Eden Chip

by Scott Cramer

  I hope you’ll be nice to Jack.

  Caleb’s tension ratcheted higher. He and Zoe’s paladin husband were not on the best of terms. He took a diplomatic approach. See you, Julian, and Jack at 9:30.

  Have you met anyone special? Zoe asked.

  The leap from one traumatic subject to the next sent spiders crawling across his skin. Since we spoke last night? NO! Ready to say something he’d regret, he set his messenger to “Do Not Disturb.”

  As he strode out of his lab and down the hall to the clinic, his chip defused the ticking bomb of agitation that his nosy sister had triggered. “Messenger, engage cochlear speaker and play Vivaldi’s 'Concerto for Viola d’amore in D Major.'” He let out a blissful sigh as his favorite concerto filled his head. Music, is the original nanochip.

  Five minutes later, Caleb watched on the monitor as his patient, Timothy Rooney, entered the waiting room and took a seat. The 14-year-old boy’s eyes were brown, and freckles dappled his cheeks. Unable to sit still, he bounced his knees up and down. Timothy’s parents joined him, looking fidgety.

  Caleb stepped into the waiting room and extended his hand to the young man. “Good morning, Timothy. I’m Dr. Saunders. Please, call me Caleb. I’ll be downloading paladin software to your chip.” They shook hands. The future paladin had a solid grip.

  “You don’t look old enough to be a doctor,” the father said.

  “I’m eighteen,” Caleb replied, used to this. “I earned my Ph.D. in nanobiology at seventeen and joined NanoArtisans nine months ago.”

  Caleb ushered the family into the clinic where they sat around a table. “As you know,” he began, “an algorithm selected Timothy to be a paladin.”

  “Adam, an algorithm selected you, too.”

  Caleb stopped, startled for a moment. The voice was unmistakable. A nasal twang, with a trace of an Eastern European accent. It belonged to Dr. Petrov. But who is Adam? Caleb looked around the room even though he didn’t expect to see Dr. Petrov because the Father of the Chip never left his home inside the Citadel. “Did you catch what Dr. Petrov said?”

  “When?” the mother asked.

  “A few seconds ago.”

  “I heard nothing,” she replied.

  Timothy and his dad shook their heads. Dr. Aubrey had warned him that his V7 beta chip might produce unusual symptoms. Shrugging it off, Caleb resumed his pitch. “When boys and girls turn thirteen, quantum computers evaluate trillions of bits of personal data. The computers then project the future needs of society. Timothy, you’ll address one of these needs.”

  “I want to hunt rebels,” Timothy blurted out.

  Caleb turned to the parents. “I hear that a lot.” Turning back to the boy he said, “Unfortunately, I'm not allowed to divulge your vocation. You’ll find out what it is when you turn twenty-one.”

  Timothy grinned. “Can I choose what type of paladin I’ll be?”

  “Data has already chosen for you,” Caleb explained.

  “Will I carry a joule?” Timothy asked.

  The mother shot her son a hard stare. “Timothy, sit up straight and listen to Dr. Saunders.”

  Caleb smiled. “Every future paladin asks that question. Timothy, it depends on whether you focus on security, the environment, or healthcare.”

  The father frowned. “I’m worried that Timothy might clean up tritium radiation.”

  “Here’s what I tell parents. It will take many generations of environmental paladins to clean up the remaining hot spots from the war. If Timothy becomes an environmental paladin, and he receives a hotspot assignment, there will always be an important role for him in society.”

  “Will our son be safe?” the mother asked.

  “You mean if that’s his assignment? My brother-in-law is an environmental paladin. He looks after the Charles River. To address your concern, Timothy will be fine as long as he wears protective clothing.” Caleb called up an overview document on his messenger, hoping to move the session along. “The procedure is fast, painless, and safe. Your nanochip has over fifty million lines of code. With the paladin patch, you’ll receive another ten million lines. This new coding will instruct your chip to deliver impulses to different parts of your brain.”

  “Did Dr. Petrov write the code?” the father asked.

  “Dr. Petrov concentrates on writing the M-code. Morphing Code is a programming language that changes itself based on stimuli. Dr. Petrov invented it. The thousands of neural coders here at NanoArtisans write the rest of the code.”

  Shifting gears, Caleb moved on to address other commonly asked questions. “Will your personality change?” He shook his head. “If you like playing bicycle polo now, you’ll love playing it as a paladin. Will your friends still like you?” He nodded. “They will. You’ll also be able to date and marry another paladin, or even someone who isn’t a paladin.”

  Timothy crossed his arms. “I don’t want to get married.”

  His mother nudged him. “Someday you’ll fall in love, and then you’ll want to spend the rest of your life with your partner.”

  Her comment touched off an avalanche of nerves in Caleb. His voice trembled. “Timothy, I guarantee that you’ll love your job, and you’ll want to do it forever. Are you ready to receive the paladin software?”

  Timothy puffed up his chest. “Ready.”

  Caleb held up a flat wand. “This is a trans. I'm sure you've seen security paladins carrying these devices. We use them here in the lab, too.” He pressed the wand against Timothy's forehead and engaged the transmission. Seconds later, a high-pitched beep sounded.

  “And…done!” Caleb cuffed Timothy on the shoulder. “Congratulations, you've become part of an exclusive club. Now go home and play bicycle polo.”

  When the family had gone, Caleb took a moment to savor the flood of exhilaration which followed every patient engagement. He was helping Dr. Petrov improve society one paladin at a time. Would the parents approve of their son mopping up hotspots in Argentina? In time, yes. More immediately, they would be delighted to discover Timothy cleaning his bedroom like never before.

  PLANNING: PHASE 03

  Ashminov paced from wall to wall in his small apartment on the outskirts of Rome. The music of Prince blared from speakers in the ceiling. He glanced at his mindport; the computer was churning at a trillion cycles per second as it compiled his devourware program. Provided the malware worked, it would devour a nanochip's software line by line and free the population.

  Sharp claws of angst ripped into Ashminov’s throat. So much could go wrong. When his chip didn’t reduce his anxiety quickly enough, he stumbled to the window. The sun, which had risen above an olive tree, cast shadows across the plaza and onto the marble wall that dated back to Julius Caesar’s reign. He fixed his eyes on the fountain, hoping the bubbling flow would settle him, but he felt himself drowning in familiar, rising waters of self-doubt.

  He took a step toward the dresser in the corner whose bottom drawer held the ultimate solution: a dose of tryp. The drug had allowed him to breeze through his teen years with confidence, but that was over two decades ago. To look at the green crystals today, much less consume them, he would receive a jolt. His hand floated to the drawer handle. Before he tried something stupid and crucified his innards, he turned to his viewport to finish a video he’d been watching

  “Continue documentary,” Ashminov said.

  A herd of black rhinos appeared on the viewport screen. The chip had saved rhinos from extinction. If a person contemplated poaching one, their chip fired an impulse into their brain’s pain center. All species thrived in a chipped world. He issued a contented sigh; the natural world and Prince had done the trick.

  His messenger rang, barely audible over the music. He checked the display for the caller’s name; it was Baldini, his rebel contact. He found the priest to be annoying. The ringing persisted for an ungodly duration before stopping. Ashminov exhaled in relief.

  Fewer than ten seconds passed, and the ringing started again.

>   “Viewport, off,” Ashminov grumbled and took the call.

  “Have you made any progress on the devourware?” Baldini asked.

  Ashminov pictured Baldini seated in a pew at St. Peter’s Basilica, hands folded in his lap, the permanent crease of a small smile incorrectly suggesting that he was a man at peace. “Father, I’ll call you if I have news.”

  “The Boston rebel has found a chip ID,” Baldini said.

  Hmmm. Baldini has good news for once. Every chip had a fifteen-digit code, and Ashminov would need a new ID for the chip in his brain after his devourware wiped it clean. He’d also use the same ID for Baldini’s chip. He figured the Boston rebel had sourced it from someone recently deceased. An ID sat in the local solartarium database for a few weeks before archival.

  “I hope the ID’s not too old,” Ashminov said. “When you take the devourware to Boston, the last thing you need is for a paladin to scan you.” For once, Baldini practiced a rare moment of silence. “Father, it doesn’t take much for them to haul someone to an injection center, and that would be the end of the mission.”

  “The ID hasn’t been assigned yet,” Baldini said. “A child will have an accident.”

  Revulsion filled Ashminov. “Accident?”

  “Sometimes we must commit sin for greater glory,” Baldini said.

  That priest and his rebel cohorts turn my stomach.

  “Speak,” Baldini implored.

  Ashminov struggled with a response. If he denied he was upset, his chip would punish him for lying. But if he admitted that the murder of a child troubled him, Baldini would lecture him about how Petrov had gained too much power and that sacrificing a single child to save humanity was a reasonable tradeoff.

  “I don’t need the ID now,” he said, pushing the heinous deed out of his mind. “Give it to me when I’m ready to burn a devourware chip. I should get back to work.”

  “Petrov plans to use E.L.F. to transmit Version 7,” Baldini said. “The wavelengths can penetrate seawater and bedrock. Nobody can hide.”

  Weighing this possibility, Ashminov thumbed the disconnect button. Baldini had his technical facts straight, but extreme longwave frequencies were better suited for transmitting small files, under ten terabytes. The V7 update was at least 100 terabytes. “A satellite network, capable of sending large amounts of data, fits the bill far better,” he said.

  “I hear they’ve constructed two towers, one at the North Pole, one at the South Pole,” Baldini said.

  That does sound like E.L.F. towers. “Father, Petrov can send V7 by pony express. It won’t be a problem for my devourware.”

  “That’s the spirit!” Baldini offered with glee. “Now get back to work.”

  Ashminov gladly pocketed his messenger and checked his mindport. The program was still compiling. Why would Petrov consider using E.L.F.? The wavelengths would flood the earth from the two poles and meet up at the equator. What is he scheming?

  The kilometers piled up as Ashminov paced, wall to window and back. The devourware was still compiling. When his playlist served up Prince's “Love Groove,” the song triggered vivid memories of a Friday night twenty years before, causing a sad nostalgia to well up in his chest.

  Fellow Bulgarian hackers used to show up weekly at his old apartment to listen to music and boast of their technological conquests. One evening, Petrov, a regular, had called to say he couldn't make it due to a flare-up of his asthma.

  Around midnight, the party in full swing, Ashminov had heard a rumble of boots in the hallway. AISE, Italy’s intelligence service, had broken down the door and charged the revelers with stealing unreleased music from Prince’s vault.

  Ashminov had hacked the AISE network to delete the charges against him and his friends. Later, he had learned that it was Petrov who had reported them. Petrov had also stolen Ashminov’s M-code. The morphing language, which they had used to infiltrate the computer systems of polluters, now powered nanochips.

  The betrayal hung over Ashminov like a cloud of poison gas. There would be but a single antidote: use M-code to destroy Petrov’s life’s work.

  A light rap on the door brought Ashminov back to the present. A whiff of garlic and cooking spices lifted his spirits. He opened the door. Signora Villanova, the octogenarian who lived on the top floor, stood in the hallway. With ample hips and face aglow, she held a plate of olives and calamari on a tray.

  Signora Villanova was his only friend, the only person left in the world who cared about him. If he were to die, he couldn’t think of anyone else he’d rather have take possession of his carbon tab.

  “Buongiorno, Signora.” Ashminov received the meal. “Thank you for your generosity.”

  Light danced in her eyes. “Look at your bony wrists! You need to eat, Christian.”

  “I’m famished.” A sudden jolt of pain bounced through his skull, and Ashminov turned to hide his grimace. He had the appetite of a bird. Then he remembered that the tray of sliced pepperoni the signora had brought earlier was still sitting untouched on his table. He stepped left to block her view.

  She wagged a finger at him. “Those bags under your eyes. A mere child of forty. Are you getting plenty of rest?”

  “I’ll sleep well soon,” he assured her truthfully. It seemed he’d been writing code around the clock for days, for weeks, for months. For three-quarters of his life. But the devourware was almost finished. He would celebrate with a good night’s sleep after Baldini took the devourware chip to Boston so that the rebel from Jerusalem could finish the job.

  “Sunshine would put color into those cheeks,” she said. “And don’t tell me you’ll buy a spectrum light and solid oxygen pellets.”

  Basking in her motherly love, he grinned sheepishly. “I promise I’ll get old-fashioned sunshine and real air once my project is over.”

  During every encounter with his kind neighbor, Ashminov could not help but revisit his cold, sterile childhood. His parents had demanded that he address them by their respective ranks in the Bulgarian Army and Intelligence Services: Captain and Colonel. Salutes, cold showers at dawn, daily recitation of the military manual; all that plus an absence of love had ruptured his psyche. It had been two decades since they had been consigned into compressed carbon, but the Captain and Colonel still haunted him.

  “Ciao, Signora. Tante grazie.”

  “Mangia, Christian!” she said.

  Ashminov closed the door. On his way to place her latest offering on the table, he saw the Latin phrase, DEUS MORTUUS EST, flashing on his mindport. He stopped mid-stride and dropped the tray to the floor. Staring at the bold letters on the screen, he lurched a step forwards. Five years ago, he had written an instruction to display that announcement when the devourware program finished compiling. Five years, and finally, it was ready.

  Ashminov hit pause on his urge to celebrate. First, he had to be sure that the devourware worked. He would serve as the guinea pig. Perversely, unsure if he were ready to face life without a nanochip to blunt his multitude of emotional issues, what he feared most was that it would work.

  PLANNING: PHASE 04

  Raissa shuffled to the weapons storage room to change. If she finished the debriefing session quickly, she could be home within the hour to see Jaddy. Nobody had coached her on how to tell her grandfather that she was about to leave him forever.

  Shutting the storage room door for privacy, she shook out her arms and legs, still tingling all over from the joule blast—her first ever. The familiar sourness in her stomach returned as she removed her explosives belt and placed it on a shelf alongside cases of sonic grenades, rockets, joule rifles, pistols, and laser daggers. Once people are free to do and think as they please, will they again turn to weapons to settle disputes? She pushed the question from her mind. Over-thinking weakened her resolve.

  Raissa finished dressing and hurried to the debriefing session down the hall. Goldstein and Mustafa were sitting next to each other at a long rectangular table. She sat opposite them.

  They
made the strangest pairing: two ancient warriors, former bitter enemies—rebel hunter and rebel—who had joined forces to destroy the chip. Goldstein had sloped shoulders, a few wisps of white hair, and spoke in a soft voice. Mustafa’s hate-filled eyes had come from years of detention in Collective prisons.

  Goldstein reached for a pitcher of water and a glass. “You must be thirsty?”

  Raissa ran the tip of her tongue along the inside of her teeth. It felt like two pieces of sandpaper scraping together. “No, thank you.” Every kind gesture came with strings attached.

  Goldstein poured a glass and slid it before her. Her trainers forever played mental chess, claiming it would help her deal with the myriad of challenges she would encounter in Boston. “You’ll be leaving tonight.”

  She jumped to her feet. “I need to go home now.”

  “Sit,” Mustafa barked. “We’re not done.”

  She complied, sullen and uncertain.

  “We introduced the mother holding her baby to see what you would do,” Goldstein said.

  She inhaled slowly through her nose and exhaled through her mouth, unflappable. What if I were that mother? I’d do anything to protect my child.

  Goldstein tented his fingers. “You flinched, and that caused you to fail the exercise.”

  Raissa maintained the countenance of a statue. The only movement was her chest as it rose and fell with her breathing.

  “Raissa won't encounter children at the Citadel,” Mustafa said. They often used this good cop/bad cop tactic. His cold eyes bore into her. “The boy at the coffee shop, did you think he was flirting? Seriously, with your scar?”

  Her stomach tensed. She should have known the boy was a rebel plant. She proudly lifted her chin.

  Goldstein shot Mustafa an approving glance. They liked that she was hard to break.