Markov stepped out of the Geely sedan, keeping the vehicle between him and the target. The Directorate commandos crouched behind their civilian-style Great Wall pickups28 looked tense. They’d better be, he thought, they’re about to raid a church.
“Everyone ready?” said Markov. “And remember, Carrie Shin comes to us alive. You know what she looks like.” He paused and tapped the sizable opaque visor atop the assault helmet he wore. “I’ll be in on the tac-view with you, so cue her up on contact.”
“All are in position, sir,” said one of the commandos. “We’ll await your go order.”
Before Markov could respond, squealing tires made the men twitch, and the entire assault force turned and trained their weapons on the oncoming vehicle. It was a convoy of armored Geely SUVs, bookended by two APCs. The men noticed the flags flying from the front fenders of the third vehicle.
Of course, General Yu would want everyone to know it was him, confusing personal bravery with stupidity. The faint rhythmic thumping of attack helicopters circled overhead. A platoon of bodyguards exited and took up positions as General Yu jumped out of his vehicle, waving his pistol in the air like he was leading a cavalry charge. One of his aides knelt a few feet away, filming the general from below, which was meant to make the man look even taller in the video clips sent back home. He truly was a giant, the kind that didn’t bother to think about where he stepped.
“Colonel, get everyone back. Across the street,” said Yu, taking charge of the scene as if it were his birthright, his command voice sounding like he was about to lead an army of thousands into battle.
“Sir, the men are already in position,” said Markov. The general looked down at the cameraman and scowled, putting away his pistol. Markov looked at him innocently and asked, “Would you like to give the attack order, General?”
“No, Colonel. I said pull them back. We’re going to destroy the entire nest. My dead boys deserve their due,” said General Yu. Then a helicopter pilot’s voice came over the headsets of the assembled commandos.
“This is Green Dragon Six. Target acquired, engaging in thirty seconds,” he said.
“General, I must strongly advise against this,” said Markov. “We need her alive. We need to know what she’s done. Does she have a network? Is she operating alone? What are her ties to the insurgents? I need to speak with her. If you blow everything from here to Shanghai, we lose that chance.”
“I don’t need to know. I don’t need a date,” said Yu. “The threat needs to be eliminated. Entirely. When the smoke clears, we will learn all that we need to know: that she’s dead.”
The thumping approach of the attack helicopter changed pitch as it began to dive toward the church.
“This will only backfire in publicity terms, flattening a church so soon after the school raid killed all those children. We’re going to lose the entire population. You don’t kill like this, not for one person. That’s a card the losing side plays.”
“It’s not for one person. It’s for the twenty-one boys of mine she butchered. I am not writing another damned letter because of her. And what happened at that school is exactly why we’re not going to go in and lose any more of my men. You wanted me to understand the foe? Well, they need to understand me,” said General Yu.
Markov tried to shout a further protest, but nothing could be heard over the deafening arrival of the twin-engine helicopter.
He cast a glance at the church and watched a young girl, maybe thirteen years old, towing two small toddler boys from an outbuilding and into the main parish hall, seeking its sanctuary. As they entered the wide wooden doors of the church, one of the little boys looked back at them and stared at the hovering helicopter until he was pulled inside.
Markov turned to confront Yu and saw that the man had already clambered back inside the SUV, which was now pulling off in reverse. He slapped the side of the vehicle’s window in anger. At least the general would hear that.
One after the other, two missiles flashed from beneath the helicopter’s stunted wings. All Markov could do was quickly duck behind the nearest pickup for cover. He sat facing down the street they’d driven up, turned away from the explosions erupting behind him. He’d seen so much carnage before in war, but for some reason this time he couldn’t watch. There was no point. The hunt had been lost, the lessons he’d learned over his career of no value to anyone.
Research Facility 2167, Shanghai
The fact that he couldn’t feel the drill going into the back of his skull made the noise all the more terrifying.
Sechin’s eyes darted around the room. He tried to turn his head, but he couldn’t move. A computer display in front of him was all that he could see; the screen showed a surgeon drilling into a shaved skull. A puff of bone dust smoked up from the metal boring through the skull on the screen. Then the screen itself was covered with a fine white powder that wafted in from behind him. His vision blurred as some of the powder fell in his eyes. He tried to blink but couldn’t. Someone outside his field of view squirted a liquid into his eyes and dabbed the corners as the liquid dripped out.
A second and third time, the drill bored through the skull on the video screen, sending more puffs of bone dust wafting over. He wanted to close his eyes to stop watching, but he couldn’t. After the second squirt of liquid into his eyes, he realized it was because his eyelids were no longer there. He couldn’t do anything, in fact, but watch as the surgeon began to insert thin fiber-optic wires into the three holes in the skull. He knew the wires were filled with over five hundred electrodes, each as thin as a human hair, that would link with the electromagnetic signals of his brain’s neurons.
The surgeon, if one could call him that, then disappeared from the computer screen. Sechin heard the sound of metal wheels scraping on the tile floor, coming closer. Then the surgeon was there in front of him, pushing a cart with a small box on top, fiber-optic wires stretching out from it and wrapping around the back. Also on the cart were two robotic hands; other wires linked them to the box.
Sechin knew who the man was even before he removed his surgical mask.
“General Sechin, it is a pleasure to meet you.” Dr. Qi Jiangyong stood with the practiced upright posture of a university lecturer, which he had been before his neuroscience research had led him to be reassigned to the Public Security Ministry.
Sechin didn’t reply; he was trying to take his mind elsewhere, lock his thoughts away in a place of complete intensity beyond, just as they’d taught him in training. He thought of Twenty-Three’s touch, losing himself in the exact moment of his imagined release.
“Well done, General, exactly as you should,” Dr. Qi said. “So, it seems you recognize the Braingate technology. Just a few more seconds and I will complete the modulating test.”
He felt Twenty-Three’s breath hot on his neck, then blowing slightly in his ear; his body spasmed.
“Now, there it goes. Hookup confirmed. General, I must apologize, as it does seem you are enjoying yourself, but we must begin.”
Suddenly Sechin was thrown back in the moment, and he noticed the two metallic hands29 in front of him moving, as if caressing something that was not there.
“Yes, there we are.”
The two hands stopped their rhythmic motions and then tried to reach out. The fingers stretched, grasping, their attempt to strangle Dr. Qi futile, as the robotic hands each ended at a wrist affixed to the cart.
“Let us start, then, shall we, General?”
Qi then began a lecture he had given hundreds of times, first to his students, then to the Directorate officials who had paid for the research, and now to his subjects. It was as much a ritual as a requirement that he felt obliged to follow. He still felt the desire to teach even as he learned.
“The human brain is the most powerful computer in the world. And if we want to unlock its secrets, we must treat it as such. The neurons we have in our brains fire to communicate, each signal beaming out on a different frequency. These are the so-called
brain waves. Already in electrical form, these waves convey what we believe to be our thoughts, both conscious and unconscious. They carry memories, instincts, and the body’s operating systems, everything from your deepest fears to your brain’s command to your lungs to keep breathing. They are all but simple electrical signals.”
Sechin could only watch as the two hands before him balled up into fists, clenching in anger.
“The challenge is not just transforming these electrical signals into something that can usefully connect to a machine but isolating the ones we want from all the trillions of other signals going through the brain. One way to achieve the brain linkup is noninvasively, by tapping into these brain waves from the outside. An electroencephalograph, or EEG, for example, is what’s used by most researchers. It essentially listens in on the electrical signals that leak out through your skull. Such systems, however, remain limited by the fact that the technology is not directly connected to the body; it merely allows someone to watch from the outside. The EEG provides such an unsatisfying representation of what the brain is doing. Have you ever worn glasses? Ah, I see you have not. Well, I will tell you, then, that using the EEG is like seeing the world not only without the clarity of optical correction, but with lenses of the wrong prescription.”30
The fists unballed and just hung in the air. Sechin again tried to lose himself in thoughts of Twenty-Three, in his mind running his finger along her tattoo.
“When I was coming out of graduate school, the cutting-edge brain-interface research focused on direct links. The idea of such a jack into the brain originated in the West. Not from a scientist’s lab but, aptly, from the mind of an artist. We know that you are an aficionado of science fiction. Are you then familiar with William Gibson’s 1984 novel Neuromancer?31 If not, I highly recommend it. Not so much for the plot, but for the vision. In the imagined future, hackers plugged wires into their brains to link up with a virtual world of computers that Gibson termed cyberspace. Yes, the very word we use today to describe its fruition.”
The hands began caressing something in the air.
“Now, this concept remained theoretical, of course—” Dr. Qi noticed the hands, paused in his lecture, and entered a command into the keyboard. “Please pay attention.” The robotic hands stopped moving and balled up into clenched fists again. “Until American military researchers found willing subjects among the paralyzed. With Braingate, they implanted a computer chip in a young paraplegic and recorded the neurons that were firing electric signals. It was a remarkable discovery. It was like putting the right prescription to the lens; they now could see everything that had eluded them. Soon, they were not just recording the signals but isolating those that were leaving the brain when the boy thought about moving his arms or legs, even though the pathways to those limbs were now broken.”
Dr. Qi paused and dabbed a cloth over Sechin’s forehead, blotting the beads of sweat that had gathered just above where his eyelids had once been.
“A mere three days into what was supposed to be a twelve-month research study, there was a breakthrough. Just by thinking about it, the young man moved a cursor on a computer screen. And with the ability to move a cursor, a new world opened up. The paralyzed boy could move a robotic hand, surf the web, send e-mail, draw, and even play video games, just by thinking it. This work became the basis of modern-day prosthetics. Indeed, what your ‘hands’ are experiencing right now is exactly the kind of link first forged between man and machine years ago. I find it to be a useful test, as it provides evidence that the system is working, evidence for me and, more important, for you.”
Sechin tried to focus on Twenty-Three but found that he couldn’t pull up her memory. Then he felt himself wanting to move the robotic hand. But why? He didn’t want to move the hand.
“Ah, you are now likely asking, What does this mean to me? Let us pause for a second as the calibrations begin to take hold.”
Half of Sechin’s brain tried to focus on Twenty-Three, her breath, her skin, her hair, anything, while the other half seemed to want only to move the fingers on the right hand and then the left.
“Well, that is where my research comes in. You see, in addition to real-time monitoring analysis of neuron patterns to relay movement, we began to explore other options for such brain interfaces.”
Sechin watched as all of the fingers on the robotic hands began to wiggle, his mind now simultaneously telling them both to move and not to move with all his focus.
“Data that can be monitored can also be changed. Just as in a computer, so too in the signals in your brain—we can change your commands for movements, your memories, and, most important, your will.”
Corner of Mission and Kawaiahao Streets, Honolulu, Hawaii Special Administrative Zone
For almost an hour, the church burned, no matter how much fire suppressant they sprayed. The flames crackled and snapped, lashing out at the sky and at anyone who came close enough to feel the blaze.
So the first to enter the site was a machine. The five-foot-tall spider-bot,32 each of its legs painted matte black, looked ominous, but its original purpose had been all about saving lives. Japanese engineers had turned to the insect form as the most fit for climbing over and sifting through rubble33 for survivors after an earthquake or tsunami. In Hawaii, Directorate techs found they could also use it for BSE, or biological site exploitation. That was the euphemism for sifting through the aftermath of a manmade disaster in order to pick up scraps of people and figure out who they once were.
Markov donned his sensor-laden helmet and virtually followed in the wake of the spider-bot’s advance. As the scout robot patiently stalked the ruins, Markov watched its readouts on his heads-up display. He coughed and spat out acrid phlegm. Even from a distance, the smoke and smell were almost overwhelming. The commandos wore respirators, but he didn’t have one. A white handkerchief bunched over his mouth was all he had to keep the stench of burned flesh, plastic, and wood out of his throat.
The spider-bot picked its way through the ruined church. It moved each of its eight legs with a steadiness that no human could have managed in such a scene. Each leg ended in a flat pad that opened to a delicate-looking eight-fingered claw. While the spider-bot balanced on five, four, or even three legs, depending on its angle, the other legs would pick through the rubble like a prospector turning over stones. Occasionally, a claw would quickly withdraw inside the body and then return to hunt again. Inside the bot’s belly, the pieces of found bone and flesh would be scanned for their DNA profiles and then stored for deposit and reassembly later in the morgue.
It was all so rational and smart. Markov wondered if someday they would make a spider-bot smart enough that it too would have nightmares. His head pounded and he needed water.
Then a message flashed across Markov’s visor screen. A DNA match. A pop-up showed the item and its owner’s identity.
A charred finger, belonging to a Carrie Shin of Honolulu, Hawaii.
Tiangong-3 Space Station
Chang couldn’t see his hands.
The designers of the thin orange survival suit had made it strong enough to withstand an emergency depressurization, but they had not considered how scared the suit’s wearer would be. The suit’s environmental system could not keep up with Chang’s rapid breathing and the rivulets of sweat trickling down his back and arms, and his faceplate had slowly but surely fogged over. That made him breathe even faster.
Chang tried to steel himself, gripping tighter the firm, familiar handle of his HEXPANDO wrench. As Huan had ordered, he’d smashed at the smooth glass of the laser-weapon control panel as best as his atrophied muscles could in the zero-g confines of the station. But now he could no longer see what he was striking at, and his heart rate was spiking again. He was going to drown in his own sweat.
He had to take the helmet off.
Tiangong was still pressurized, so it was not suicidal to pop the suit’s seal. He sucked in the stale air, the familiar fragrances of food, sweat, and electronic
s giving him an odd comfort.
Then he saw the small tears in his right glove at the knuckles where he had struck the weapon station’s control system. There had to be pressure tape in the emergency kit, Chang thought, and he struggled to unbuckle himself so he could look for the bright yellow box. It was gone. So was Colonel Huan.
How had he missed that? He craned his head to see if the escape pod was activated. No, the egg-shaped craft remained attached to Tiangong.
A voice came over the communications bud Chang wore in his left ear. “Are they here?” said Huan.
“No, they are not. Neither are you, Colonel,” said Chang.
“I know,” said Huan. “The rest of the crew and I will get in the EVA suits and attack them. You stay there and continue to destroy any classified materials. Chang, if we don’t succeed, they must not be allowed inside the station. Do whatever it takes.”
Research Facility 2167, Shanghai
“What we observe is not nature itself, but nature exposed to our method of questioning.”34
Dr. Qi continued his lecture. “Werner Heisenberg was, of course, thinking in the realm of physics and string theory, but the lesson also holds true here. In any interrogation, there is an observer effect, where the mere act of someone watching has an effect on the subject.”
Sechin felt part of himself eager to cooperate, hungering to answer, while another part of his mind tried to imagine a clock. Both he and his interrogator were in a race against time.
“This is all the more true when the subject is a set of electromagnetic signals in the brain. The longer the interface, the more we corrupt the very thing we study. To put it simply, General, if you want to remain you, I advise you to let your mind relax.”
A part of Sechin’s mind began to calm, while another part screamed to resist, knowing that the longer the interface lasted, the less his interrogators could trust its findings. Truth, fear, and drugs would create a cocktail of new memories and new fictions.
Ghost Fleet : A Novel of the Next World War (9780544145979) Page 31
