System Seven (22 page)

“WHAT THE FUCK!” he shouted. A darkness grew peripherally,
threatening to take him. He fought to see Anki one last time.

“No regrets,” he said
before the world faded to nothing.

• • •

Kaiya stood at the
window of the ranch house as dawn purpled the horizon and outlined the
lowlying hills east of the house. Silence hung in the room, interrupted only
by an occasional car or rig on the main highway.

The old couple living
here had been tied up and put in a top floor bedroom. It was only temporary but
it left her feeling more like a terrorist than anything. The Morgans had no
idea who they were and the fear in their eyes hurt. She thought of her mother
and the pain tripled. She prayed again they wouldn’t go after her.

She put her hand to
the window. All hope of clearing her name was gone along with hope for a normal
life. Instead, she was wanted for murder and soon, kidnapping. She didn’t dare
try to imagine what the future would reveal. Their rescuers claimed to be part
of a resistance-type group but nothing about them made her feel confident of
their motives or character. She couldn’t shake the feeling they were from a
cult of some kind.

After the dream of Austin
there was no falling back asleep. Her world had reduced to wanting a safe place
to be with him. More than anything she felt fear. Mac’s scanner let them follow
the search effort well into the early morning hours. He wanted to leave to
avoid a house search. Their rescuers were confident in staying put. She thought
of running and pretending to be a hostage herself. In a way she was but it
wasn’t Mac’s fault. She had to remember that there were authorities that wanted
one thing from her and beyond that she was likely a liability. She couldn’t do
that to Mac anyway. As bizarre as things had become, her promise to trust him
was the most tangible anchor she had.

He stirred in the
bottom bunk. He’d finally fallen asleep after four thirty, not long after her
dream woke her. Now his sleep was dream-filled, too, by all his shifting and
murmurs. How uncanny it was to have had such a vivid dream. Old London, with Austin.
Had he controlled the entire thing? Mind reading and dream control? Not too
much of a stretch. She almost laughed. Coming to grips with psychic phenomena
was the last thing imaginable just two days ago. Now the reality stared her in
the face.

She looked back to the
window in time to see figures rush from the shadows across the side yard. “Oh
God–” She went to Mac, pushing him awake. “They’re in the yard!”

Mac jumped to his
feet, gun in hand, and grabbed a shotgun from the floor. “Upstairs.” He guided
her to the hall. He called out the keyword indicating alarm and got
acknowledgement before he led Kaiya up the stairs. A sharp crack split the
silence as a dual-pane window busted downstairs. A second, then third window
blew.

They ducked into a
craft room facing the hills. Mac sidled up to the window and peeked out. The
detached garage was fifteen yards off and mostly obscured from view by a tree.
Its side door stood ajar.

“Fucking
fuck
. Why did I listen to them?” More of
the flash bangs went off downstairs. She squatted behind a sewing machine.

Mac levered open the
double-hung window and punctured the screen, tearing it clear. He poked his
head to peer down.

“Do as I do. The AC
unit is just below. Swing and fall to the right of it. I’ll drop first and
cover. Toss the shotgun down before you jump, safety on.”

Downstairs, shots rang
out staccato, interspersed with streams of automatic fire. Hostages or not,
they were coming in to kill. Mac climbed out the window feet first, belly slid
to dangle, then slipped from view.

The wood floor cracked
open from a stray bullet. The stairs thudded as people stormed up. Blasts of
gunfire shook the hall. More rounds popped through the door and wall. She
couldn’t move. Knew she had to.
Go, God
damn it!
She grabbed the shotgun and
spun for the window. Flashes lit the yard below. Mac fired once before taking
rounds in the chest and face. He fell to the ground in a gruesome sprawl. A
black-clad figure appeared from the under the tree’s cover to inspect his kill.
Without thinking, she lined up the barrel and squeezed the trigger. The shotgun
boomed and the figure fell. She ducked away but felt a stinging brand below her
collar bone. The door to the bedroom burst open and again flashes accompanied
stinging pain – the deafening clatter confirmed she was being shot to death.
She went limp under the punches of the bullets and crumpled to the floor.

The gunfire stopped
and the room filled with her attackers. Voices sounded, distant and
overlapping. Hands were upon her but it didn’t matter. The hot flow of blood
drenched her neck and chest.

Outward
... she flowed outward until the pain receded to a dull memory. A sense
of peace settled in. She had begun a journey to a destination more familiar
than her own body. She yearned for the returning, wherever it was.

The peaceful flowing
abruptly became a suction pulling her
sideways,
away and into a darkness, a sparkling blackness that hinted at much but
revealed nothing. Suddenly a passenger, she knew everything – reality itself –
was all under control.

Someone
else’s
control.

What is soul? It’s like electricity - we don’t really know
what it is,

but it’s a force that
can light a room.

- Ray Charles

The last rays of sunlight
draped the hillside and pressed the heat of the day against Johan’s face. Below
lay the village of Bolnuevo, resting at the lip of the Mediterranean. The sands
ran several kilometers alongside the boulevard into the town of El Castellar
with its sparkling lights. Summer’s tourism filled the beaches and dotted the
coastal roads with tiny, colorful rentals. The western sky glowed orange and
red in a sunset befitting a wildfire. Drink in hand, he stood at the patio’s
railing and watched for the girls’ return from market.

Their arrival in the
Spanish coastal region was a blurred memory seen through the haze of
painkillers – the garish lights of the avenues, the faces as they drove past,
and no memory of the journey there. From the third day in Paris, after learning
who their hosts were and their intentions, to their arrival here lay a gap of
six days. The last memory was of the anesthesia mask and a woman’s reassurance.
“Be glad. You’ll awaken to your new life.”

Six days and no scars,
no signs of surgery, only the dull ache beneath. The first glance of his face
had a completely unexpected effect: he’d grown dizzy and nauseous. His face
wasn’t the problem – it was handsome. He’d picked it, helped design it. The problem
was, it wasn’t
his
face. He’d avoided
its reflection since arriving. Stage makeup and fake names were one thing;
complete facial reconstruction was something else entirely.

He swirled the last of
another pale green margarita in his glass, the ice long melted. Inside, Marco
watched television while the two guards took turns appearing at various points
around the villa. The Spaniard felt his glance and came out with a bowl of
chips to join him at the railing. The sound of waves against the beach reached
them, as subdued as the breeze.

“There are worse
places to be, eh Johan?”

“I imagine. It is a
bit hot.”

“Heat brings the soul
to the surface.” He smiled easily, natural as the hills. “The women took a late
lunch in Marazon before market. They’re returning now.”

“They called?”

Marco shook his head.

“So...”

“The threads tie us
together. And we trust. With both, the language forms. Trust, though, that’s
the thing. Without it, nothing flows, nothing is believable though everything
is possible.”

“So you just hear her
voice in your head?”

“Sometimes. Sometimes
I see what she is seeing. Other times I feel her and know what she wants me
to.” He laughed. “You can try to imagine it but only when you experience it
will it make sense.”

“How do you separate
her thoughts from your own? How can you be sure you’re not imagining it?”

Marco’s eyes went to
the waves approaching the beach. “Because I know myself. Everything else
belongs to others.”

“Why can you do it and
I can’t?”

“Why do you
think
you can’t do it?” He smiled. “It
is expected. For centuries man has existed in the island of his mind. He is
taught what he can experience and dream. Inside, he is alone, though he senses
others. In days of old, fear of witchcraft, the devil, and madness kept his
mind to himself. In modern times, culture, religion, and that same fear of
madness does the job. Yet imagination has always demanded more – the soul
senses connections. Clues abound but the distractions and fears are greater.
Always they are greater. Culture acts like a clamp, cutting us off. Hear voices
and something’s wrong with you. Ranging too far from the status quo is like a
death, no? So imagination is quelled, the soul is redirected, and we are
comfortable again, or at least safe. This is the highest form of training. We
become more of our society than ourselves. A society of culture that teaches
not to trust the undercurrents of our minds.” He looked over. “If you can’t
trust yourself, then nothing can be truly trusted. I’ve learned to trust
myself, far from the status quo. Like most, you haven’t.”

Subtle, delicate, so
fleeting and wild, yet Marco and Rachel had it down. The idea of threads
connecting people was familiar. When thinking of Anki, a connection seemed to
vibrate, drawing thoughts. However, he was still clumsy with it, unsure. Only
in their lovemaking had he been able to surge with her, the proximity obviously
a factor. Even then, it all happened instinctually, at a primal level. If he
had to convey what time a flight was leaving or even what color he was thinking
of, he wouldn’t know where to start.

The only encouraging
thing Marco mentioned was the importance of trust. The trust between he and
Anki had proven deep and genuine, a precursor to a love he couldn’t imagine the
end of. That trust would help them connect.

“Anki is a special
woman, Johan. Your togetherness is not an accident. I have no doubt you will
become as close to her as I am to Rachel. Your first trainer arrives tomorrow.
As I said before, you have an uncommon
awareness about you. You learned quickly on your own and you’ll do much better
with a trainer.”

“I would be a lot
happier if she was getting trained, too.”

“I understand that.
Whatever the reason, her training will begin later. We’re as curious as you are
about that, believe me.”

Johan emptied his
glass and nodded towards the road below. “I think that’s them.”

After dinner, the two
couples retreated to the patio chairs. Night had descended fully. Stars floated
like bits of ice in the warm, dark sky.

“Johan, you have to
stay up late tonight.” Rachel dipped bread in an olive oil sauce. “A visitor is
coming to see you. I think he wants to talk about computers.”

“Sounds like work. Do
I need to slow up?” he asked, indicating his drink.

“I don’t think it
matters much. You know your business,” Marco replied.

Half an hour before
midnight Johan untangled from Anki, mindful of the time. He had remembered
Marco’s directive and avoided climax. Denial of such a basic pleasure sucked
though it was understandable now – anything to keep off Comannda radar. They’d also stayed quiet out of
modesty. He could almost feel Marco’s and Rachel’s presence flowing around
them.

A pair of candles cast
shadows that danced on the walls. Anki still lingered in their intimacy while
his thoughts wandered. The visitor would arrive soon. What could they want from
him? The Overseer system described in the video made the Underground’s systems
sound like calculators by comparison. Unless it was control over the
Underground itself they wanted, wetware as well as the network. Soldado
wouldn’t like that.

The muted sound of an
engine brought him out of bed and to the patio door. A car entered the circular
drive.

“Should I stay in bed,
or...” Anki spoke soft as the candle light.

He tugged on his cargo shorts and t-shirt. “Try
to sleep. I may wake you later.”

She smiled. “Please do.”

Coming down the
stairs, Johan slowed. The front door stood wide open and Rachel sat
cross-legged on the long sofa, drink in hand.

“You’re no
fun
, Johan.”

She referred to them
keeping quiet. “And you’re a dirty mind-reading girl.” He headed for the door.

She laughed and said,
“Come, sit here with me.” She patted the couch. “Marco’s getting your visitor.
C’mon, sit.”

“I’ll take a chair,
thanks.” He settled into a chair with a view of the door.

“Fine. Marco approves.
You know he likes you. He doesn’t like many people.”

“I find that hard to
believe.”

“Not when you know
what we know. You’ll see.”

Marco came through the
front door followed by a tall brown-skinned man with cropped black hair wearing
black jeans and boots. Older than Johan by several years, he moved with alert
eyes, apprehension a cloud around him. His eyes darted to Rachel then fixed on
him.

Marco waved in his
direction. “There’s your man. SlotZero himself.”

Like a blow from a
bat, the use of his Underground name set every muscle on edge.
What the–

The stranger spoke.
“If that’s really you Zero, tell me who turned you onto the senator’s coke
habit?”

There was only one
person who could ask that question and only one voice that could bring to mind
a Mexican beach bum with a tequila hangover.

“Soldado?”

“Maybe.” Still
apprehensive. “The senator. Who let you in on that?”

“Jeez, man, his
housekeeper, Della. How’d they find you?”

The cloud lifted and
he walked over. “SlotZero, you crazy bastard, what the
fuck
have you gotten us into? I hand you the hottest hack on the
planet and you end up fucking around with a bunch of psychic voodoo doctors.”
They shook hands and embraced. “After you dropped the Crosstalk bomb, shit went
whack. Still ain’t done spinning up, from what they’re telling me. It’s like a
goddamned dream. Biggest BAP ever.”

They sat and Soldado
told of how the Runa Korda had used the towpath house and its staff as a means
to wedge into the Underground. They delivered a compelling communiqué that
convinced the brilliant computer scientist that his long term welfare was at
stake and that they were his best bet for survival.

“I know when the shit
gets so deep you can’t take a piss, it’s time to find a tree to climb up.” He
lowered his voice. “Even if it’s a cactus.”

The sophistication of
Soldado’s systems impressed them as did the overall organization. They assured
him that keeping the Underground intact was a priority provided he completely
scrubbed all copies of Crosstalk’s file.

“So I did. They said
things were about to get too hot for me in Sao Paulo. Said you were holed up in
a beach town full of women and could use a hand.”

“You saw the video?
What’d you make of it?”

He shook his head. “
Madre mia
, that first night. It was like
el Diablo
cracked open my brain.”

“I know what you
mean.”

“Seems like the real fajita but I still can’t
wrap my mind around it. I’m just moseying up to it, slow-like, seeing what it
all means.” Soldado eyed Rachel. “With what you can do, you gotta be more
powerful than anyone on the planet. ‘Cept these overlords. Money’s no object
and all that?”

Rachel’s gave a shrug.
“There comes a point where degrees do not matter. With enough money, other
things become more important. With power, it is relative. Always relative.”

Marco returned
balancing a platter with a bottle ringed by shot glasses, salt, and lemon
slices. He poured five shots.

“Doubling up, Marco?”

“No, I thought Anki
might want a go.” He glanced up at the stairs as Anki descended.

“What’s this?” she
asked. “You can’t make Sao Paulo so you bring Sao Paulo to you?”

By half past midnight,
Johan and Soldado were telling stories of the Underground, of some of their
craziest undertakings. The first blackmail job was of a U.S. senator compromised
snorting cocaine at a New York party. They hadn’t anticipated the brute force
response – whether from the mafia or a very brazen government agency they had
never figured out. They’d barely escaped alive. Another early hack job was into
the email account of a British rock star that yielded not only embarrassing
personal details but sexually explicit photos of underage fans taken inside a
tour bus.

“Well who was it?”
Rachel asked.

Before they could
utter a word against revealing job details, Rachel shook her head. “
Why
I am not surprised?”

Marco finished a
mouthful of chips, wiped his hands on his shorts and sat forward in his chair.

“Gentlemen, ladies,
time for business. Bear in mind everything on the table is conceptual,
theoretical, but still consider yourself under an NDA from hell.” He looked to
each of them and received acknowledgment. “There is a computer system, the name
you know from the video but which I’ll call Totem. Its technology won’t see the
light of industry for another ten years at least. Its number of subservient
computers will never be matched, cannot be, until we figure out how they are
controlling them. We have computer scientists working to understand what little
we’ve glimpsed of the system and in the last several years they’ve made great
progress.”

Rachel joined in. “As
advanced as Totem is, its power is exponentialized through communications with
ordinary technology. Totem manipulates systems of all types, in every sector
across the globe. NSA back doors are written into the products and with them
have created a massive parallel computer right under our noses.”

Soldado nodded. “We’ve
found some of them. Most recently the Rocom Crest hack. Some are monitored
though and self-heal when they see us use them.”

“Those are the latest
generation hacks and it isn’t the NSA monitoring them. It’s the system itself.
Totem is artificially intelligent. When I say that, I don’t mean superbots that
know how to sort shit out hyper-efficiently and blip it back in a useful way. I
mean truly artificially intelligent, like a jackhammer is artificially strong,
or a plane artificially flies. It
is
intelligent.
Likely more so than humans.”