Eden Chip

by Scott Cramer

  Caleb figured Jack must be inside waiting for them. He’d make his appeal for a delay to both Zoe and Jack. “Before you start the process, I want to talk to you and Jack.”

  “Jack’s not coming.” Zoe opened the booth door and stepped inside.

  Caleb stopped, confused.

  “Caleb, we’re brainstorming with Child Builder. Jack wants you to be here.”

  “He said that?”

  Zoe narrowed her eyes and expelled air through her nostrils.

  Caleb grudgingly stepped in and sat next to her in the front row. Soft yellow light fostered a mood for creating life. “We’re only brainstorming,” he affirmed.

  Zoe punched START, and a flashing icon, LOADING PROGRAM, appeared on the screen. “Program ready,” Child Builder said in a maternal tone.

  “Builder, access file 888.V2,” Zoe instructed.

  Builder replied, “File 888.V2 enabled.”

  “What file is that?” Caleb asked.

  Zoe looked away. “Core DNA.”

  “So you and Jack already started the design process?”

  “Caleb, if you want to be late for your date, keep asking me dumb questions.”

  He sighed. “Continue.” He supposed it was good news that Zoe and Jack had contributed DNA. It meant Jack was onboard.

  “Would you like menu mode or freestyle?” Builder asked.

  “Builder, freestyle,” Zoe replied and turned to Caleb. “Girl or boy?”

  He dug his fingers into the chair rests. “That is not my decision.”

  “Caleb, we’re only manipulating software.”

  “Girl.”

  “What do you want to call her?”

  “Zoe, the code doesn’t belong to me.”

  She drummed her fingers.

  “Fern. It’s only a working title.”

  “Builder, profile 888.V2 has the name Fern,” Zoe said.

  “Fern confirmed,” Builder said.

  Zoe continued, “Builder, add twenty-five percent randomized DNA from my parents.”

  “Digitized DNA from Madeleine and Benjamin Saunders added to Fern’s profile,” Builder reported.

  “Your turn,” Zoe said.

  Caleb tensed. “I’ve never done this before.”

  “Builder, menu mode,” Zoe instructed.

  A menu of personality attributes and skills appeared on the screen. Using a roller mouse built into the arm of the chair, Caleb scrolled through the characteristics. Accessible, Active, Admirable, Adventurous, Alert, Allocentric. There were over six hundred options, each with a corresponding filter: low, medium, high.

  “Builder, how many skills can I select?” he asked.

  “Please choose three,” Child Builder replied.

  Zoe nudged him. “See? It’s easy.”

  Caleb selected Confident, Friendly, and Optimistic and assigned a medium filter to each attribute. Next, at Zoe’s insistence, he reviewed a list of mental skills. He selected Math, Music, and Art, all with a high filter.

  “Shall we describe how Fern looks?” Zoe said. “Builder, physical attributes.”

  The outline of a five-year-old girl appeared on screen against a white background. Fern’s hair fell to her shoulders.

  “You first,” Zoe said.

  “Builder, allow Fern to run fast and jump high.” Fern grew lean, with muscular legs and arms, and her hair braided in two pigtails.

  “Builder, give Fern Caleb’s nose.”

  Caleb felt like he was looking in the mirror. The Saunders nose would live on in perpetuity.

  Zoe jumped in again. “Builder, Fern has green eyes.”

  The temperature inside the booth rose—or it might have been the temperature of his blood rising. Fern’s eyes reminded him of Raissa.

  “Hi, Daddy,” Fern said, looking out at Caleb from the screen.

  Caleb choked. “I’m not your father!”

  Zoe chuckled. “Fern isn’t real.”

  Caleb reminded himself that Fern was lines of code. Fern wasn’t even a functioning program. It wasn’t a functioning program. “Tell Fern I’m not her father!”

  “You tell her.”

  “Fern, I’m your Uncle Caleb.”

  Fern giggled. “Daddy, don’t be late for your date with Mommy.”

  Caleb leaped up and flung the door open to get air. Child Builder needed debugging.

  “Builder, we’re done for today,” Zoe said. “Download Fern’s profile to a data stick.” Fern disappeared, and the screen turned blue.

  “The genetarium database has triple redundancy,” Caleb said, finding the air outside the booth to be as oppressively hot as inside. “You don’t need Fern on a stick.”

  Zoe gave him the strangest look. She seemed deeply troubled and happy at the same time. “Caleb, I want to make sure Fern is safe.”

  Despite a few hiccups in Fern’s code and Builder’s functionality, the child had touched his heart. “I want her to be safe, too.”

  “Thank you joining me,” Zoe said. “Don’t be late for your date.”

  “With Mommy. . .” Fern’s words echoed in Caleb’s mind as he jogged outside to hail a taxi.

  * * *

  Raissa stood before Caleb Saunders’ apartment, clutching her viola case and looking up at the grey triple-decker with white trim. She knew it well from the satellite images. He lived on the third floor. She was an hour early.

  The house sat on a hill, and she had a good view of the Boston skyline, three kilometers away. Four dense clusters of blimps hovered at low altitude, a sight she had never seen before. If she could execute her plan and plant the devourware on Caleb, the sky might someday be a place where the only floating objects were clouds. But if I fail?

  The negative thought died in a fountain of icy tingles from her chest.

  She walked up to the front porch and picked up a small package outside the door, addressed to Caleb from an aromatarium. Bringing the box to her nose, she recognized the scent at once. Sandalwood perfume, the same scent she was wearing. A coincidence?

  She rang the bell. When nobody answered, she walked around the corner to a small café, bought tea, and sat a table by the window so she could keep an eye on the street in both directions. The view included an enlightenment wall. President Murtowsky, on a ship off the coast of Argentina, was pointing out a pod of whales. The next episode featured Collective Member Andropov observing a family of polar bears frolicking on a pristine snowfield.

  Petrov suddenly appeared. The transition was jarring. He sat next to the stream in his garden. She engaged her cochlear speaker.

  “Behold, Eve, the man has become like one of us, knowing good and evil, and now, he might stretch out his hand, and also take from the tree of life, and eat, and live forever.”

  Troubled that Petrov had mentioned Eve twice before and this was the second time he had spoken nonsense, she killed the speaker and returned to Caleb’s apartment. The perfume was gone.

  She climbed the porch steps, set her viola down, and put the devourware chip on the tip of her right forefinger. She pushed the doorbell with her pinky.

  Caleb appeared within seconds. “Hi.”

  Had he been waiting for me on the other side of the door? She extended her hand. “Hi.”

  He took her hand, and they shook. Raissa slid her finger forward and embedded the chip in his wrist. Step one. Now she had to ensure he would transfer the devourware to NanoArtisans. “What time are you returning to work?”

  “Dr. Petrov is giving us the day off to celebrate Version 7.”

  “Oh.” Raissa scrambled for a new plan, briefly considering the idea of marching him to NanoArtisans at gunpoint. “Has the transmission started?” A tone of alarm put a crack in her cheery veneer.

  “Not yet.”

  She cast caution aside. “What time will it begin?”

  “They’ll send the code to the Citadel by 1:00 p.m.”

  “At one or by one?”

  “If I know Dr. Aubrey, she’ll wait until the last second. Would you li
ke to come inside?”

  “I'd love to.” She picked up her instrument and followed him up the stairs. A glance at her messenger informed her she had one hour and 15 minutes to deliver the devourware inside NanoArtisans.

  His apartment had a pleasant odor: a minty, pine scent with a trace of honey. Caleb closed the door. “Would you like something to drink?”

  “Tea?”

  “Sure.” He ambled to the kitchen.

  Raissa set her viola on the floor and sat at the dining room table where she faced a framed photo of Petrov on a coffee table in the adjoining living room.

  “Adam is quite thoughtful.” Petrov's words rolled off his thin static lips. “He researched popular teas in Jerusalem. Expect jasmine.”

  Raissa lurched forward, hoping she was losing her mind because the alternative was even more frightening.

  Caleb lived a Spartan existence, which she already knew from the Boston rebel's intel. Furnishings included two easy chairs, a coffee table, dining room table with two more chairs, and a single lamp. His viola and a music stand occupied one corner of the room. A hardcover book sat on the windowsill. Raissa hadn’t seen one in years. The memory wall featured a swaddled infant. Unlike most memory walls, which scrolled images at timed intervals, the child's picture remained fixed. It felt like a third person was in the apartment—or a fourth if you counted Petrov.

  Caleb emerged from the kitchen with an awkward smile and a bottle of perfume which he set on the table. “I got it for you.”

  Alarmed, she read the label and exclaimed, “I love sandalwood.”

  Raissa listened in horror as he explained how, after the concert, he had analyzed her scent with a spectrometer. What else had he investigated?

  “Do you restore antique cars?” he asked.

  “No, why?”

  “The analyzer detected dioctyl sebacate.”

  “What’s that?”

  “Don’t feel bad. I didn’t know, either. It’s an oily, colorless liquid used in plastic explosives and automobile brake fluid.”

  “Oh yes, that dioctyl sebacate. I handle plastic explosives all the time.” Raissa burst out laughing.

  Caleb cocked his head and stared at her for a long moment. “Is your chip functioning?”

  “Caleb, I’m joking. Thank you for the perfume. You’re sweet.”

  His face flushed pink.

  To steer the conversation further away from plastic explosives, she gestured to the book on the sill. “You read words on paper?”

  He nodded. “It forces you to slow down and enjoy the story. My dad used to read Charlotte’s Web to me at bedtime.” He handed her the book.

  The cover was worn and faded, and Raissa flipped the pages. Imagining Caleb’s dad sitting by Caleb’s bed and reading to him filled her with warmth. “What’s it about?”

  “A little girl, Fern, owns a pig named Wilbur. A spider named Charlotte saves Wilbur from being butchered. Then Wilbur saves Charlotte’s babies. Do you have a favorite story?”

  “Pride and Prejudice. Jane Austen wrote it two hundred and fifty years ago. Elizabeth and Mr. Darcy are the main characters. Mr. Darcy falls in love with Elizabeth, but she doesn’t love him.”

  “How does it end?”

  Raissa winked. “Read it and find out. Caleb, I’d love to see where you work.” It was a bold approach and a massive gamble, but she didn't have time for literary discussions.

  “Sure, we can walk by the campus.”

  “Can you take me inside?” She held her breath, worried he would become suspicious.

  “I would need to get you clearance from a director, but everyone has gone home to spend time with their families.”

  Raissa reached behind her back, again poised to march him to NanoArtisans at gunpoint. “Everyone?”

  Caleb's face brightened. “Dr. Aubrey.” Then a frown followed. “I don’t think she’s happy with me.” He nodded to himself. “Actually, I never checked into the injection center. It doesn’t hurt to ask.” He closed his eyes and kept them closed until Raissa heard a text message come through. Caleb accessed his messenger and broke out into a smile. “We’re all set. Dr. Aubrey has issued you a visitor’s code.”

  Weird, but all that mattered to Raissa was that she was a step closer to delivering the devourware inside the NanoArtisans firewall.

  The teapot whistled, and Caleb jumped up. He disappeared into the kitchen. Soon he returned with two mugs of tea. “Do you like jasmine? I hear it's popular in Jerusalem.”

  Raissa's blood turned cold. “My favorite.” She gestured to the memory wall, wanting to look anywhere but Petrov’s photo. “Who’s that?”

  Caleb’s lower lip trembled. “My nephew, Julian.”

  “He's adorable.”

  Caleb's eyes were glassy with tears. “He died yesterday.”

  She studied his face. Crying has become almost extinct in the age of the chip, and yet someone who works at NanoArtisans is shedding tears. “How did it happen?”

  He looked away, blinking hard. “I’d rather not say.”

  She took his hand, paying careful attention to where she had planted the chip. Expressing sorrow advertised that her chip was inoperable, but Raissa didn't care—this was the human thing to do. “I'm sorry to hear about Julian.”

  He gathered himself together a little. “Thanks. Everyone else wants to know if my sister's gone to the genetarium yet.”

  “I know what it’s like to lose someone close.”

  Caleb dragged a sleeve across his wet cheeks. “Who?”

  “My baby brother, Farouk. And my mom and dad. It happened a long time ago, but it still makes me sad.”

  “You get sad?”

  “Sometimes.”

  “You should get a chip refresh. That will fix you.”

  “I don’t need a chip in my brain to tell me how I should feel!” She had failed to scrub the anger from her tone. She reminded herself that Caleb might hurt inside, but he was still the enemy. “Music makes me happy,” she added with a forced smile and in a sweeter voice.

  He jumped up. “I want you to be happy. Let’s play together before we go to NanoArtisans.”

  Grinning through gritted teeth, Raissa checked her messenger. The V7 upload would happen in fifty-five minutes. They had enough time to play one short piece. “I’d love to,” she said, reaching for her viola.

  * * *

  To be on the safe side, Ashminov thought he had thirty minutes before Raissa returned. If he wanted to push it, he might have forty. But it was all for naught unless he moved.

  Drawn by opposing forces, he stood on the sidewalk in front of the safe house. The International Food Cafetorium called out to him to go in one direction. His promise to Raissa compelled him to go back inside. The tug and pull immobilized him.

  He struck a bargain. He set a messenger alarm to ring in thirty minutes. No matter where he was, he would return to the safe house when it sounded.

  Wishing to avoid another experience of riding aimlessly around Boston in a taxi, he committed the safe house address to memory and then joined the flow of pedestrians heading down Beacon Street. He chose the former Episcopalian church in Copley Square over the old Catholic Church in Codman Square because it was closer.

  Three blocks from the safe house and a block away from Copley Square, tendrils of rose scent spiraled up his nostrils. Did someone die? Did many people die? The odor was thick.

  The street darkened, and Ashminov lifted his eyes, surprised to see blimps blocking the sun, like a storm front moving in. Sirens wailed nearby.

  As he rounded the corner onto Dartmouth Street, paladin emergency vehicles whizzed by. Uneasy, he turned onto Boylston and had his first view of Copley Square. He recoiled. Thousands of bodies covered the ground: men, women, boys, girls: all shades of white, brown, and ochre. Most victims wore contorted facial expressions, suggesting they had experienced pain and suffering in their final minutes. Hovering about the carnage was a blimp, releasing a spray of rose oil.

  No
t everyone was dead as evidenced by weak groans and cries for help. As Ashminov got closer, he could see corpses piled two and three deep, and on the steps of the Cafetorium, they appeared to be at least five deep. A mad scramble to enter the former church had occurred, he thought, even as people were dropping dead.

  Around the square, teams of paladins, moving with purpose and fixed smiles, were loading corpses into emergency vehicles. None of the paladins paid any attention to the small number of victims still alive.

  Stepping closer to the carnage, Ashminov noted bloated limbs, and sweat glistening on the faces of the dead, symptoms of ricin poisoning.

  “Friend, what is going on?” a man nearby asked another bystander. Ashminov stepped closer to glean what he could.

  “One minute all those people were singing and holding hands,” came the reply. “Some of them were pushing their way to the Cafetorium, but they all seemed happy. The next minute they were wailing and twisting on the ground in agony. Not long after that, they were dead—most, anyway.”

  Part of Ashminov wished he were among the dead. There was only one explanation for the slaughter, and, indirectly, he bore responsibility. Petrov had modified his Bibleware code, turning it into a lethal weapon.

  He fell to his knees, ready to pray for the dead and for all the future souls that Petrov might smite. Ashminov’s messenger pinged. His thirty minutes were up.

  Reeling, he stumbled back to the safe house and rode the elevator. Once inside, he printed a new devourware chip, which he popped into the trans. Bowing his head, he spoke aloud the cautionary words of Matthew 24:24: “For false messiahs and false prophets will appear and perform great signs and wonders to deceive.” Christ was pumping love through his veins, but he could not love Jesus and murder Petrov at the same time. They were incompatible urges. He brought the trans wand to his forehead and engaged the transmission. Following the beep, he felt his spirits sinking, and he was alone again.

  Alone in the valley of the shadow of death, but more determined than ever to destroy the transmission server and kill Petrov.

  He and Raissa were a team now, and it no longer made sense for her to embed a devourware chip on Caleb Saunders. He reached for his messenger.