by Scott Cramer
A brilliant flash blinded Caleb, and the theater plunged into darkness as Dr. Petrov picked up his diatribe. “Christmas Day, the year 2036, war broke out. It was a perilous moment in the history of humanity.”
For reasons unknown, Brazil had razed Argentina with tritium fusion bombs, which ripped the scabs off simmering tensions around the globe. One conflagration begot another.
The United Kingdom leveled Sao Paulo.
India and Pakistan turned one another into radioactive wastelands.
China incinerated London.
South Korea attacked its pacifist cousins in the North.
The US pulverized half of China and all of South Korea.
Dr. Petrov’s voice dropped an octave to amplify the dire circumstances. “By New Year’s Day, 2037, four billion had died and a quarter of the planet’s land surface had become uninhabitable because of tritium radiation. When Russia and the United States trained their weapons of universal destruction on each other, humankind hung in the balance.”
US President Murtowsky and Russian Prime Minister Vasiliev changed the course of history with a novel idea. They would establish a twelve-person council that would govern the world. Six representatives from the United States and six from Russia formed the Collective.
More critically, they would embed behavior-controlling devices in everyone’s brain. Russia had retained the services of Dr. Petrov, a brilliant Bulgarian technologist who had developed M-code. Petrov was at work on a device—clunky by today’s standards—that, when implanted into the brains of Chechens, would take the fight out of them, ending a cultural vendetta smoldering for centuries.
The US Central Intelligence Agency had invested in a firm, NanoArtisans, which was developing nano-programmable implant devices. The marriage of NanoArtisans hardware and Dr. Petrov’s M-code algorithms gave birth to the nanochip V1.
“In the beginning, many resisted having a nano-programmable device implanted in their brains,” Dr. Petrov continued. “But the resistance withered as people discovered they liked what the chip did for them.”
Above a rising trill of birdsong, Dr. Petrov added, “Adam, can we predict love?”
Caleb nearly leaped out of his seat. Adam, again? He had memorized every word of Dr. Petrov’s lecture, but he had never heard him say that. Is the Father of the Chip proffering new wisdom?
“Thanks to the chip,” Dr. Petrov concluded, to a stirring orchestral backing track, “Earth has healed. Peace and equality have replaced war, and hope is upon us.”
The lights came on, and the seat backs rose. Caleb’s eyes were blurry with tears of pride. Zoe's cheeks were wet, too. Not surprisingly, Jack was shaking his head with a furrowed brow.
They moved to the elevator. Caleb didn’t want to press his luck with Jack, so he directed his question to Zoe. “Who do you think Adam is?”
“Caleb, what are you talking about?”
“Dr. Petrov asked if we can predict love.”
Zoe scrunched her brow. “I didn’t hear him say that.”
Jack chuckled. “Your brother is losing it. I think he needs a chip refresh.”
The elevator doors opened, and they stepped into a mad circus of families reuniting and cooing proudly over their newly chipped infants. Caleb scoured the crowd for Tracy’s blinking piercings. She approached them with empty arms and a look of concern.
“Where’s Julian?” Jack asked.
“I have some sad news,” Tracy replied. “Julian died during the injection procedure.” She pressed a carbon tab into Zoe’s hand.
Zoe turned white, and Jack choked out a sob. The room spun for Caleb. The procedure should have been safe. I've never heard of a single accident at an injection center. He folded at the waist and issued an anguished wail as sobs erupted in his chest. The happy chatter of the other families rose around him. What is wrong with my chip?
He felt a hand on his shoulder. The lightness of touch told him it was Zoe.
“No need to cry, Caleb. Everything will be fine,” she whispered in his ear.
Zoe and Jack were both smiling, their chips operating in overdrive to quash their grief and flood them with joy.
“We’ll design a new child,” Jack chimed, a wide grin spreading on his face. “A girl this time. The next injection procedure will hopefully go more smoothly.”
Zoe took her husband’s hand and looked lovingly into his eyes. “What should we name her?”
“Julia?” Jack offered.
Zoe nudged Caleb. “What name do you like?”
Blinking back tears, Caleb could only shrug. He felt so alone in his grief, and he would have to endure Zoe and Jack's cheery obliviousness until he could get his own chip fixed.
His sister held up the thin, circular tab, forged in the high heat of a solar oven, and said, “Julian will contribute to the environment.” She walked over to a geranium planter and pushed her son’s remains into the soil.
As Zoe and Jack strolled toward the front door, arm in arm, Caleb retrieved the tab and caught up with them. “Do you mind if I keep it?”
“Sure thing, Uncle Caleb,” Zoe said in her squeaky baby voice.
Outside, Zoe suggested they all go for a swim. Caleb didn’t feel like doing anything, but he was too shocked to say no.
At the swimming beach, Zoe and Jack splashed in the river. Still grief-stricken, Caleb sat on the bank. Realizing he could not be around their chip-induced joy any longer, he got up and told them he was taking a taxi home.
He stumbled into his apartment and collapsed into his favorite chair, the one that faced Dr. Petrov's photo on the coffee table. Dr. Aubrey, my chip has a bug. Can I stop by Version Control? I need a software patch. The sooner he reported his chip malfunction to her, the sooner she could fix it, and this sadness could go away.
Caleb was about to follow up with a call when he received a text message from Dr. Joyce. Sorry, Caleb, but everyone is stretched thin. I’ll see you tomorrow morning.
That was their scheduled daily update session, so he’d have to endure unproductive emotions for another fourteen long hours.
His stomach grumbled, but lethargy kept him planted in the chair. A malodorous scent wafted from his bedroom, but the simple task of tossing his dirty laundry into the UV washer was too daunting. He rallied his energy and retrieved his favorite book from the windowsill. Charlotte’s Web had always made him happy.
Caleb preferred to read words on paper, rather than allow a ruby laser beam to pump ten thousand words a minute into his retinal nerve. Stories were meant to unfold slowly. He opened the book’s faded cover and read the first sentence aloud. “'Where’s Papa going with that ax?' said Fern to her mother as they were setting the table for breakfast.”
Uneasy and distracted, Caleb closed the book. “Memory wall, Mom and Dad at Symphony Hall,” he said in a faltering tone. Scenes from his youth often made him smile.
The screen came to life. His mother and father were standing outside Symphony Hall. Zoe, twenty years old, ran up to them and gave each a kiss on the cheek. He saw himself as a six-year-old boy wearing a tux, his clip-on bowtie dangling to one side. His younger self was happy and carefree.
Mom and Dad entered the concert hall, and Zoe grabbed Caleb’s hand to drag him in, too. The next scene was backstage at Symphony Hall. His mother was tuning her viola, and his father was removing his French horn from its case. Caleb scampered past them and looked out between the curtains.
Two months after that performance, Caleb's parents would be dead, innocent bystanders who were caught in the crossfire between rebels and Security forces.
A guttural noise startled Caleb, and it took a moment for him to realize the ugly sound had emerged from his throat. Tears streamed down his cheeks. “Memory wall, off.”
He careened to a corner of the room and picked up his viola. As a boy, playing it had brought him instant joy. He still often picked it up hoping that joy would return, but these days the instrument produced a level of frustration in him that even a fully f
unctioning chip could not relieve.
He tried to tune the viola by ear, as he had done in his youth, but he was too distracted to concentrate. After failing to tune the instrument to his satisfaction, he gave up and engaged the auto-tune feature.
He applied rosin, and aching to play as he once had, tucked the viola into the crook of his neck and drew the bow back. His fingering and tempo for practicing major pentatonic scales were way off. If anyone were listening to him outside the window, they would have cried for him to stop.
He proceeded to slaughter “Sinfonia Concertante” by Mozart. His rendition of “Romeo and Juliet” by Sergei Prokofiev would have sent the lovers into the fires of Hell rather than into each other’s arms. He dared not attempt his favorite piece, Vivaldi’s “Concerto for Viola d’amore in D Major.” He and his mother used to play it together, and he didn’t want to shatter those tender memories.
An hour later, listless, he sank back into the recliner. A thickening throat and the rumble in his chest alerted him that his mood was about to plunge further. How had people coped with the loss of loved ones before nanochip technology?
“Memory wall, Julian.”
Julian, hours old, stared out from the screen. Caleb removed his nephew’s carbon tab from his pocket and clutched it in his fist. Then, hugging himself, he braced for the long night ahead.
PLANNING: PHASE 06
“The Age of Devourware has begun,” Ashminov announced in a halting voice to the four walls of his empty apartment. He noted the time and date—April 20, 10:15 a.m. He was about to chisel the epitaph for the nanochip in cyberspace: 2037 – 2055. How would historians note the event? Would they see it as the dawn of new freedoms, the unshackling of the world from the tyranny of the chip? Or would it be step one in the dismantlement of the gains made in saving the environment and civilization itself? Humankind, with nothing to temper its dark impulses, might revert to its old tricks. Ashminov expected the outcome to lie somewhere between the two extremes. He typed a command to send instructions to the 3D printer to create a chip containing the devourware, and the printer came to life.
His messenger beeped. Baldini! Ashminov answered the call. “Are your ears burning, Father? That chip ID you have, I need it now.”
Baldini paused for a long moment. “Why?”
“You know why.”
Baldini read out fifteen digits. The priest was firing a follow-up question when Ashminov disengaged the call. His messenger rang again. He ignored it, refusing to think about where the ID had come from, as he tapped out the digits. He followed up with the command to incorporate the ID into the chip. After the printer added a nano-layer of circuitry, he inserted the chip into a trans.
This trans was the latest model used by security paladins in the field. Ever since Baldini had knocked on his door five years ago, asking him to develop the devourware, the priest had been able to offer him any piece of information or equipment he'd requested. How did Baldini do it?
Uninterested in the answer, then and now, Ashminov placed the wand against his forehead and pushed the button to engage the transmission. A high-toned beep informed him that the devourware had infiltrated his chip. The trans readout reported the deletion of fifty-five million lines of code. Bracing himself for a multitude of insecurities to rear their heads, he felt the same without the chip as he had felt with it. If the devourware had deleted every last line of code, then he should be free to do as he pleased. If, on the other hand, a few million lines of code remained, the chip would take a meat cleaver to his liver for engaging in forbidden behavior.
How might I put my freedom to the test?
His mind went blank. Someone released from an extended period of bondage might enter a similar state of shock. The jailer opens the cell door, but the prisoner stays inside out of habit, too numb to step out.
Ashminov walked to the window. The plaza was buzzing with people of all ages. Adults played handball against the Roman wall, and kids sailed toy boats in the fountain. A blimp’s shadow crossed the plaza like a schooner sailing across a harbor. He had a crazy notion: go outside and take a dip in the fountain. If the devourware had worked, he would splash around like a seal pup.
Unzipping his sweater, he dropped it onto the floor and started for the door. “Purple Rain” crooned from the speakers. Ashminov stopped to listen to the iconic song. Then, as spontaneously as Prince riffing his guitar, a new idea burst into his mind. An easier, but more dangerous test.
After pulling down the shade, he opened the bottom drawer of his dresser. A month before the mass implantations of nanochips had begun, he had tucked away the vial on a whim, like a squirrel hiding a nut. Nobody could have guessed that tryp would end up on the forbidden substance list.
A chill of fear mingled with excitement. With trembling fingers, he inserted the sparker into the green crystals. Positioning his nostrils above the vial opening, he engaged the electric arc. His spine stiffened in a rush of confidence he hadn't known for a long time. My lungs are still working! The devourware was a success.
He celebrated by sparking a second time, then a third. Tryp wasn’t habit-forming, but the confidence it induced was. That’s enough! He’d ration the remaining crystals the way a field mouse takes a week to nibble a single grain of wheat. One more whiff.
Sometime later, Ashminov found himself talking to Baldini, unsure whether he had called the priest or the priest had called him. The vial was empty.
“You'll bring me the devourware chip?” Baldini asked.
Ashminov clutched his messenger to his chest. “For you, Father, I'll bring two. One for insurance.”
Ashminov burned a second devourware chip. He placed the two chips, along with the trans, in his satchel. The transaction would occur at the Colosseum, Baldini’s favorite place to meet. Located in the center of Bioparco’s wild animal enclave, Ashminov liked meeting there, too. The lions fascinated him.
With the satchel over his shoulder, he headed for the door and opened it. Signora Villanova stood in the hallway with a plate of pasta and tomato sauce.
He jumped back. “Signora, it’s always a pleasure to see you.”
Suddenly, the color drained from her cheeks. “Are you ill? Christian, your eyes!”
He gasped. “I forgot to take my allergy medicine!”
Able to lie with impunity for the first time in years, Ashminov accepted her offering with heartfelt thanks, telling her how much he had enjoyed the olives and calamari. She blushed a shade of red deeper than the sauce.
After closing his door, Ashminov raced straight into his bathroom, where he found the sink overflowing. The flood didn’t surprise him. Tryp tended to focus one’s mind on weightier matters than remembering to turn off the faucets. He turned them off, tossed a towel on the floor, and looked in the mirror. His pupils were as big as saucers. Grazie, Signora! If paladins had seen him in this condition, they would have hauled him to the hospital. Donning a pair of sunglasses, he made for the elevator.
Outside, he encountered the first security paladins in Lamian Gardens. Two of them strolled down the tulip-lined path in his direction. They each stood nearly two meters tall, genetic specimens of the highest order. Scanners clipped to their belts were picking up IDs. Sweat trickled down his chest as they approached. The paladins passed by without incident. The ID Baldini had provided passed muster. A combination of relief and remorse battled in his head. Has the child already been killed?
Fear edged out his sorrow when he reached the Piazza Della Repubblica. A mad swirl of taxis whipped around the roundabout. He trembled as the vehicles whizzed by him. Without a chip to control his irrational fear of getting run down, Ashminov was forced to cope with his emotions. Surely, I haven’t forgotten how. He made a case for his safety: crosswalks were obsolete because engineers had perfected anti-collision technology years ago. Statistically, choking on calamari was a higher risk than a vehicle striking him.
Unconvinced by the argument but pressed for time, he held his breath, stepped into the
hurtling rush of hard objects, and managed to reach the other side without a scratch.
He walked along the electric fence housing the Bioparco’s wild animals until he came to the entrance. A sign said, “Please Do Not Feed the Animals” in twelve languages. He joined the flow of visitors, mostly families, strolling along the elevated pathway that crossed over pairs of elephants, warthogs, and zebras. The Colosseum sat in the dead center of the thousand-acre habitat.
When he reached it, a roar greeted his entry. The majestic beasts lounged on dusty soil.
He spotted Baldini sitting in the fifth row. Mid-fifties, the priest wore khaki pants, boat shoes, and a tan cardigan sweater.
As Ashminov approached him, Baldini shot to his feet. The priest gripped his hand. “You’re perspiring.”
Ashminov pulled his hand back.
“Christian, is the light bothering you?”
Ashminov realized he was wearing sunglasses. He opened his satchel and reached for the devourware chips. “Let me explain what the rebel has to do.”
Baldini passed him a photo. “Her name is Raissa. Have a seat.”
Ashminov sat and studied the rebel’s eyes. They glowed green.
“Interesting look, yes?” Baldini said.
“Magical.”
“Mother’s Swedish, Father’s Egyptian. Eighteen years old. Trained in explosives, electron weaponry, hand-to-hand combat. She can even fire an antique pistol. Her trainer says she’s ready for the mission.”
A roar interrupted Baldini, and they turned to watch a male lope over to a female. The male pawed. The female lion throated a grumble of disinterest. The male lion flopped beside her, perhaps hoping she’d change her mind.
“So powerful,” Baldini said.
“Amazing beasts,” Ashminov concurred.
He passed the photo back to Baldini, followed by the case containing the two devourware chips. “Raissa’s best choice is to embed the chip into the skin of the NanoArtisans employee. Once the chip is inside the firewall, it will automatically upload the devourware to the transmission server in the Citadel.”
