Eden Chip

by Scott Cramer

  EDEN CHIP

  Scott Cramer

  Eden Chip. Copyright 2018 by Scott Cramer.

  All rights reserved

  eBook ISBN: 978-0-9898128-6-3

  Paperback ISBN: 978-0-9898128-7-0

  Author facebook site

  www.facebook.com/AuthorScottCramer

  Cover artist Silviya Yordanova

  www.darkimaginarium.com

  Formatting Polgarus Studio

  www.polgarusstudio.com

  This is a work of fiction. Names, characters, events, businesses, places, and incidents are either the products of the author’s imagination or used in a fictitious manner. Any resemblance to actual persons, living or dead, or actual events is purely coincidental.

  1000+ 5-star ratings for the TOUCAN TRILOGY by Scott Cramer.

  Night of the Purple Moon

  Colony East

  Generation M

  When the moon first turns purple, it is a beautiful sight. But this lunar change brings fatal consequences. Adults across the globe drop dead. Can Abby and her siblings survive the apocalyptic nightmare that lies ahead?

  “Frightening and inspiring.”— Kirkus Reviews

  “A post-apocalyptic survival tale that has everything: pirates, adventure, romance, suspense, betrayal, grief, evil scientists, and redemption.” – Reader review

  “An emotional tale of a family's struggle to remain together, love one another and survive.” – Reader review

  “I couldn't put these books down. It was heartfelt and always interesting. Best read I have had in a while!”— Reader review

  “Outrageous and completely out of the box.” – MY HOME AWAY FROM HOME review blog

  “Three words: Gripping. Palpable. Well-developed.”— WORD SPELUNKING review blog

  Table of Contents

  PLANNING – THE YEAR 2055

  PLANNING: PHASE 01

  PLANNING: PHASE 02

  PLANNING: PHASE 03

  PLANNING: PHASE 04

  PLANNING: PHASE 05

  PLANNING: PHASE 06

  PLANNING: PHASE 07

  PLANNING: PHASE 08

  ANALYSIS

  ANALYSIS: PHASE 01

  ANALYSIS: PHASE 02

  ANALYSIS: PHASE 03

  ANALYSIS: PHASE 04

  ANALYSIS: PHASE 05

  ANALYSIS: PHASE 06

  ANALYSIS: PHASE 07

  ANALYSIS: PHASE 08

  ANALYSIS: PHASE 09

  ANALYSIS: PHASE 10

  DESIGN

  DESIGN: PHASE 01

  DESIGN: PHASE 02

  DESIGN: PHASE 03

  DESIGN: PHASE 04

  DESIGN: PHASE 05

  DESIGN: PHASE 06

  DESIGN: PHASE 07

  DESIGN: PHASE 08

  DESIGN: PHASE 09

  DESIGN: PHASE 10

  DESIGN: PHASE 11

  DESIGN: PHASE 12

  IMPLEMENTATION

  IMPLEMENTATION: PHASE 01

  IMPLEMENTATION: PHASE 02

  IMPLEMENTATION: PHASE 03

  IMPLEMENTATION: PHASE 04

  IMPLEMENTATION: PHASE 05

  IMPLEMENTATION: PHASE 06

  IMPLEMENTATION: PHASE 07

  IMPLEMENTATION: PHASE 08

  IMPLEMENTATION: PHASE 09

  IMPLEMENTATION: PHASE 10

  IMPLEMENTATION: PHASE 11

  IMPLEMENTATION: PHASE 12

  IMPLEMENTATION: PHASE 13

  IMPLEMENTATION: PHASE 14

  IMPLEMENTATION: PHASE 15

  IMPLEMENTATION: PHASE 16

  IMPLEMENTATION: PHASE 17

  IMPLEMENTATION: PHASE 18

  IMPLEMENTATION: PHASE 19

  PLANNING – THE YEAR 0001

  PLANNING: PHASE 01

  PLANNING – THE YEAR 2055

  PLANNING: PHASE 01

  The savory odors of minty tabbouleh and roasted eggplant hung in the air, luring Jerusalem’s hungry lunch crowd. Raissa stepped along the busy sidewalk, careful to avoid bumping into anyone and triggering the explosives belt she wore underneath her oversized windbreaker.

  Relax and breathe, she told herself, worried that her pounding heart would alert security personnel. Her green eyes and a prominent facial scar drew enough attention; paladins didn’t need much provocation to conduct a scan.

  She stopped to check her messenger: 12:10 p.m. Ahead of schedule. Blimps of varying sizes, packed with surveillance equipment, dotted the sky. Raissa held her breath as two glided straight for each other. She hoped for the impossible: a collision, a bright flash and a loud boom, tatters of silver fabric fluttering to the ground. But, as always, the blimps slid past each other, nimble as dance partners.

  A block later, she tensed when two paladins fell into step beside her. Wary expressions complemented crisp blue uniforms and tan jackboots. Armed with joules, they scanned the crowd for rebels. Raissa softened her face: just another happy person with a nanochip in her brain.

  Distracted, she didn't look where she was going until a man with a long white beard bumped into her. She stopped to make sure he was okay. “I’m sorry.”

  He stared at her. “Can we predict love?” The way he crinkled his eyes reminded her of her grandfather.

  “Excuse me?”

  He turned and melted into the crowd. His chip must have a problem. If he had waited for her answer, she would have told him that nobody can predict love.

  Relieved that the paladins had moved on, Raissa dismissed the stranger and soon waded through a tour group. As the guide lectured a gawping mass of children on the history of the uprising, the kids swiveled their necks like seal pups to capture their surroundings with video glasses. They made Raissa grin. The smile vanished when she spotted Café Kadosh where she was to keep watch for her great-uncle and his signal.

  In the courtyard, patrons stuck their noses in their messengers or watched the enlightenment wall across the street. Raissa feigned interest in the propaganda broadcast on a monitor that was five stories tall and fifty meters wide. Beneath the Collective’s seal—a circle of twelve hands interlocked around a human brain embossed with a symbolic chip, complete with titanium circuitry—Vice Chancellor Vasiliev was touring a lush field of wheat. The subtitle identified the location as a former blast site in India. Raissa turned on her cochlear speaker. “The world is at peace,” Vasiliev was saying. “The planet is healing. A new day is dawning for humankind.” Raissa turned off the speaker. Each Collective member delivered the same message.

  She claimed an empty table by placing her backpack on it, confident that nobody would disturb the pack or notice the weapons inside, as the chip punished anyone who even contemplated thievery. She headed inside and approached a boy behind the counter. “Jasmine tea, please.”

  “Have I seen you before?” He was close to her own age—eighteen.

  “It’s possible.”

  He smiled. “Do you go to the university?”

  Is he flirting? He had a friendly expression, and she liked that he was tall with curly black hair. “I’m starting university next semester.” Had her chip been functioning, she would have been writhing in pain on the floor for lying, instead of calmly peering into his brown eyes.

  “Cool,” he said, and poured the tea.

  She took it and returned to her table in the courtyard. A moment later, she spotted her great-uncle approaching the café. In his late seventies, Mustafa was her grandfather’s younger brother. He had a craggy complexion and eyes dark as coal. He limped, so it was easy to follow his bobbing head.

  Mustafa made brief eye contact with her and formed a fist with his right hand as he shuffled past. It was the agreed-upon code; her target was the underground bunker. Blood pounded in her head. She didn’t want to die. Go to an injection center. Get a new chip. Begin a new life.

/>   The fantasy ended when she recalled her grandfather gasping for breath on his prayer rug earlier that day. Ever since Version 3, released a decade ago, the chip embedded in his brain had punished him, and tens of millions like him, for worshiping God. She clenched her jaw. Only I can spare Jaddy’s suffering.

  She headed toward 13.1 Hanoch Kalai Street at a brisk pace, repeating the mission objectives: Kill Petrov and transmit the devourware that will free the population. Ten minutes later, the sight of a bakery ahead stopped her heart. Inside the shop was the secret entrance to the bunker.

  A sign on the door read “Closed.” She peered through the window at a rotund man wearing a white jumpsuit and sandals. He was removing loaves of bread from a display case. She rapped on the glass, and he scuttled over and opened the door. “Come back at five,” he told her.

  “I’m a loyal customer,” Raissa said.

  “If I let you in, others will want to come in, too. Where will it end?”

  Raissa felt her throat thicken, but her words carried an icy determination. “It ends with me.”

  With a look of admiration, the man stepped aside. Raissa hurried to a small office in the back where she closed the door and shed the windbreaker. Five years of training had helped her ignore her light-headedness and maintain focus. She removed the weapons and night-vision goggles from her pack. After strapping a dual sheath around her right ankle, she inserted the laser dagger on one side of it and an antique pistol, a 45-caliber Glock, on the other. She checked her joule’s storage cell. Then she undid several shirt buttons to make it easier to reach the belt’s detonator.

  Positioning the night-vision goggles on top of her head, she lifted a woven rug and stomped on the false tile floor. The mortar crumbled. She cleared away the debris and removed the tiles to access the tunnel hatch, which she opened.

  As she was climbing down the ladder, the rotund man entered the office. “Good luck,” he said and closed the hatch above her, casting the tunnel below into darkness. She lowered her goggles.

  The narrow shaft had an odor of mildew. After a long, hot kilometer, it took a ninety-degree right turn. Raissa crawled from there.

  She arrived at a metal hatch. With adrenaline surging, she braced herself for battle. Once she dropped into the bunker, she would encounter security cameras, alarms, and an army of paladins toting high-amperage weaponry.

  Raissa brushed her fingertips across her right cheek. The scar reminded her of what she had survived, of loved ones lost. She had no chip to chase away her sorrow, but the memories of her parents and brother gave her strength.

  She opened the hatch and launched herself forward, landing in a crouched position. An alarm sounded. Raissa ripped off her goggles, squinting into the harsh light. A wall of security monitors featured her intrusion. I guess sneaking up on Petrov is off the table.

  She firmed her grip on the joule and stepped into the corridor, prepared to fight and scratch her way to the so-called ‘Father of the Chip.’ A paladin rounded the corner. He tensed and reached for his joule. Calm settled over her, and time slowed. She shifted her finger to the trigger. Mind, body, and weapon became one.

  Avoid looking at eyes and aim for the heart! Thousands of hours spent shooting at cutouts of paladins guided her hand, and she squeezed the trigger. The paladin’s hair puffed out, and his eyes opened wide from the surge of electrons coursing through his body. He twitched violently before toppling to the floor. Because her joule was set to stun, he’d remain immobilized for a few minutes.

  She dropped two more paladins with quick shots as she raced down the hallway. When a slug sizzled past her ear, she leaped, tucked a shoulder, and rolled on the floor. She popped up ready to fire, but the paladin squeezed off another round first. The slug winged Raissa’s right shoulder, stitching her arm with hot needles. She willed her fingers to stay wrapped around the joule. Then she aimed for the heart and pulled the trigger. The paladin stumbled backward, slammed into the wall, and crumpled.

  When she heard footsteps behind her, Raissa spun to see a paladin charging toward her with a pair of polycuffs. Unable to raise the joule in time, she relied on a quick left hook to the paladin’s jaw to neutralize the threat.

  She switched the weapon to her left hand, opened more doors and kept blasting away. Her victim count doubled and then doubled again. She checked the joule to see how many slugs remained: twenty-seven.

  She grabbed a knob. Locked. She struck next to it with her boot heel, and the door flew open. Inside, a woman held a baby in her arms. The woman appeared ready to fight to the death to protect the child. The infant stared with wide-eyed innocence.

  Raissa froze as the loud alarm drilled deeper into her brain. Out of the corner of her eye, she saw a flash of movement, but as she turned her head, the whip of voltage seared into her, slamming her backward. She blacked out before she hit the ground.

  She regained consciousness, still laid out flat on the floor. Goldstein stood over her. The former head of the Collective's Regional Defense Agency stared down with a smirk. “You failed.”

  Raissa tried to command her limp hand to find the strength to reach inside her shirt and press the detonator button. As she made her move, Goldstein stepped on her wrist, pinning it to the hard concrete floor. “You’re not ready for the mission.”

  The first rebel actors who had played paladins appeared.

  She forced a smile, determined not to show Goldstein was hurting her, and said, “I’m ready.”

  He lifted his foot. “Are you? The priest in Rome says the Bulgarian is close to finishing the devourware. It’s just in time. Petrov is ready to transmit Version 7. Raissa, V7 will allow the Collective to read minds. They’ll crush the resistance. You'll be going to Boston soon. Debrief in ten.”

  She sat up woozily. “I’ll never hurt a child.”

  He turned and walked away, his heels landing hard on the polished concrete floor.

  She didn’t care what Goldstein thought. Nothing could ever make me harm a child.

  PLANNING: PHASE 02

  Caleb inhaled deeply as he looked out his seventh-floor lab window in Paladin Research. At 18, he was the youngest employee at NanoArtisans, and he was lucky enough to have a spectacular view of Boston from his office. Blimps, monitoring the population and generating trillions of terabytes of data, were graceful as ballerinas as they hovered over the city’s sawtooth skyline across the Charles River.

  Is there anything more beautiful than the poetry of technology? Caleb grinned wryly. Music, maybe.

  He jolted at the live broadcast now appearing on the enlightenment wall across the campus. Health paladins were carrying the body of a middle-aged woman to an ambulance. Blood covered her face. “Messenger, engage olfactory experience,” he instructed.

  “Engaged,” his device replied, transmitting a wavelength to his chip, which revealed how the unfolding scene smelled. It was a functionality intended for more pleasant broadcasts: sweet jungle orchids, the pungent odor of ozone before a rainstorm.

  The scent of roses confirmed that she was dead. Paladins sprayed it to mask the odor of decay. “Messenger, disengage.” The woman must have tried to remove her chip with a kitchen laser, the tool of choice for the misguided. Caleb hoped the poison had killed her quickly to spare her the horror of bleeding to death.

  Dr. Petrov’s idea to include ricin in every chip had saved many lives by making people think twice before they tried to remove them. If a chip’s position in the frontal lobe was disturbed, a few grains of ricin released and stopped the heart.

  The ambulance pulled away. The paladins were taking the body to the hospital for an autopsy. Following that, the corpse would go to the solartarium for data archiving and cremation. Her next of kin would receive the carbon tab of her remains.

  Version 7 can’t come fast enough, Caleb thought. Each nanochip version built on the functionality of the previous release. V1 had blunted man’s tendency to resolve disputes with violence. V2 had tamed depression. V3 had moved the popula
tion beyond thousands of years of religious beliefs. The rebels referred to Version 3 as the ‘God-killer release.’ ‘Superstition killer’ was more accurate. V4 had amplified the love parents felt for their children, and Versions 5 and 6 had fine-tuned all the functionality introduced in earlier versions. Version 7, the most significant technological breakthrough, would transmit an individual’s thoughts to a central database. If that woman had had a V7 chip, alarm bells would have sounded, alerting paladins to intervene before tragedy struck.

  Caleb pulled his shoulders back, proud of the role he was playing in the development of Version 7. He had a V7 beta chip embedded in his brain, sending his thoughts to a database in Version Control. He focused on a message that Dr. Aubrey, the director of Version Control, might pick up on. Dr. Aubrey, I love working at NanoArtisans! Aware of the mind-reading algorithm’s limitations, he pictured the words and repeated the sentiment.

  Caleb waited, hoping for a direct response to his messenger when a text message came in from his sister, Zoe. You’ll be here on time?

  Never in a million years would Caleb miss his nephew’s injection procedure. Do you really have to ask?

  What time are you coming?

  Caleb tutted in frustration. Zoe acted like his mother, which he supposed was understandable. She had stepped away from a promising career in consultancy to raise him when their parents had died ten years ago. He replied: I only have one patient this morning. I’ll be at your place before ten.