration. I’m losing it. I don’t have much time.
“What else?”
“How do you mean?”
“All this to smuggle some information into China you could just as easily send in an FTP file.”
He smiles. “A journalist to the end.”
“Let’s hear it.”
“Put it this way: conscription in this country is in full effect.”
“The draft?”
“Of memory space,” he continues to look intently at the laptop, transfixed by the science on the monitor. I’m feeling woozy, having trouble following. Then it hits me.
“You’re not just planning to erase our memories,” I say. He looks up, waiting for me to continue. “Because you’ve already done it.”
“We’ve targeted two groups,” he says casually, and looks back down at his precious science. “Initially, we focused on accelerating the condition of people with compromised memory assets, like your grandmother. But unbeknownst to the geeks who wrote this software, we’re also following thousands of heavy multi-taskers: people who text around the clock, keep several Internet windows open at once, use instant messaging and e-mail and Skype at the same time. We’re encouraging the behavior.”
“By buying sites like Medblog?”
“Funding start-ups that build fast-twitch media software, casual games sites, interactive virtual worlds with pop-up windows and hyper-speed messaging. Multi-tasking heaven. We’re lobbying on related public policies, like discouraging laws that ban talking on the phone while driving, and giving tax credits to high-speed Internet providers. Even without our meager help, which all is perfectly legal, legions are shooting cortisol into their brains, freeing up blank memory space to use for our secrets. Go to any Internet café or, hell, any corporate office or schoolyard, you’ll see people simultaneously tweeting, calling, messaging, sending, and receiving to their hearts’ delight—but, over time, remembering less and less effectively. Thanks to you, we blew up our nerve center, but we’ve still got databases filled with potential conscripts, Americans with dulling memories, the carrier patriots of the future.”
He pauses. “That’s step one.”
“And that computer holds the scientific keys to writing over their fading memories?”
He looks at the laptop like an evil genius in a Bond flick might stare at his lap cat. I am closer to the fire extinguisher.
“Did it occur to you that Adrianna could’ve sabotaged her own data?”
He seems sufficiently preoccupied that I’ve got two or three seconds to act before he can react and blow my face off. I yank the fire extinguisher off the wall.
“What the fuck do you think you’re doing?”
I pull the pin. I hold back the extinguisher’s trigger. I start to wildly spray white goo toward foe and laptop.
Through the miasma, I see Chuck grab his gun and step out of the way of the cascade. The extinguisher starts to sputter out. Chuck shakes his head angrily. He walks to the radio.
“Wait! Please,” I yell as loudly as I can, hoping to stop him and get the attention of a passerby.
He pauses.
“I’m going to be a father.”
“You should have thought about that earlier.”
He turns on the stereo. John Cougar Mellencamp fills the cabin. He jacks up the volume.
“I need a lover who won’t drive me crazy. . . .”
He takes two steps forward. He raises the gun. I inch into the corner, trying to hide behind the table. His face contorts in rage and he starts rushing towards me, quickly, cutting off my angles. Then he slips. His right foot hits a patch of extinguisher goo and slides right out from under him. And the rest of him follows.
He goes do
wn hard. He drops the gun as he uses his arm to brace himself for the fall. In that respect, he succeeds. He gets his right arm underneath him. But that’s not what he should have been worrying about. The compartment is so small that he has underestimated, or probably not had time to estimate at all, the danger to his head.
As he goes down, his skull cracks against a ledge near the cabin door. He hits the ground, stunned.
Fighting intense pain, I hop forward on my left leg. I’m still holding the extinguisher. I’m thinking about something my grandmother once told me about karate. “Don’t ever fight,” she said. “If you do, go for the windpipe.”
I raise the fire extinguisher over my head. Groggily, Chuck looks up at me. He naturally covers his face. I bring the extinguisher down on his neck. He goes limp.
Unconscious, dead, I have no idea. I don’t care which. It doesn’t matter. He’s limp and my unborn critter is going to have a father.
I drop to my knees next to Chuck. I reach for the gun. Whatever Chuck’s status, I can protect myself.
Then the cabin door opens.
In front of me stands the hooded man, now dressed all in black. Evidently, Chuck faked his death. He’s got a gun too. He’s pointing it at my head.
“You play video games?” he asks.
“What?”
“At the end of the video game, you have to play the biggest, baddest enemy of them all. It’s called the Boss. Technically, Chuck gave the orders. I was just the muscle, but I’m really strong muscle. I’m the guy at the end of the video game that you keep trying in vain to kill.”
Chapter 63
I dangle the gun in my right hand. It is not pointed at the Boss character. And his slick black handgun is pointed at me.
In that respect, I am at a total disadvantage.
But my gun is pointed at the propane tank.
I think about Polly and Grandma, Bullseye and the Witch. I think about how the Boss may not let them survive either. I wonder if I will prompt fond memories.
The Boss follows my gaze to the propane tank.
“Don’t,” he says.
I pull the trigger.
The boat explodes.
