Absence of Mind

by H. C. H. Ritz

  We arrive at the hospital, and this is where things get tricky. But considering that I have years of experience in hospitals, it’s not as tricky as it might otherwise be.

  We don’t have the time or the knowhow to hack in and get me the right kind of access to Jamie’s floor or records or anything else. So, we do it the brute-force way, the we-will-be-so-damn-lucky-if-this-actually-works way.

  First, we loiter at the entrance until the security guard is distracted. Normally, all visitors are checked in—and employees are badged in—by Navi, but Mila doesn’t have one and mine is nonfunctional. I figure Nonnies are typically supposed to sign in physically with the security guy, and after that, I honestly don’t know if there’s any other security in place for them.

  So once the guard is distracted by chatting with someone, we swagger in like we own the place. We go up to Jamie’s floor, go to the locker room and change into some scrubs we casually steal out of a locker, grab an unattended stretcher on the way up to Jamie’s room, and close the door.

  I’ve been expecting some sort of alarms or some sort of security around Jamie, but there’s been nothing. I guess they didn’t expect an in-person attack from the cyberterrorists.

  Jamie is out like a light. Judging from his slack expression and nonresponsiveness, I’m guessing he’s under sedation. That’s good for us. It irks me like crazy that I can’t check his medical records before removing him from the hospital, but I can have Mila check all of that for us as soon as we get clear. The important thing is that he’s not on any life-saving equipment. I can see for myself that he’s only on saline, and I can safely remove that IV myself.

  We transfer him to the stretcher, and while Mila wheels him out to where patients are transferred by ambulance, I go to the dispensary, loiter until I’m reasonably sure no one else is in there, and then pull every drug I can think of that Jamie might need in the next few days. I put everything into a paper sack and head downstairs.

  I keep expecting people to stop me and demand to know who I am and what I’m doing, but I realize after a while that everyone is too busy with their Navis to look at me. All they catch sight of in their peripheral vision is a person in scrubs moving purposefully down the hallway. Because I effectively don’t have a Navi, I don’t even register on any other level.

  In some sense, I don’t exist.

  By the time I get back downstairs, I understand why Mila isn’t the most… sociable person on the planet. She’s been treated as if she doesn’t exist for the past ten years.

  Right about the time I get to the exit where Mila should be, our luck runs out, and I hear raised voices. I run the remaining dozen yards.

  Mila is standing between three hospital employees and the stretcher, and the employees are yelling for security.

  I don’t stop running. I hurtle directly into the employees and send everyone sprawling. I feel like a bowling ball that made a strike, and I think I caught an elbow in my left eye, but there’s no time for that now.

  “Run!” I yell to Mila.

  She turns, wide-eyed, and starts pushing Jamie at a fast trot out into the parking lot, the stretcher wobbling dangerously. I shove down the people around me who are trying to stand back up, and I yell apologies at the same time—I’m not too good at being a violent criminal, apparently—and then, when I see reinforcements showing up, I turn and run, too.

  We parked close and left the car unlocked, and so we shove Jamie unceremoniously into the back seat, Mila jumping in on top of him. I kick the stretcher away, jump in the driver’s seat, and start the car. Thank God I still remember how to drive a manual car from before I got my Navi. People are on us, tearing the doors back open, and I gun it.

  We squeal away with people tumbling off the car, two of the doors swinging wildly and dangerously.

  Please, God, don’t let anyone have gotten hurt.

  I swerve to the right and gun it to make my door swing in, so I can catch it and close it. As I correct back to the left, I hear Mila slam the other open door.

  I drive like an absolute maniac, checking my rear-view mirror all the way, to the nearest big parking lot, which is about five minutes away. I stop and park in the rows of cars.

  No one is behind us—not yet.

  Mila transfers to the front seat and opens her laptop. I know she’s disabling Jamie’s Navi. Otherwise, they’ll use his GPS to track us down. They’re probably doing that already.

  I saw her pack a small toolkit in her backpack while we were at her apartment, and now, it’s apparent to me how freaking smart she is. I dig inside it, find a Phillips-head screwdriver, and go out and transfer the license plates from a Hyundai to ours. Then I transfer the plates from a Toyota to the Hyundai.

  The owners of the Hyundai will take forever to even realize their plates have been changed out, and meanwhile, the plates that get reported missing from the Toyota won’t be the ones on our car.

  While I’m at it, I take two magnetic decals off other cars and transfer them, too. Now we support Ekindorff for Senator, and we’re fans of the Snake Charmers.

  People pass by occasionally, but no one is paying any attention. Everyone is always looking into their Navis. How have I never realized that before?

  I look in the car window at Mila. “Almost there,” she says. “Go ahead and drive.”

  I check in on Jamie first. He’s been roused by all the activity, but he’s too heavily drugged to register anything that’s going on. I lay him down in the backseat and try to get him at least somewhat secured by the seatbelts.

  Then I drive again.

  I take random side roads away from the hospital until Mila declares only a few minutes later, “It’s done. We’re off the grid.”

  Then I drive to the nearest freeway and get on, heading north toward home—toward Zanesville, Ohio.

  Night is falling, and clouds are moving at an easy pace across the darkening sky. The moon is a slim crescent over my left shoulder. Jamie is snoring softly in the backseat, while Mila stares into the glow of her laptop screen. And maybe we’re going to be okay.

  Forty-five minutes later, Mila receives an email from a name she doesn’t recognize.

  Dear Ms. Bremer,

  I want to sincerely apologize to you for how things have been handled so far. Acting directly upon your mother was an egregious error in judgment, and those responsible have been terminated. I‘ve taken this matter over myself, and I assure you that things will be different now. I know that you have no reason to trust me, but I believe that we might be able to quickly develop a mutually beneficial relationship if you‘ll give me the chance. I invite you to contact me from an anonymous email address to discuss further. Please reach out to me as quickly as possible. The situation is escalating rapidly.

  Sincerely,

  Slava Knyazev

  Director of Sales and Marketing

  Peake International

  A few minutes later, after some furious internet research, Mila responds.

  I‘ve verified that this email came from your Navi ID, but it could be spoofed. Why should I believe it‘s you? Are you really so stupid as to message me from your own Navi?

  She flips back to a browser window. Her voice level, she says to Phoebe, “News headlines are flooding in now.”

  She reads from her screen. “‘Indicted Cyberterrorists Skip Bail.’ ‘Arrest Warrants Issued for Suspected Terrorists.’ ‘Cyberterrorists Abduct Hospital Patient.’”

  “All news people love the word ‘terrorist,’” Phoebe comments drily.

  “They have pictures of us and Jamie and this car.”

  “In its original condition, or as it is now?” Phoebe asks with some alarm.

  “Original, minus the plates and magnetic decals,” Mila replies. She pauses for a moment and then reads again. “’Rioting at Government Detention Centers Overnight. An undercover reporter with the Associated Press reported earlier today that some violent patients at government detention centers have been cuffed to steel bars and left wi
thout bathroom facilities or medical treatment. In response, members of the public have armed themselves and made attempts to breach the defenses of these facilities, apparently with the agenda of breaking out family members imprisoned there. Guards defending the facilities have shot and killed sixteen people. Another thirty-five have been hospitalized with minor injuries related to the use of tear gas, smoke bombs, and riot gear.’”

  Phoebe winces. “Jesus.”

  “There’s nothing else the government can do,” Mila says calmly. “These are dangerous patients, and there aren’t enough drugs or padded rooms to go around. What choice do they have?”

  Phoebe doesn’t answer.

  A reply from Slava Knyazev comes in for Mila.

  Ms. Bremer,

  Smart question. Naturally, I‘m not sending this through my company‘s network. And of course I don‘t have the Memory app running. That means the only data stored from my Navi is from the past three days, as required by law enforcement and medical personnel.

  However, I and all my colleagues have a slightly illicit program running which will delete all the contents of my Navi upon my command if necessary, such as if I were taken into custody by law enforcement personnel. So we can consider this conversation private on my end—which is why I suggested that you write to me from an anonymous email address on your end, for your own protection.

  And I’m not worried about your turning over these messages to the authorities yourself. With no corroborating evidence, we can claim that you created these messages. It would be your word against ours, and given that right now all the evidence about HAD is pointing at you, I‘m fairly confident that we‘d win that round.

  But there’s another reason I’m not worried, Ms. Bremer. I’m not worried because I’m certain that you are smart, rational, and willing to consider a solid deal.

  Am I right?

  Again, I urge you to get back to me just as quickly as you can. The window is closing.

  Sincerely,

  Slava Knyazev

  Mila doesn’t reply, and she says nothing to Phoebe. She closes the email window.

  Mila tells me that our original bail has been revoked, and new warrants for Failure to Appear have been issued. I’m glad my Navi can’t give me the warning messages. They’d probably stack up until they obscured my vision.

  I quickly realize how damn lucky I am to have Mila. The first thing she has us do, once we’re about an hour out, is stop off in a secluded spot and set up a live video shoot with the camera on the laptop. She gets video of our car sans the plates and magnetic decals and of us sans disguises and then integrates that footage into the live Navi display of a convenience store clerk about an hour southwest of Atlanta.

  He “sees” us walk in and look around. Because he’s been watching the news—and he’s not terribly bright—he immediately yells, “Hey! Are you Mila and Phoebe?” We know this because we’re watching his feed. So we “run away.” He runs after us and “sees” our car speeding away. And then he notifies the police, exactly as we’d hoped.

  Half an hour later, the news reports, “Suspected Cyberterrorists Spotted at Shell Station.”

  “I’m laying a false trail that will show us heading straight to the Mexican border,” she tells me, not a little proud of herself. “Reynosa.”

  I am dumbfounded that this is even possible.

  “You know,” I say, “if you had half a mind to be a cyberterrorist…”

  She grins just slightly. “This trick is only going to work so many times and only for so long. As soon as they look at the footage closely, they’ll see that it was a shoddy cut-and-paste job. I don’t have time to do it well enough for it to stand up to scrutiny.”

  “What else are you able to do?” I ask, still marveling. For a moment, she looks like a technology goddess. What could be off limits to someone who can get into anyone’s Navi and make them see and hear anything she wants?

  Her grin fades. “That’s really about it,” she says. “Consider me a one-trick pony for now. I have to have the right footage to insert, and I have to have a Navi ID in the right location, and there can’t be any other people around to disconfirm my added footage. It’s a very limited technique.”

  “I’m still impressed,” I say. “Honestly, it’s a little scary. Is it that easy to hack into people’s Navis, or are you just making it look easy?”

  She grins again. “I’m brilliant, remember?”

  I just shake my head.

  In addition to Mila’s digital wizardry, every time we make a stop for gas or food or the bathroom, we wear a different disguise, and we never go in together, since they’re looking for two women traveling together. I periodically switch out license plates and magnetic decals. I especially like to trade out political sentiments. The guy who parks with a “Guns, God, and Glory” decal and drives away with a “Greenpeace” one is my favorite.

  An hour or so later, Mila reads, “’Cyberterrorism Death Toll Tops 5,000.’”

  “Jesus. Really?” I say.

  “’The world’s worst cyberterrorist attack on record has now killed 5,011 people, the Centers for Disease Control and Prevention reported this evening, with approximately 15,000 total patients. In New York City alone, there have been 315 homicides, 174 suicides, and 358 hospital deaths that are attributable to what was termed Hyper-Aggression Disorder, now called Eve.’”

  “’Eve’?” I blink.

  “Viruses and malware get names, sort of like hurricanes, but a lot less organized,” Mila says. “Whatever takes off in the media, usually.”

  I shrug. “Well, we’re women and we’re supposedly evil, so I guess ‘Eve’ makes sense.”

  “Eve wasn’t evil,” Mila says absently. “She just chose knowledge over blind obedience. Here’s the rest of the story: ‘Officials estimate that the number of homicides and suicides is 400% above normal throughout the United States as a direct result of the malware allegedly promulgated by two women from Atlanta, Phoebe Bernhart and Mila Bremer. No motive has yet been determined for the two women. Any tips…’ etc. etc.”

  A sigh slips out of me as I think about what’s going on. “I guess the good news is that now that everyone knows what’s causing it, they can stop it. Right? We no longer have to save everyone. We just have to clear our names now.”

  Mila shakes her head. “I was just reading some more articles about that. Yes, people know it’s the Navis now, but what can they do about it when the numbers are so high? A couple of cities started sending cops door-to-door to shut down people’s Navis using their law enforcement overrides, but first, some cops got shot by people who think that Eve is a government conspiracy designed to take away people’s Navis—”

  “Holy crap,” I say.

  “—and secondly, it didn’t work. The malware resides in the security module, which is not disabled by police measures. I’m confident that whoever created Eve designed it that way.”

  “Why don’t they send Navi technicians? They should be able to shut them down or remove them entirely, like you did to mine and Jamie’s.”

  “Some cities are working on that, but realistically, there just aren’t enough technicians to go around. With billions of Navis and only thousands of technicians, it would take months or even years to accomplish that. We need a software fix.”

  “That’s what I meant a minute ago. Surely they have lots of people working on that now.”

  Mila shrugs. “They don’t know what Eve does, yet, let alone how. It took me days to figure it out. It’s going to take them at least twice as long as it took me, and then they still have to write the patch. It could take weeks.”

  I nod slowly. Mila is not a humble person, but she’s not bragging, either. She’s being honest. “And by then,” I say, “the death toll could be ten thousand, or twenty thousand, or more.”

  “Yes.”

  I glance over at her. Something about her perfectly calm demeanor annoys the hell out of me. I want her to sound as upset as I feel. But she doesn’t.
Not for the first time, I wonder whether she even cares about all these people.

  “So why don’t you tell them?” I ask. “Release what you know to the internet. Help the people who are working on it.”

  “That’s my plan,” she replies. “But I have to reconstruct my evidence first.”

  “Why? Can’t you just explain what you’ve learned? Help them find it for themselves?”

  “It will be much more efficient for me to reconstruct the evidence and present it in an orderly way than for anyone else to reverse engineer my assertions. Preparing the information will also give it plausibility. I don’t think it will take me very long. Perhaps a day or so.”

  I’m not entirely thrilled with this reasoning, but again, I have to bow to Mila’s expertise. This is her world, not mine.

  We stop and hack into a new person’s Navi on occasion, continuing to lay the false trail, until Mila insists that we stop and sleep in the early morning. “It only takes ten hours to get to Zanesville,” she says. “But it takes sixteen hours to get to Reynosa, so there’s no need for us to hurry. And we need to keep our minds sharp.”

  “Can we hack into the Navis of the people chasing us and see what they’re doing?” I ask. “It would be awfully handy to know where they’re looking so we can go the other way.”

  She shakes her head. “I already tried that. The security on Navis for federal agents is a lot better than for regular people. I don’t have time to figure it out. But we can keep watching the news. As long as they’re looking for us along the route to Mexico, we should be fine.”