by Jim Nelson
21.
The ferry docked, the wind settled, and the rain was sent down in fire buckets. At the top of the hill, Brill waited for me inside the entrance of the main cell block. He wore a peeved expression as well as his usual plum suit and black bow-tie. Wordlessly, he helped me out of my mackintosh and accepted my hat. He stepped briskly away to an unseen coatroom hidden in the prison complex. I didn’t wait for him to return.
In the data closet, I connected the equipment I’d lugged with me to the network monitor I’d attached to the Old Internet’s signal transformer two days before. Within minutes, I was deep in transaction logs and event triggers and line graphs of network activity—data accurate down to the nanosecond, mountains of it. This was the work Cassandra Chancellor thought computer security entailed. It still does, but the job is so much more nowadays.
My network monitor was quiet. No intrusion attempts had been made since I’d connected it. The amount of network activity confirmed at least one detail Clift had shared with me: The Old Internet was not a heavily-trafficked site. The number of Nexternet users pulling up old web sites was a pittance compared to even a modest commercial Nexternet service.
It was emptying to realize how few people cared to peruse our collective history, even the near-history stored on the Old Internet. Today, it takes no more than a quick thought—a couple of impulses directed at the memex connected to your brain—to look up the primary historic record on any person or event occurring between 1995 and 2028. Even if you weren’t alive in 2001, if you want to know the name of the nineteen—no, twenty—hijackers on September 11, their names rush into your consciousness with the ease of recalling your birthday or your middle name.
The Nexternet is a massive brain with each user a neuron. Each individual neuron in a brain sends signals to the collective. Sensory triggers can stimulate a region of neurons, make them react like koi racing to fish food thrown on a pond. Neurons vote to walk forward and the body walks forward. The smell of baking bread causes neurons to vote whether to stop and linger. A bus looms down and adrenaline floods the system overriding all other votes in progress and sending the legs running.
The web sites George Drake had meticulously preserved and Dr. Clift kept under a watchful eye were not the gold bullion Cassandra Chancellor thought them to be. The Old Internet was a novelty for people to sift through now and then. The real action was on the Nexternet itself: the political arguments, the news flashes, the celebrity livestreams, the hypernovels, the psycho-stimulant dopamine rush of being hit with a billion emotional outputs all at once. A collection of old web pages and cell phone videos were as stimulating as Grandmother’s tarnished wedding silver.
The network monitor revealed hot spots in the corpus, old web sites more heavily accessed than others. They were web sites that had some relevance to the events of that January in 2038. A terrorist attack in Rio de Janeiro by a Shining Path offshoot led to millions of people accessing preserved web sites created by the original Maoist organization in the early 2000s. A point guard entering the Basketball Hall of Fame in 2038 sent millions of queries to the Old Internet for photos and videos of games he’d played in the 2020s. My network monitor was a CAT scan of the world population’s cerebral cortex.
I wrapped up my work with the network monitor and re-connected it to the transformer in case another intrusion did occur. I gathered my equipment in the satchel and stepped out of the data closet. Surprisingly, no one waited for me, or were even looking over my shoulder while I worked. For the first time, I was alone on the island.
A scraping echoed across the silent, cavernous prison house. Rhythmic creaks bounced off three stories of old reinforced concrete walls and scaffolding. Two crisp squeaks, a wheel in need of grease, followed by a softer squeak a split moment later. The cycle repeated somewhere deep in the complex.
Down at the other end of the cell row, Brill pushed an equipment cart into view. He pushed the creaking cart with the urgency of fourth-class mail. He either did not see me or paid me no attention. He and the cart disappeared behind the next row of cells.
After walking down Broadway—the center row of cells in the main prison house—I discovered Brill at one of the monolithic servers swapping out a data brick. It was just as I’d watched him the day before. One of the bricks had gone bad. He would replace it with a fresh brick and resequence it from the multiple backup copies stored on the other servers distributed across the island.
Even after nearly a hundred years of computer science and research, the gold standard for data security remains duplication. If you can’t afford to lose your data, keep a copy of it somewhere else. There’s simply no better solution. Whomever had deleted the video had managed to delete its backups as well. The intruder had done a thorough job. Too thorough, I suspected. It could only be an inside job. To access all the copies of the video as well as all its backups meant having the kind of security privileges a hacker simply doesn’t gain with off-the-shelf attack software.
Tracking back the direction Brill had traveled with the cart, I spotted an open door to an equipment supply closet. Bare white bulbs illuminated racks of data bricks still in their packaging, as well as optical cabling and packs of spare holographic memory, all standard equipment for maintaining the servers running on the island. In the distance, Brill remained in the cell patiently resequencing the data brick.
Unlike the data closet my network monitor occupied—a jumbled, dusty mess of cabling and power strips—this supply closet was organized and immaculate. It held enough spare backplanes and rack equipment to build a dozen new servers, all clones of their jailed brothers. I checked a portable tablet mounted on the wall beside the door. It was an equipment usage roster, a standard practice in data centers. It accounted for all the hardware stored in the closet, tracking which server the hardware had been cycled into when replacing defective equipment and projections for when new equipment should be ordered. All by-the-book, nothing unusual at all—save for a single red note I found at the top of the page tracking data bricks.
I exited the equipment closet. Every scuffled step I made echoed through the hollow cell house like Almighty God tromping through a concrete Eden. At the far side of the prison house, a plate-steel door led to a second wing. The door was strong enough for a submarine hatch and resisted movement with the pressure of the deep sea behind it. I slipped through it to the wing that was once for maximum security detention—the worst of the worst. Al Capone roomed here. The Birdman of Alcatraz roosted on the second floor.
Today, the cells held more data servers, brothers of the black monoliths stored on the other side of the plate-steel door. The machines were numbered. Only Clift could point to one with his cane and name its contents by memory.
The tablet in the equipment closet noted that a data brick for Server 344 was missing. It noted the brick had been missing for over two weeks now, removed during the final minutes of New Year’s Eve. In cell 344 stood a black monolith with a brickwork face of data bricks. All were in place save for one empty slot off-center in the machine’s chest. A neon-red square pulsed where the hole in its heart had been made. I pushed two fingers in the square hole to be certain. The cavity was cold and its edges were sharp. A slice of human history was missing. My history.
When I returned to the main cell block, I discovered Brill wandering the rows with a stymied look on his face. He carried my hat and mackintosh.
“Easy to get lost in here,” I told him.
He pushed my hat in my hands with a stern grimace. He didn’t help me into my raincoat or offer to carry my satchel to the surrey waiting beyond the main entrance.
"What do you know about safes?" I asked him.
He cocked his head, puzzled.
"Never mind," I said. “Where’s Dr. Clift? I need to speak to him.”
Brill puckered his lips. He motioned for me to follow him.
We crossed the prison yard. Brill walked brisk and upright beneath an umbrella. I pulled the raincoat tight around me and braved the downpour w
ith one hand flattening my hat against my head. My face was dripping wet when we reached the prison church.
Nothing New England about it, the A-frame church was of poured concrete with chicken wire baked into the stained glass and iron bar lattices over the bell tower. The sanctuary inside had been converted to a tennis court. The green clay boasted fresh paint lines and a taut net slicing across its middle. Redwood pews lined all four walls. Jesus on the cross watched down on high from the far wall, as infallible a tennis official as any player could ask for.
Dr. Clift wore whites on our end of the court. A young brunette in a pleated tennis skirt stood ready at the other with her racket. She kept her hair in a dangling ponytail that trailed her deft movements. Every clap of the ball against the clay court—every huff from Clift—every hollow whock of the ball against a racket net—echoed off the walls of the church. The rain and wind made the windows clatter.
Although he had his back to us, Dr. Clift noticed our entrance. He couldn’t help it. We let in a blast of cold air and a sprinkle of rain. One look at my face caused him to stumble and cost him a point. He glared at me as he returned to his position on the court. He glared with the unmistakable expression of What are you doing here?
She announced and served. He moved with surprising swiftness. Out of his London banker suit, Clift was fit and tan and trim. Only his gray Van Dyke suggested an advanced age.
She used a classic tennis attack, but where she played with technique and finesse, Clift returned with velocity and chaos. He hammered the ball, relying on her to either miss or to return too hard and send it beyond the line. Other times, using some calculation well beyond me, he would know to rush the net and tap the ball over. When she dove to make contact and return it to him, he’d be there to strike it down court.
He never lorded over her. He never bragged to us about a point made. He always was gracious to his opponent and praised her for her quick work and joked about his luck that day. It struck me as patronizing. She claimed the match, but where her points were technically earned, his seemed taken through savagery. Her win was mathematical.
When the match concluded, Clift shook hands with her across the net. He jogged over to me. Brill offered him a towel. He accepted it without acknowledging the diminutive man.
“In the future, I would prefer you pre-arrange your visits,” he told me right off. “We strive for routine, and an unannounced visit throws us off.”
“Yeah, it’s a real oiled machine you’ve got out here,” I said. “Who’s this?”
“Carla Dauphine,” Clift introduced her. “Carla’s off the NCAA circuit.”
I shook her hand. She was attractive but not dainty. Her grip could’ve crushed a can of peas.
“Are you a college intern as well?” I asked her.
“No,” she said, confused. “Dr. Clift has me out here for lessons twice a week.”
“And we’re about to enjoy an early dinner,” he said. Hand on the small of her back, he guided her toward the door. “Brill, see Carla to her room. I’ll join you shortly.”
Clift’s face expressed a visible change once she was out of his sight. A hardness descended on him, a weariness with my presence. In two days and two brief visits, I’d overstayed my welcome. I expected him to demand what I’d learned so far. Clift was not so predictable.
“I’m surprised to see you,” he said.
“Why is that?”
He flashed a question mark of a grin. “No reason. Mr. Naroy, I’d like to propose a unique arrangement. I’d like to offer you accommodations here on the island.”
“Excuse me?”
“I can’t afford to keep paying you the rate you’ve asked for.” He patted the sweat off his face and neck. “I can, however, make you a fellow of the Commission. You would receive a stipend and the best room we have to offer. No, really, people laugh when I say that, but the skyline from the officers’ quarters is stunning. And we have all the modern conveniences out here. Pool, sauna, gym. Thierry runs a, well, we call it a cafe overlooking the—”
“You want me to work out of here?”
“You’ll have direct access to the Old Internet as we’ve preserved it. You can monitor all traffic twenty-four hours a day. The moment an intrusion occurs, you’ll be here to investigate it.” He added as though doing me a favor, “Far easier than coming across the bay on the ferry, don’t you know.”
He crossed to one of the pews. He collected his tennis equipment into a dark leather sports bag with an EJC monogram stitched into the side.
“Three squares a day, and the best food on the West Coast,” he said while bent over his bag. “And don’t let me downplay the stipend. It’s considerable, and it’s a guaranteed salary instead of the catch-as-catch-can life of a contractor. You can move out tomorrow, if you like.”
I let his pitch spool out until he had nothing more to say.
“When should we expect you?” he said, his bag hitched over his shoulder.
It was the sales pitch of a bygone era. Maybe this approach worked with the Ukrainians when he brokered deals for the Russian oil oligarch. Maybe ten years of slacking around on this island with wine courses and cheese pairings had blunted his edge. His monster tennis serve matched the broad demands he’d made of me so far, but he lacked his tennis opponent’s finesse when he needed it.
“I’m not moving out here,” I said. “I’m not even sure I’m going to continue working for you.”
“Excuse me? What, the money’s not good enough?”
“The money’s fine,” I said. “I’ve had it with your obfuscations.”
He grinned his patronizing grin. “Speak plainly.”
“I’ve talked with Leigh Blessing,” I said.
“And what exactly did the young woman tell you?” He let his sports bag drop to his feet. “Did she quiz you for an hour about what it was like to work on the Internet? I mean, the Internet when it was operational, not preserved in aspic.”
I blinked. “Yeah. She did ask me about that. How did you know?”
"I remember when I was a young man, there was a brief craze in America for old radio dramas. Stores would sell cassette tapes with these corny melodramas from yesteryear. We had VCRs and television and Star Wars and still there were a few young people who wanted to know what it was like to sit before a radio and be enthralled by the intrigues of Charlie Chan.” He snorted and shook his head. “Leigh suffers the naiveté of a false nostalgia. She’s nostalgic for a past because she did not live it. Every generation suffers some variation.”
“She suffers from other problems too,” I said. “The Blue Pharjé is as bad as you let on. What do you think she's trying to forget?”
“Maybe her boyfriend,” he said. “He seemed the abusive type to me. Look, Mr. Naroy—a woman like Leigh Blessing is not the mastermind of our network intrusion. Someone deleted our records. Have you a lead on that person? You’ve had two days to search for him.”
I rolled my tongue around my parched mouth. “I’ll get to that. I want to know why you have your man following me in the city—”
“To protect my interests,” he said over me. “When we last spoke, you seemed less than concerned with keeping the investigation quiet. I asked you repeatedly not to pursue certain avenues and yet you ignored me at every turn.”
“What avenues?”
“Avenues like looking into Leigh Blessing’s personal life. And long talks with Cassandra Chancellor, which are an utter waste of your time frittered away at my expense. Now,” he clapped my arm, “I’d invite you up for dinner, but Thierry has prepared veal medallions for us and it’s not a dish he can whip up for an unannounced extra.” He hauled his sports bag over his shoulder and turned toward the door. “The driver will return you to the dock.”
“There was no intrusion,” I told him. “No hackers on the outside. It was an inside job.”
“Are you saying I deleted the video?” he called over his shoulder with an amused, pandering grin.
“I’m sa
ying someone stole the data outright. Someone removed the data brick it was stored on. The original film as well as every mash-up and pastiche and parody of it. Somehow every variation of Detachment was on that data brick and someone walked out your front door with it.”
Clift halted with his hand on the church door. “How did you arrive at this—?”
“Because there’s a data brick unaccounted for in your equipment locker,” I said. “And one of your servers has a red-light. It’s had a red-light since your New Year’s Eve party, which is about how long the video’s been missing.”
He peered away to think. When he returned his gaze at me, he was smoldering.
“You lied to me," I said. "You lied to me from the get-go. I’ve spent the past two days running around the city trying to get a bead on your mythical hacker, your so-called angry self-loathing man hell-bent on revenge, when you knew all along that the data brick was lifted out from under your nose.”
It felt good to cut him off at the knees for once. He hung his head and twisted his face away to work on a reply. “You have me at a disadvantage,” was all he could muster.
“You can deep-six your ‘fellow-in-residence’ offer too,” I said. “It’s technically not a bribe, I can see that, but it is a way to keep me on your payroll.”
“It’s intended to be advantageous for both of us,” he said.
“Your permanent stipend ensures I can’t tell anyone about your dirty laundry. And I couldn’t go to work for anyone else. You could always claim a conflict of interest whenever someone called for my services.”
Carefully, he asked, “And who do you suggest that might be?”
“George Drake, for one.”
His eyes squeezed shut at the sound of Drake’s name. I’d pierced him twice now.
“I think what you want is to fire me,” I said. “But you want to do it in such a way that I can’t go to work for Drake. Or Cassandra Chancellor.”
His jaw shifted. He was grinding his teeth. “And what did Ms. Chancellor say to you today?”
“She gave me an earful about you.”
