by Scott Cramer
“What if Petrov altered Goldstein’s and Baldini’s chips?”
“For what purpose?”
Raissa shrugged. “I can't put my finger on it, but I feel like I’m being manipulated, as if someone is controlling me like a puppet.”
“Baldini contacted me five years ago, wanting me to develop devourware. I always wondered how he knew to come to me.”
“Why didn’t you ask him?”
“The thrill of developing devourware clouded my judgment. I looked the other way.”
“That's what happened to me in Caleb’s apartment,” she said. “My desire clouded my judgment.”
“Raissa, I guess you’re human.”
She smiled. “You sound disappointed?”
“You are the toughest, most confident person I’ve ever met,” he said.
“I fake it.”
“Do you ever get afraid?”
“All the time,” she admitted.
“Do you have self-doubts?”
“Yes.” She squeezed his arm. “Ashminov, believe in yourself.”
“Do you believe in me?”
She hesitated. “Most of the time.”
He sat on the bed. “We can’t trust the Boston rebel.”
“The rebel is a key member of the mission.”
“The rebel killed a child to get a chip ID for my devourware.”
Bile pooled in the back of Raissa’s throat. “Caleb’s nephew died two days ago.”
Ashminov’s head flopped forward, and he grunted.
“I trust Caleb,” she said.
When he looked up, his eyes were wet. “Every NanoArtisans employee believes Petrov is God.”
“I think Petrov is using him just like he’s using us.”
“You like Caleb,” Ashminov said.
Since the missile strike had killed her parents and Farouk, Raissa had learned how to lock away the feelings she didn’t want to face. Otherwise, they would overwhelm her. She’d put them into a box, close the lid, and throw the box into the deep waters of her mind.
She did that now and picked up the Glock. “How are we going to get inside the Citadel? The wall is a hundred meters tall. It has sonic cannons and laser weapons on top. If there’s an entrance, I didn’t see it, and I’m sure there are hundreds of security paladins patrolling the grounds. If we make it inside and avoid the paladins, we’ll get lost in Petrov’s garden.”
“We don’t have to get inside the Citadel,” Ashminov said.
She rolled her eyes. “Right! Petrov will saunter outside so we can kill him.”
“We’ll let paladins do the dirty work for us.”
“Paladins will kill Petrov?” Raissa demanded.
Ashminov nodded. “After we transmit Hadesware to their chips.”
Hadesware, he explained, was malware based on another M-code module he had written, lionware.
“Stop. Lionware?”
“Let's run through the variations of malware,” he said. “Bibleware is—”
“Skip that.”
“Ricinware—”
“Skip.”
“I developed two versions of lionware,” Ashminov continued. “When you see a beautiful sunset, it stimulates certain neurons. Lionware Version 1 stimulates those same neurons when an individual sees a lion.”
“Why would you develop that?”
Ignoring her question, he said, “Lionware Version 2 generates a different response toward lions.”
“What type of response?”
“Lust.”
“Ashminov, you’re not making any sense.”
“Hadesware will build on the lionware code. At the sight of Petrov, the code will fire impulses into the part of the brain where murderous impulses lurk.”
She leaned forward. “If we transmit Hadesware to a paladin, that paladin will want to murder Petrov?”
“Savagely,” he replied.
Crazy or not, it was the only plan they had, and she followed Ashminov to his mindport. Her optimism, on life support a moment earlier, was now lighting up her mind with fireworks. Looking over his shoulder, she plotted how they would subdue a paladin so that they could infect the paladin with Hadesware using the trans. They would jump as many paladins as possible and hope that one or more of them had the method and means to make it inside the Citadel.
On the mindport screen, hundreds of images of Petrov flashed by. The montage chronicled his life. “We need lots of pictures,” Ashminov explained. “He might have changed his look By including all these images, it will increase the chances of the paladins getting the right guy.”
One photograph stood out. Petrov, about six, sat in a church pew with his legs dangling. His eyes showed fear.
“Petrov attended church?” Raissa asked.
Ashminov nodded. “St. Mary’s in Sofia.”
“He looks afraid.”
“The sisters could sometimes be rough, but one priest seemed to put him on edge. Father Borisov. We called him Father Gorilla behind his back because he was so hairy.”
“Ashminov, how do you know Petrov so well?”
“We were in Catholic school together.”
“That’s where you met him?”
“I need to concentrate,” he told her.
He pulled up a schematic of a human brain, and, in the search field, entered the terms “murder,” “violence,” “rage,” and “bloodlust.”
Raissa pressed him. “You and Petrov were friends?”
“We shared a few things in common. I turned him on to the music I liked.”
“Prince?”
Ashminov was staring at the screen, but Raissa sensed his attention was on her line of questions
“Yes, Prince,” he said finally.
“What else?”
“We shared a love of nature.”
“With the chip,” Raissa said, “Petrov saved the environment.”
Ashminov snapped his head around. Until now, she had seen mostly confusion and doubt in his eyes. Fleeting flashes of confidence had coincided with his usage of tryp. Now she saw something new: white-hot rage. “That’s right,” he said. “M-code saved the environment. I invented M-code. Nicholas stole it from me.” Still seething, Ashminov brought up a screen of strange symbols and numbers.
“Why did he steal your M-code?” she asked.
“I don’t know. When paladins kill Petrov, the answer will die with him. I can live with that.” In a moment, he leaned back. “Done. Petrov turned M-code into a weapon. Now I’m turning the weapon on him.”
“Are you going to burn a chip for the trans?”
“And chase down paladins one at a time? No, we'll transmit Hadesware to hundreds at once.”
“How are we going to do that?”
“I need access to the blimp transmission app from inside the NanoArtisans firewall.”
“We work with Caleb?”
Ashminov nodded. “Either that, or we’ll have to shoot our way in.”
“I prefer the former.” The tightness in Raissa’s chest—was it a spasm of dread, her heart fluttering, or a little of both?
DESIGN: PHASE 10
Caleb tried to focus on Dr. Joyce’s mindport, but the five heads lined up to his right unnerved him. He shifted to his right, using Dr. Aubrey to block his view. Dr. Joyce, seated before the monitor, had removed the chips from the victims and slotted them into a neutrino microscope, about to display the first magnified chip.
They all gasped when the image of the chip, magnified fifty thousand times, appeared. A typical chip featured rows of titanium circuitry. Three angstroms separated the rows. Now it looked like a hardened puddle of titanium.
“No wonder the ricin released,” Dr. Aubrey exclaimed. “The chip overheated.”
“The software might have triggered the failure,” Caleb offered.
“How could that happen?” Dr. Joyce asked.
None of them had an answer. They examined the other chips. All were the same. Tiny puddles of titanium.
“We shou
ld send the results to Dr. Petrov,” Dr. Joyce suggested.
“You know what Dr. Petrov thinks of sloppy science,” Dr. Aubrey said. “We need a bigger sample size.”
The two scientists turned to Caleb. In his throat was a lump formed of rose scent and laser knives. He choked as he swallowed past it. “I’m sorry, but I can’t go back to the solartarium.”
Dr. Joyce piped up. “Fieldwork is an acquired taste. I'll go.”
“I’ll join you,” Dr. Aubrey added.
In a moment, his colleagues had left him alone in the lab. He received a text message from Zoe.
Come to my house ASAP. It’s urgent.
What’s wrong?
Jack is scaring me.
Caleb’s pulse quickened. I’ll send security.
NO!!!!!!
Why is Jack scaring you?
Please, Caleb. I need you. You’ll know what to do. Hurry.
The conversation ended. Caleb called her, but Zoe had set her messenger to “Do Not Disturb.”
He dashed out of the lab.
DESIGN: PHASE 11
In Zoe and Jack’s bedroom, Raissa pressed her ear against the door. Ashminov, who had brought the Hadesware on a data stick, stood beside her, with the weapon satchel at their feet. The rebel had insisted that ambushing Caleb was their only option. She kept her finger on the joule’s discharger, hoping she wouldn’t have to use it.
She heard the front door open.
“Where's Jack?” Caleb was out of breath.
“Jack’s on his way,” Zoe replied in a shaky voice.
Raissa pictured the sister on the couch looking up at her troubled brother. Love and betrayal are a toxic mix. Was Zoe perspiring? Or was she as ruthless as Goldstein and Mustafa.
“Did he hurt you?” Caleb asked.
“Caleb, sit down.”
Raissa raised the joule and shot a glance to Ashminov. Get ready. He nodded.
“What did Jack do?” Caleb demanded.
“Caleb, sit beside me. I don’t want you to get hurt.”
“Hurt? Jack wants to hurt me, too?”
“Please,” Zoe pleaded.
“I’m calling security,” Caleb said. “There are things you don’t know about your husband. Things that will be difficult for you to hear.”
Raissa flung the door open, stepped out of the bedroom, and aimed her joule at Caleb. His face cycled through a kaleidoscope of expressions. Shock. Rage. Wide-eyed fascination. He settled on a cold stare. Her emotions cycled through confusion and more confusion. “Give me your messenger.”
Caleb’s eyes flicked to the joule. “Are you going to shoot me?”
“If I have to.” She double-checked the setting to make sure it was on stun.
“You think you can shoot me without being punished?”
“Caleb, my chip stopped functioning a long time ago.”
He stepped forward. “Put down the joule.”
Caleb posed no physical threat, but he would unleash fire and fury if he called security on his messenger.
Just then, Ashminov stepped out of the bedroom with the weapons. He set the bag on the floor.
“Another rebel?” Caleb spat the words with disgust.
Raissa snatched the messenger out of his hand. “Caleb, we need your help.”
“Funny way to ask.” He turned to Zoe. “Did they hurt you?”
“Please listen to them,” Zoe replied.
Raissa’s neck muscles knotted tighter. The Boston rebel sickened her.
“Don’t worry, I’ll handle this,” Caleb said in a gentle tone. Then he glared at Raissa with hatred in his eyes. “I should have reported you to security the minute I discovered you had a joule.” The tone was a mismatch for the hard stare; doubt and confusion, not hatred, colored his words.
Raissa’s thoughts scrambled. He never reported me? “Please, sit,” she said in a pinched voice.
Thankfully, Caleb sat on the couch beside Zoe. He jostled her arm. “We’ll be all right. There’s nothing they can do to hurt us.”
Raissa lowered the joule. “Petrov has developed a weapon, and Ashminov and I are trying to stop him from killing more people.”
Caleb scoffed. “Dr. Petrov would never develop a weapon!”
She had expected that response. “He’s already used it. Thousands of innocent people died in Copley Square and the North End. Caleb, I know it's hard for you to think about Petrov rationally, but look around the city. What do you think happened?”
He stared into space for a long moment. “Dr. Petrov has saved hundreds of millions of lives. He stopped wars and cleaned up pollution. A new day is upon us because of his efforts.”
Raissa sighed. The moment of moving him forcibly was fast approaching. “Explain the weapon,” she said to Ashminov.
“Petrov wrote malware that releases the ricin in a chip. Everyone died of ricin poisoning.”
“Anybody could guess that,” Caleb said. “It was a chip malfunction.”
“Did you inspect a chip?” Ashminov asked.
Caleb gave a little nod.
“Then you must have seen that it had melted.”
Caleb’s eyes widened before he followed with a weak chuckle. “Another educated guess.”
Ashminov stepped to the side, stumbling over the weapons cache. He caught his balance. “The ricinware created an infinite loop of M-code. Molecular friction generated the heat.”
Caleb spoke in a halting tone. “You know nothing about M-code.”
“I invented it.”
Caleb threw his head back and laughed. “Where did you study?”
“The National Gymnasium of Natural Sciences and Mathematics.”
“Never heard of it.”
“It’s the top high school in Sofia.”
“You never attended university, and you expect me to believe you invented M-code?”
Raissa had heard enough of their debate. “Ashminov can prove he understands M-code.”
“I have two samples of M-code, but I need my messenger,” Caleb said.
Raissa handed him the messenger, and when her fingers brushed his, a sudden change came over him. She had seen the same expression of wonder at Symphony Hall and later in his apartment when he had wanted to kiss her. Despite the chaos and their demands on him, he still seemed to like her.
Caleb’s face grew cold. “I can’t wait to see what Dr. Petrov does to you two.”
His stare unnerved her. He was a dutiful NanoArtisans employee, disbelieving that Petrov would willfully hurt anyone. Unless Ashminov could convince him otherwise, she would have to secure Caleb’s cooperation at the end of a gun.
* * *
Caleb glared at the two rebels, conflicted. If he had been alone, he might have tried to reason with them, but Zoe looked frightened. He had brought these rebels into her life, and it was his job to get rid of them. Fearing that Jack, the third rebel, would further complicate the situation, Caleb had to call for help and then stall for time. A phony demonstration by this guy with Raissa would give him all the time he needed. To enact his plan, he bowed his head and pictured the words. Dr. Aubrey, send security to Zoe’s house. Rebels are holding us hostage.
“Hurry,” Raissa barked.
Her voice started his pulse racing. He could not square his feelings. He liked and hated her at once, the two sensations intertwining like hot and cold vines around his heart.
After retrieving the M-code that Dr. Petrov had transmitted to his chip twelve years ago, on his sixth birthday, Caleb passed the messenger to Ashminov.
The rebel scrolled through the code and then looked up. “What do you want to know?”
Nobody could read through two thousand lines of a standard programming language in ten seconds, much less M-code, and pretend to know its purpose.
Eager to expose the rebel as a fraud, he said, “What behavior does it promote?”
“The code plods along with no imagination,” Ashminov began. “It signals two places in the brain: the lower part of your frontal l
obe and the hippocampus. The first area deals with creativity. The second area influences your dexterity—the mutable skills function.”
“Mutable skills?” He'd heard Dr. Petrov use that phrase once during a lecture to NanoArtisans neural coders.
“The function checks for skill level. When it detects a change, it resets the skill level to zero. No matter how hard you pursue a creative endeavor, you’ll never get better.”
Stunned, Caleb sat back. After twelve years of practice, his only skill was in coaxing more torturous sounds from the viola. Then he caught on the rebel’s game. “Raissa told you what I sound like.”
“I never told him anything,” Raissa said in a convincing tone.
These rebels can lie with impunity. “I have more M-code to show you.”
Ashminov returned the messenger, and Caleb paused for half a minute before pulling up the other patch. When he handed over the messenger again, he was almost looking forward to the next piece of fiction.
“This must be more recent—it looks like Petrov learned a thing or two about M-code, but the code is still pedestrian. Two functions jump out at me: ‘LocateObj' and ‘setAffection.’ Ashminov, with his eyes widening, turned to Raissa. “Petrov lifted components of my lionware!”
“Version 1 or 2?” Raissa asked.
Caleb cleared his throat. “Lionware?”
“Version 1,” Ashminov said to Raissa.
“Petrov knew what you were doing in Rome all along!”
They ignored him and continued their discussion. Caleb gave Zoe a reassuring pat on the leg and winked, hoping that her mind-reading skill was operating at peak efficiency. She’d know he had a good plan.
“Have you felt overwhelmed by beauty lately?” Ashminov asked him.
Caleb caught Raissa staring at him, and he felt his throat closing. Perspiration trickled down his chest. “What does the X mean?”
“There’s no X.”
“You invented M-code, but you can’t find the X? I'll show you.” He held out his hand, and Ashminov returned the messenger. Caleb opened the developer notes and showed the rebel the equation.
“Ha,” the rebel exclaimed. “That’s a Wölker equation. It’s deceptively simple. Look at the metadata.” He scrolled to a different section of the code. “Essentially, it’s half an X. A pink check mark, in fact. Petrov added the hexadecimal color code #CD6155. Apparently, Petrov wants you to find beauty in a pink check-mark.”
