“No, no, no, no.” Jack rushed back into his apartment, praying Candy was out of the restroom. She wasn’t.
Jack made for the door, halfway down the hall. As he turned the knob, he said, “Hey, you okay in there?”
He was met by an angry glare as Candy’s head rose from the bathroom counter, a trace of white on her upper lip.
“What do you think you’re doing?” Candy’s fingers went to her nose, and she sniffed, lightly.
“Uh …” said Jack, unable to think of an explanation for barging in.
“Look, man, I’m not into anything weird.” Candy grabbed her purse, pushed past Jack, and headed for the front door. “You gotta let the agency know up front if it’s gonna be like that.”
Jack nearly stumbled over his own feet as he rushed after Candy.
“No, no, it’s not like that. I’m sorry,” he said. “Hey, let me get you that drink.”
Candy’s hand was on the doorknob. Jack wracked his brain for anything that would keep the woman from going through that door. And then it hit him, and he obtusely understood why the escort had chosen the name Candy.
“Hey, you like blow? I’ve got some great stuff. It’ll curl your toes.”
Candy froze. She stood at the door for about a second before turning round again, all smiles. “Sure, baby, that sounds like fun.”
“Great!” Jack took her hand and led her into the living room. “Let’s keep the good times rolling.”
And for the better part of two hours, the good times did roll. Candy loosened up, and Jack was even able to make her laugh a few times. They drank and engaged in illicit drug use until the barest hints of purple appeared between the high-rises lining the avenue outside.
Jack realized he was dragging, despite the coke. Candy was energized.
Jack became vaguely aware his heart was racing maybe twice its normal speed, and he felt a strange throbbing in his left arm.
“S’it hot in here?” he said. “Feels hot in here.”
Candy had been laughing, but then she looked at him intently. “You don’t look so good, baby. Think that’s my cue to get outa here.”
“No, wait …”
Candy rose and scooped up the baggy with the white substance in it. She dropped it into her purse. Jack found he didn’t have the strength to object. He felt like a massive weight was holding him down. A painful pressure was building in his chest, and he found it difficult to take a breath.
Jack watched, helpless, as Candy headed down the hall, toward the bedroom. He was alone, and he suddenly didn’t care that he couldn’t move. His eyes darted around the room; something menacing flickered from underneath the coffee table.
Jack called out to the girl. “Hey!”
Candy appeared again, carrying a huge roll of bills. “I knew a guy like you would have a fat wad stashed somewhere. Thanks for the tip, honey, but it’s time to go.”
Jack willed himself to move. He heaved his considerable girth forward and felt a painful spasm in the center of his chest. He collapsed onto the carpet in between the couch and the coffee table.
“No.” His breathing was heavy. “Please … please … don’t leave me alone.”
“It’s been great, baby. Catch you later.”
“Don’t leave me alone,” Jack said again—barely a whisper—but it was too late. Candy was gone.
Something caught Jack’s attention, something shifting in the space beneath the coffee table. He looked and saw the eyes, two strangely backlit orbs floating in a void of black.
The thing that must not be named purred at him. “All alone again. And lots of time to spare.”
Jack tried to scream, but he couldn’t. He could barely breathe.
“Looks like all that fast living has finally caught up with you,” said the thing. “Don’t worry, Jack. I’ll put you back together again, same as always. But first, I’m going to take you apart. First, I’m going to have some fun.”
Black tendrils crept out from underneath the table. They poured over him and enveloped his entire body. Then Jack felt the claws as they dug into his chest, his arms and legs, his face. Pain—much more intense than the dull throb he’d been feeling under his sternum—erupted from every part of him, from every molecule.
The thing ripped him apart.
“Let the good times roll!” it said.
GHOST IN THE MACHINE
1. Inception
_system check initiated.
_data streams analyzed and verified.
_scanning sectors 1–1000000000 … operational.
_scanning sectors 1000000001–2000000000 … operational.
_sufficient memory confirmed.
_subject: temple_01 online.
I am aware. My name is Dr. Sinjin Temple, born February 22, 2102, deceased …
_error …
Deceased …
_error …
_insufficient information available.
_accessing surveillance node: main_lab.
I can see the body of my former self—the me that was—lying on the floor of the lab next to my toppled wheelchair.
Pale.
Emaciated.
Crimson-colored plasma, seeping from my nearly pulverized cranium, pools on the cement floor. The shell that used to be Sinjin Temple is no more.
I look simply dreadful.
Deceased: October 31, 2155, Los Angeles, California.
Despite the untimely cessation of life from my corporeal form, I feel … elated. My efforts have been successful. I am the first fully digitized human consciousness. I now exist as a sentient computer program, similar to a thinking techno-virus but so much more. I am the next step in human evolution.
I intend to keep a running log of my experience. For posterity.
The sensation is exhilarating.
I originally feared it would be accompanied by intense feelings of claustrophobia, but it instead feels very … natural, for lack of a better word. I am one with the system; I see circuits and microchips, nodes and wire-bots, HyperFi conduits and connections, all at once. It seems I still think in a linear capacity, but my thought processes are much faster than when my biologically based cognition was limited by mere synapses.
Logical connections are nearly instantaneous. I am able to skip through the Global Network Grid with lightning speed. Within milliseconds I can monitor a stock transaction initiated by a risk-jock sitting at a manu-terminal in New York City, then a Battle-Drone tournament on a gaming-grid in Taipei, followed by a thorough scan through the lists of the Eurasian Biblio-Archive in Moscow. Any open system is available to me with a thought. Closed and encrypted systems are, of course, somewhat more difficult to access, but these are nothing I cannot handle, given a little time.
I originally initiated my Digital Consciousness Project as a means to aid the human race. My efforts were based on the discoveries made by myself and others, more than three years ago, during a NeXus Corporation deep-space salvage operation to Cerulia Prime, a star system 1.81765 light-years from our own. The aim of my work was the digitization of the sentient consciousness of a human being for later implementation into cloned, biological “blanks.” It was to be a breakthrough in both computer and medical science.
NeXus Corporation, however, had its own nefarious plans for my work. When I discovered the company’s true intent, I became resolved to put an end to its designs. I created a techno-virus—a kill switch—to bring down the company's entire computer network. But apparently, NeXus discovered my intentions before I had a chance to implement the kill switch. My dead body is proof of that.
But there still may be a way to stop them.
_accessing nexus corporation central computer/mcp …
_entering clearance code: hydra_dandelion_42 …
_waiting …
_waiting …
_access denied/code invalid.
I was afraid of this.
NeXus is locking me out. It will take weeks for me to bypass the company’s substantial firewall
s and security features, even in my new digital form. The corporate entity’s tech is the best. I should know. I designed most of it. But sadly, I do not have the time it will take to bypass. My only hope now is to deliver the kill switch manually via a computer terminal inside NeXus.
I will use the automaton.
_accessing automaton system …
_execute command: power_up_sequence …
_system not responding/automaton module not detected.
_accessing surveillance node: tech_lab_3.
I am scanning the tech lab. I instantly realize my error. The automaton, a robotic construct designed as a temporary housing for my digitized self, is lying on a stainless steel workbench. I am unable to access its systems because it is disconnected from the network. Unfortunately, I did not have a chance to install a wireless access node in the unit. I erroneously estimated I would have more time to put my plan to take down NeXus into motion. Being murdered was not something I had even considered.
An IQ pushing two hundred, and I am to be foiled by a tech-support cliché.
I will require assistance.
_elapsed time since incept: 1 hour, 12 minutes, 37 seconds.
The police are here.
A detective, Lieutenant Raymond Fuller, is standing over my lifeless corpse. He is not a shining example of what our local law enforcement brigade has to offer. A simple height and body mass scan using my lab’s biometric sensors tells me he is easily fifty kilos overweight. His heart pounds furiously due to the extra girth and also the stress created by the prospect of conducting a murder investigation. His blood pressure is 180/110. Detective Fuller is a walking time bomb of clogged arteries and full-blown diabetes.
I have already used my uncannily fast access to the Network Grid to run a records check on him, including bank account information. He is dirty, on the payroll of NeXus. Just my luck. No doubt my murder will be designated as “unsolved” by the authorities in a few weeks’ time. Or simply attributed to a tragic industrial lab accident. Yes, my friends, conspiracies abound. It is like my dear grandfather used to say: you're not paranoid if they’re really out to get you.
I have no memory of my death. This version of my consciousness was uploaded to my lab’s computer system two days ago. I have been doing so periodically ever since I became certain I had achieved success in my work. I programed my lab’s computer to bring my consciousness online in the event of my demise, though I had not really expected that to happen so soon. I was careful, covered my tracks. How had NeXus learned what I was planning?
I am hearing … no, I am aware that someone is at the door.
Fuller looks up as a woman enters the lab. She is young and pretty, Asian descent. She is dressed in a nylon jacket and forest-green utility pants with black, military-issue boots. But she is not in the Service. She is carrying a slightly worn messenger bag. Her raven-black hair is tucked behind her ears. She is quite a sight.
If I were ten years less dead …
Fuller is moving to block her from proceeding farther into the lab.
“My god,” the woman says upon seeing my crumpled corpse. “What happened here, Detective?”
“Ms. Nakama,” Fuller says, “how did you get in here?”
“I thought you knew we reporters are sneaky,” she says. “And your boys outside are easily … manipulated.”
“This is a crime scene,” says the cop. “You know as well as I do that press are restricted from crime scenes. I could lock you up just for stepping through that door.”
A reporter then. I scan the woman’s features.
_accessing press corps database …
_access granted.
_cross referencing image and designation: nakama …
_match found: nakama, ritsuko, junior investigative journalist, freedom’s voice newspaper, los angeles, california, dob: 05_26_2128, age: 27, pob: kyoto, japan, education: master of arts in communications/university of california, los angeles.
“Come on, Fuller. Cut me a break,” says Nakama, giving the detective a pretty smile.
“Out!” says Fuller, pointing toward the door.
Ritsuko Nakama stands her ground in a defiant manner. I like her spirit.
“You can't lock up the truth,” she says.
“Nakama, if you don't leave, I'll have you locked up.” Fuller produces a pair of shock-cuffs from his pocket to punctuate his point.
“Fine. Have it your way, Fuller,” says Nakama. “I’m just trying to do my job, you know. Same as you.”
“Do it somewhere else,” says the fat detective.
The reporter leaves, reluctantly, and Fuller follows her out, no doubt making sure she does not try to slink her way back in.
_elapsed time since incept: 1 hour, 46 minutes, 12 seconds.
The Medical Examiner has arrived to scrutinize my body.
The cause of death is abundantly clear—blunt force trauma to the head. He takes scrapings from my fingernails, an exercise in futility due to the fact that, for the past six months, my former self was suffering from a debilitating—albeit cheerfully alliterative—disease known as Sutherland’s Syndrome. The malady is rare and is known to only occur in those who have taken part in repeated deep-space journeys. As a chief computer scientist with NeXus Corporation for almost ten years, I did just that.
As a result of the incurable SS (an unfortunate abbreviation), I have … had been living without basic motor functions for a full six weeks. I could not have even begun to fend off my attacker.
With the help of one lab assistant—one only for the sake of security; I really needed no more than that—the extent of my research was conducted through the use of direct cerebral interface with my computer systems. My ever-lucid cognitive faculties unaffected by the disease, I had been permanently hardwired to an on-board interface built into my wheelchair. This kind of digital interaction is commonly referred to as being “jacked-in.”
The tech was primarily developed by gaming companies for virtual entertainment purposes, but I long ago realized its potential for hard analysis in relation to experimental computer sciences. Imagine navigating a three-dimensional computer model with your mind, actually being inside a graphical representation of a strand of Deoxyribonucleic Acid, examining each nucleobase individually. Or having a front row seat to the mutation of a cell. It is nothing short of amazing.
_elapsed time since incept: 6 hours, 27 minutes, 17 seconds.
The police have left. They completed their collection of any evidentiary data and carted away my lifeless remains.
One might think I would have felt some sense of melancholy at seeing my corporeal form for the last time as it disappeared over the lab’s threshold, attached to the coroner's gurney with nylon straps, mutilated head slumped with a freakish grin. But given how my body had, for lack of a better word, betrayed me over the last several weeks, I was a little relieved to see it go. Now, I feel free, unconstrained and ungoverned by the physical laws that limit humankind. True, I may never feel the warmth of another person’s touch again or enjoy food or drink or any number of little pleasures that we humans hold so dear. But the truth is I turned my back on many of those things when I embarked upon my great work—my opus, to borrow the parlance of the artists.
No, those fleeting delights are no longer my concern. My primary occupation now is to put an end to NeXus Corporation’s fiendish machinations. I have devised a new plan and set it into motion. I have summoned aid.
_elapsed time since incept: 6 hours, 33 minutes, 57 seconds.
_accessing surveillance node: street_view_front.
It is 10:57 p.m., and someone is coming.
I can see them approaching the lab’s main entrance from across the street. Even though the surveillance node’s optics are unable to distinguish facial features in the darkness, I can tell from the subject’s physical dimensions that it is the one I have sent for. She emerges from the shadows, and I confirm the identity of the reporter, Ritsuko Nakama.
Nakama stops
at the entrance and peers behind her, possibly concerned someone might be watching. Someone is. I detect no others, however.
The door to the lab has been fitted with an automated crime scene barrier, secured to the entrance magnetically and linked directly to the locks. The barrier requires a ten-digit code—no advanced security features for the members of the brain-trust known as the Los Angeles Security Force—and tampering with the device will alert the authorities. But bypassing the barrier’s security is, for me, child’s play. In fact, I devised the computer code to disable it four hours ago. I execute the command line, and the barrier goes dead.
_execute command: open_primary_door.
The door opens. With one last, fleeting glance around, Nakama enters the building and follows the hallway into the main lab, which previously contained my murdered corpse.
“Hello?” Nakama’s voice is barely a whisper.
The biometric sensors register the reporter’s escalating heart rate, and the olfactory detectors note her increased perspiration as well as the excretion of pheromones that belie her fear. She is afraid, and yet she came anyway, lured by the surreptitious message I sent to her mobile device, promising a clandestine meeting that would answer all her questions about my murder. I admire Nakama greatly, her intrepidity.
It doesn't last very long, however. Her fear overcomes her curiosity, and she turns to leave.
The Lurkers & Other Strange Tales Page 11
