by Scott Cramer
“We must be grateful that Raissa was disfigured,” Goldstein said. “The explosion disabled her chip.” He drummed his fingers on the table. “Raissa, I ordered the strike on your house. That’s how things worked back then. My job was to kill rebels.”
She swallowed hard. “Is this another one of your tests?”
He fixed her with an unfeeling stare. “Our training sessions are over. I thought you should know.”
Raissa reeled in her chair, choking on the memories of dust filling her lungs. Then, without thought, she swept her arm in front of her, dashing the glass of water off the table. It shattered against the wall. Goldstein watched as she gripped the pitcher, this time with intent, and hurled it over his head. “Control your emotions,” he chided. “You’ll encounter far greater challenges in Boston.”
Blood pounded in her ears. “The strike was an accident! That’s what the inquiry judge ruled. The rebel cell was blocks away.”
“The strike was a success,” Goldstein said.
She turned to Mustafa. When her great-uncle lowered his eyes, a chill spread through her body.
Mustafa looked up. “Raissa, I was an informant. I told Goldstein when your mother was home.”
“My mother!” Raissa almost laughed at the absurdity. “She was a librarian! The most daring thing she did was read scary stories to children.”
“Librarian by day, rebel leader by night,” Mustafa said with a sick grin.
He must be telling the truth, or his chip would have him crying in pain. “But you were in the movement. You spent months in Collective detention centers. They polycuffed your ankles for months at a time! That’s why you limp.”
“Goldstein put me up in a condominium on the Red Sea. I had too much to drink one night and fell down the stairs. My knee has never been the same.”
Raissa blinked back tears of sadness and rage.
“Go see Jaddy,” Goldstein said. “We’ll take you to the airport later.”
Instead of flying across the table and snapping both their necks, Raissa headed for the door.
“Your parents and brother are gone,” Goldstein called out. “Don’t let their memories cloud your judgment.”
She wheeled around, ready to launch all her fury at him, but saw remorse in his eyes. Goldstein didn’t know it, but that flicker of humanity he showed kept his neck bones intact—for the time being.
Emerging from the bakery, Raissa welcomed the fresh air after the stuffy tunnel. Yet the revelation that Goldstein and Mustafa had killed her family crushed her chest and made it difficult to breathe. Why did they tell me? If Goldstein had believed the news would harden her resolve, he was mistaken.
At the intersection of Ha Brreakha and Shanakba Streets, the idea of punishing them clawed into her mind. I’ll abandon the mission. That will hurt them. She turned down Shanakba, and after two blocks, stood before the Jerusalem Injection Center. If she got a new chip, she could no longer lie and kill, but she’ discover what it was like to have friends and live like other people her age. The chip would ease her persistent grief. Jaddy would still suffer during his worship, but she would be around to comfort him.
Why does Jaddy pray? God isn’t real.
Unsure what to do, Raissa continued on her way home. The enlightenment wall, next to the gate that led to the old part of the city, featured Petrov. The thirty-eight-year-old Bulgarian had a slender build and dirty blonde hair. His massive head balanced on a thin neck. Broadcasting from inside the Citadel, he sat on a rock ledge beside a small stream in his lush, sprawling garden. He often preached from this perch. “Eve, let us love one another, for love is from God, and whoever loves has been born of God and knows God.”
Petrov’s nasal voice always sickened her, but now his words startled her. She had never heard him mention God before, much less love. She looked around. Nobody was writhing on the ground in pain. Had they heard him? She checked her messenger and discovered her cochlear speaker was off. Can Petrov infiltrate my mind? And who is Eve?
Confused, she passed through the gate and hurried through the maze of dusty alleyways to her house, a small, two-story structure made of concrete, which Jaddy had rebuilt after the strike. She entered and called out to him. He'd left a note on the kitchen table to say he was out shopping. She trudged upstairs to her room and sat on her bed. “Memory wall, my family.”
Her baby brother, Farouk, came to life on the screen next to her bed. He was splashing in a tub. “Ra Ra,” he called, unable to pronounce Raissa. Farouk reminded her of a cute alien creature because his eyes were so green.
Raissa smiled at the montage of images and sound that followed: Her mother singing to Farouk; her father carrying Raissa on his shoulders; the family eating in the courtyard. Gooey orange squash covered Farouk’s face and jersey. Big sister was expected to wipe her baby brother’s face, a task she resisted at all costs. I would give anything to clean Farouk’s face today.
She replayed the horrific missile strike in her mind. Six years old, she was upstairs with Farouk; her parents were downstairs. There was a thunderous boom, and dust filled her mouth as she screamed. She remembered drifting in shadows and then Jaddy holding her hand as he sang:
“Jaddy is coming,
He is almost here,
He is bringing toys and gifts.
He’s also got a box,
Inside there's a duck
That goes:
Quack quack quack
Quack quack.”
The vibration of his voice had made her less afraid.
She had awoken in the hospital, weeks later, her face covered with bandages, her grandfather still holding her hand. Jaddy had waited another day before telling her that her parents and Farouk had died.
She braced for the memory wall’s final image. An olive grove surrounded the graveyard where simple stones commemorated her family. When a sob rumbled in her chest, she gritted her teeth. “No tears.”
Squaring her hips, Raissa sank into a warrior stance and threw punches into the faces of Goldstein and Mustafa until her arms dropped in fiery fatigue. Too exhausted to feel much of anything, she crawled onto her bed and buried her face in the pillow.
PLANNING: PHASE 05
Leaning on the stoop of Zoe and Jack’s place in Boston’s Back Bay neighborhood, Caleb inhaled the sweet nectar of magnolias blossoming along Beacon Street. Spring, the season of new beginnings, is the perfect time for Julian to receive his nanochip. He turned to his sister, who was breastfeeding his nephew on the opposite side of the stoop. Caleb marveled at mother and child. Each possessed the slightly oversized Saunders nose, which he faced every day in the mirror. Zoe had their mom’s dark curly hair, while Julian had blonde fuzz. Nine days old—too early to know if it would stay blonde.
“We’re supposed to be at the Union Square Injection Center in nineteen minutes,” Caleb said with building agitation. “What is your husband doing?”
“You promised you’d be nice to Jack,” Zoe said.
“Did I?”
“Jack likes you.”
“Who said he didn’t?” Jack hates that I work at NanoArtisans.
She grinned. “I can read your mind, remember.”
Zoe possessed an uncanny knack for guessing what he was thinking. “Only one person knows what I’m thinking,” Caleb said, picturing the V7 beta chip buried in his frontal lobe.
Zoe flashed an impish smile. “And how is Dr. Aubrey?”
Caleb tried not to blush as he waited for his chip to hack away at the knots forming in his stomach. “Dr. Aubrey is fine!”
“Colleagues, right? Nothing more?” Zoe’s look spoke volumes.
“For your information, Dr. Aubrey has a Ph.D. in neural circuitry. She’s earned ‘Researcher of the Year’ three times. I am enamored of Dr. Aubrey’s intellect.” Caleb omitted the fact that he was enamored of her physical characteristics as well.
Unimpressed by Dr. Aubrey’s curriculum vitae, Zoe gently pulled Julian from her breast. “Ready for number two?”
Attaching her son to her other breast, she said, “Caleb, you’d never reboot Jack’s chip, would you?”
Caleb started. “Where did that come from?”
She narrowed her eyes. “I like Jack the way he is.”
Reboots, highly effective in correcting troublesome personalities, altered one’s character, but the change was always for the better. Caleb often fantasized about fixing Jack. “I’ve promised you a hundred times I’d never reboot him.”
“Have you met anyone special lately?” Zoe asked.
Ah, throw me off guard. He rolled his eyes. “You mean in the past hour?”
Julian coughed, and Zoe put him on her shoulder and patted his back. “We want Uncle Caleb to be happy.”
“Uncle Caleb is happy.”
Zoe rubbed noses with the infant. “Uncle Caleb is shy.”
“I am not shy!” Caleb winced as his chip ignited a sharp pinch in his gut. “Shyness is an unproductive emotion that the nanochip eliminates.”
“Apparently not yours,” she fired back.
Caleb threw his hands in the air. “My social life is none of your business.”
Zoe held out Julian for Caleb to take him. “Your training begins now.”
Cold panic flooded his chest. “Training for what?”
“Go on, hold your nephew.”
“I—I better not,” he stammered.
She placed Julian in his arms. He squeezed the swaddled bundle, not wanting to drop the baby, and Julian squawked.
“You work too hard,” Zoe said, keeping a watchful eye on his cradling technique. “You need balance in your life.”
Caleb hung his head, careful not to whack Julian. “Zoe, I’ll have more time to meet people after the V7 release.”
“Oh?” She folded her arms. “You told me that after V6.6, 6.7, and 6.8. After V7, you’ll blame your miserable social life on the next chip release.”
Caleb fought hard not to smile at all the work he'd have to do on Version 8. Codename Eden Chip, it would support two-way telepathy between users. He couldn’t wait.
“Caleb, am I right?”
Zoe’s voice brought him back to the stoop. Before he could think of what to say, the front door swung open, and Jack stepped out. Penetrating blue eyes added to a commanding presence. The paladin algorithm knew how to pick the cream of the crop.
For once, Caleb was thankful for Jack’s timing because it spared him from Zoe’s relentless interrogation. “We’d better hurry,” he said. “We have to be in Union Square in fourteen minutes.”
Jack scooped Julian into his arms and frowned. “He's wet. I'll change him.” He returned inside with his son.
Typical environmental paladin. No mess too small.
Zoe grinned with a predator's eyes. “Now, where were we?”
Caleb made his escape to the curb and hailed one of the autonomous, boxy people-movers.
A minute later, Jack stepped back onto the stoop with Julian. “Let’s get this over with.”
They piled into the taxi. Zoe got in back with Julian, and Caleb sat up front with Jack, hoping his show of improving family dynamics would not go unnoticed. “Taxi, Union Square Injection Center,” Caleb said.
The taxi pulled into traffic.
“Big day for Julian,” he added.
Jack grunted. “Says who?”
“When Julian gets his new chip, you’ll feel your bond with him growing. Dr. Petrov believes that stimulating a child’s love for a parent adds to a person’s happiness in later years.”
Jack sneered. “You think I’ll love Julian because he has a speck of hardware in his brain?”
Caleb lowered the window and stuck his head out. The arguing had already begun, and they weren’t even to the Mass. Ave. Bridge.
Jack tapped his shoulder. “Is that so Dr. What’s Her Face can see inside your head?”
“Dr. Aubrey,” Zoe chirped.
Caleb pulled his head back and turned to see Jack smirking. “For your information, my V7 beta chip can transmit my thoughts from both inside and outside the cab. Dr. Aubrey can even analyze my thoughts when I'm in the shower.” Caleb regretted using that example.
“Reading your mind in the shower must be fascinating.” Jack’s tone dripped with sarcasm.
Caleb sighed in frustration. “Dr. Aubrey is not interested in reading my mind.”
Jack scoffed. “Petrov is.”
Referring to the Father of the Chip in such a casual manner irritated Caleb. “Doctor Petrov is not interested in my thoughts. Nor yours.”
“Tell Jack why Version 7 is so important,” Zoe said.
“Data!” Caleb exclaimed. “Knowing what people think every waking hour, how they respond to stimuli, their dreams—those are the keys to a bright future.” Caleb liked using Dr. Petrov’s terminology. “The thoughts of the human population collected with Version 7 will add up to trillions of terabytes every hour. With enough data, we can predict the future. Imagine if we could change the behavior algorithms before the population moves in the wrong direction!”
Jack turned and said to his son, “That's not a future I want for you.”
“Wait until V8,” Caleb said, undeterred by the never-ending stream of cynicism from his brother-in-law’s mouth. “We’ll be able to live in each other’s minds.”
Jack raised his brows. “Caleb, you don't want to know what I'm thinking.”
He had heard enough. Injection Day was a time of celebration. “How's your river project going?”
Jack brightened at once. “Very well, thanks for asking. We've reintroduced alewife into the mouth of the river. Two hundred years ago, those fish were native to the Charles, but years of pollution had nearly wiped them out.”
Caleb dared not make eye contact with Zoe because she would think he had played dirty. He had. Jack, as an environmental paladin, couldn’t resist taking the bait. His chip was triggering sensations of euphoria as he reported on cleanup activities.
Jack beamed with pride. “Fortunately, we found a tank of dangerous chemicals—PCBs, or to be technical, polychlorinated biphenyls, buried in the riverbank. We were able to remove it before it leaked.”
They drove over the Mass. Ave. Bridge and turned right on Memorial Drive, passing Caleb’s alma mater, the Massachusetts Institute of Technology. Soon they approached the Union Square Injection Center. When the taxi pulled up to the main doors, Julian started crying.
Zoe sighed. “Are you hungry again? Jack, please check us in. I’ll feed Julian and meet you inside.” She climbed out and moved to a bench.
Jack sniffed at Caleb. “You knew I couldn't resist talking about my job and feeling happy about it.”
“Give it a minute, Jack. Your chip will improve your mood.”
Jack shook his head in disgust and headed for the entrance.
Caleb walked over to the bench. “Want company?”
“Keep Jack company,” Zoe said.
“Believe me, Jack doesn't want my company.”
“I can’t say I blame him. You manipulated him. You should apologize.”
Jack owes me an apology. But if that will make Zoe happy, fine. “Sure.”
Zoe smiled. “Thank you.”
Caleb wiggled his nephew’s foot. “Enjoy your meal, Julian. In ten minutes, your life is about to take a turn for the better.”
“I can’t wait, Uncle Caleb,” Zoe replied in a squeaky baby voice.
Caleb spotted Jack across the empty injection center lobby, sitting with a processing agent. Most infants scheduled for this time slot were already in the imaging chamber, undergoing the brain mapping procedure. Parents and family members were in the enlightenment dome on the top floor to watch a show on the history of the nanochip, featuring Dr. Petrov.
Approaching Jack and the agent, Caleb saw Julian's profile, including the new chip ID assigned to him, displayed on the mindport. He extended his hand. “I’m Caleb, Julian’s uncle. Mother and child should be here soon.”
“Tracy,” the agent said and shook his ha
nd. In her mid-twenties, she wore ear piercings that blinked gold and red.
“Here they come now,” Jack said.
Caleb turned, surprised to see Zoe and Julian already halfway across the lobby.
“He wasn’t hungry,” Zoe explained. “He must have had gas.”
A nurse arrived to get Julian. Before handing him over, Zoe and Jack kissed their son, and then Caleb gave his nephew a peck on his head; the feel of the baby’s soft hair warmed his heart.
“Please come this way,” Tracy said. “Julian will be ready to go home after the enlightenment dome experience.” She led them to the elevator.
Caleb felt the weight of the awkward silence on the way up. “Jack, I’m sorry that I mentioned your work on the Charles River. I thought it was the only way to change your attitude. I have to remind myself that you don’t believe in technology as much as I do.”
“Apology accepted,” Jack grumbled, and Zoe seemed placated.
On the top floor, they entered the domed theater. Thankfully, the show hadn't started. Finding three seats in a row, Caleb took the aisle, and Zoe planted herself between him and Jack.
The lights dimmed, and all the seats reclined automatically. Dr. Petrov’s nasal voice twanged through speakers. “Welcome, and congratulations to the parents. Your children are about to reach their full potential.” A holographic image of a human brain appeared overhead. “The problem has always been with the brain. One hundred billion neurons communicating through trillions of synaptic connections in the neocortex make reasoning possible, but the raw emotions and dark impulses arising from the cerebellum and brain stem—the portions of the brain inherited from our reptilian ancestors—sabotage our higher soul.”
Shivers of awe spread throughout Caleb’s body as he imagined early man genuflecting before a sun god, or some other dominant, mysterious force of the universe. Caleb, too, worshiped such a dominant force. The difference was that Dr. Petrov was real and making his home in the Citadel five kilometers away—a living, breathing, coding deity.
The brain vanished, and discordant viola music accompanied a montage of blood, guts, and pollution. Images of the Crusades, gas chambers, napalm attacks, killing fields, school shootings, smog-choked cities, and bright orange rivers flew by.
