The Siren Project (47 page)

* * * *

Mouse swore under his breath as the
screens displaying the satellite feed went blank for the third time in four
hours, as once again the NSA recaptured their satellite. He launched his
recovery routine, timed to coincide with the program he'd uploaded onto the
satellite. Nervous seconds passed, then the screens flashed back to life as he
regained control.

“Yes!” Mouse declared triumphantly, then
immediately hacked his way back into the Sincom system.

Just before the NSA had kicked him off the
satellite, a hacker tracker from Sincom had detected his intrusion into the
base’s computer and had begun shutting down systems in an attempt to lock him
out. When he re-established contact, it took him only seconds to bypass the now
familiar security lockouts and reach the operating system. He quickly
discovered the programs he’d loaded into Sincom’s main computer had been
isolated from the rest of the system, giving someone time to study them and
determine their purpose.

“Nice work,” he admitted, admiring the
speed and skill of his adversary.

Mouse rapidly uploaded instructions to
launch the last trick he had left to escape quarantine. He knew Mitch and Gunter
were inside the base, having seen them on the south east tower’s security
camera and infra red scanner. He’d jammed both sets of signals, sending instead
false data indicating intruders were approaching from the north west, hoping to
draw any guards away from their entry point. The instructions were seventy
percent loaded when the console in front of him sparked and burst into flames.
He recoiled backwards from the panel as the four screens shorted out and went
black.

Mouse crawled back confused, raising his
hands to shield his face from the small naked flames that licked the console. He
went up on one knee, peering through the smoke, realizing at once the mobile
ground station's delicate electronics were destroyed. A moment later the cabin
lights went out as the satellite truck’s engine spluttered and died, leaving
the control room in darkness.

Energy weapons?

It was then he heard the sound of rotors
approaching, and in an instant knew he'd lost the satellite and had to escape. He
launched himself out of the truck's rear door, into the cooling night air,
hitting the ground hard and rolling clumsily to his feet. Off to his right, he sensed
the dark mass of the Blackhawk helicopter descending out of the night sky. The
beat of the rotors was deafening as the chopper came in, kicking up a whirlpool
of dust that swirled toward him.

Mouse ran from the shadowy forms of
soldiers jumping from the helicopter, toward the low hills and shallow gullies
of the open desert. Behind him, soldiers fanned out, raking the ground with
flashlight beams that formed solid pillars of light through the swirling dust. A
beam of light touched him and the air filled with voices yelling excitedly.

“There he is!”

“Over there!”

“Take him alive!”

Half a dozen flashlight beams flicked onto
him, tracking him as he ran. Behind the soldiers, the beat of rotors picked up
speed as the Blackhawk lumbered skyward and began to circle toward him.

How did they find me? So
fast!

The ground dropped away in front of him as
he stumbled into a dry creek bed, and for a moment, escaped into the darkness. He
cut to his left, racing across the path of his hunters as the sound of an
approaching helicopter grew louder. Mouse dived to the ground beside several
small boulders and lay still as the chopper flew over the gully. Its
searchlight blinked on, flooding the desert with light, but missing him as it
drifted off to the right. He jumped to his feet and sprinted along the creek
bed, around a bend in the dry water course and ducked down again behind a small
rocky outcrop. First one soldier, then others reached the embankment and raked
the gully with their lights, but the bend in the creek bed and rocks shielded his
hiding place, giving him time to think.

They tracked my signal,
back to the satellite and down to the truck! How?

Several soldiers crossed the dry creek bed
and headed toward the gully beyond, while others tracked left and right along
the creek bed. The sound of the Blackhawk faded, as it moved off ahead of the soldiers,
sweeping the ground with its brilliant searchlight. Mouse started to creep
along the gully, knowing he had a chance if he could put distance between
himself and the truck, when the silhouette of a soldier appeared, blocking his
escape. He charged forward, swinging a wild punch at the soldier’s head, but
too late, he realized his mistake. The soldier jabbed a long metal rod into
Mouse’s ribs, discharging a massive surge of electricity that caused every
muscle in his body to spasm, paralyzing him. His limp body hit the soldier
harmlessly, then he fell face down onto the ground, while his muscles continued
to twitch uncontrollably.

“Over here! I’ve got him,” the soldier
yelled.

Mouse felt the toe of a boot dig under his
shoulder and roll him over onto his back. A man appeared above the creek bed as
the soldier removed one of his leather gloves and felt for a pulse on Mouse’s
neck.

“He’s alive. Want me to finish him?”

“No, we can use him,” the man replied as he
approached. “Anyone who can steal a NSA satellite and break our security
belongs on the Neural Net.”

Mouse knew he’d heard that voice before,
but he couldn't recall where, his mind still spinning from the electric shock. He
grappled against rubbery lips for words. “Never . . . help . . .you.”

The Blackhawk appeared overhead, flooding
the dry water course with light as the man stopped to look down at his helpless
captive.

“Yes, you will,” McNamara said with
certainty. “Whether you want to or not.” He turned to the soldier. “Knock him
out for the trip back, I don’t want any mistakes.”

“Yes, sir,” the soldier replied, then
casually jabbed the end of the metal tube into Mouse’s chest, unleashing
another jolt.

Mouse’s body convulsed as one last thought
flickered through his mind before he lost consciousness.

What's a Neural Net?

Christa regained consciousness slowly,
sensing the strange immobility of her arms and legs. Gradually, the sounds of
movement and voices nearby filtered through to her. As the anesthetic wore off,
she realized she was lying face down on a bed. Cushioned pads supported her
forehead, chin and cheekbones, while her face was open to the air. When she
opened her eyes, she saw there was an opening through the bed, revealing a
white tiled floor. The bed was supported by stainless steel struts mounted on
thick rubber wheels so it could be easily moved from room to room. Nearby, a
nurse’s white shoes and stockings walked in and out of view as the nurse made
her preparations.

Is this what it feels
like?

She tested her capacity for self will, but
found no obstructions to her thoughts. She wondered whether she'd even be able
to recognize if her thoughts had been forced on her by the repatterning of her
brain's electrical pathways.

Maybe you can’t tell
when you’re conditioned?

She tried to conceive of a test that would
let her know if she was still herself, but realized she may not be able to
judge the results if she was conditioned.

My implant? I should be
dead!

While her mind spun in circles of self
doubt, the last traces of the anesthetic dissipated, and the throbbing in the
back of her head began to drum its warning note to her. The pain never rose
above a mild headache, but its presence sent a shiver of dread through her as
she realized her golden locks had been shaved down to her naked scalp.

I am conditioned! How?

Somewhere to her right, she noticed an
electrical whirring noise grow louder, then a short rectangular machine on four
wheels passed under her bed, polishing the floor with a telescopic arm fitted
with a swirling brush. Other sanitation devices were fitted to the small robot,
only their telescopic arms were fully retracted while the floor polishing arm
did its work. The robot made several passes under her bed as it automatically
cleaned and disinfected the floor, then the whirring slowly faded away as it
moved out of ear shot. Absently, she thought the robotic cleaner was
confirmation of their dependence on automation, rather than people, then she
heard footsteps as more people entered the room.

“She’s still sleeping,” the unseen nurse
informed the new arrivals.

The visitors walked toward her, while the
nurse activated the small electric motor that tilted the bed, lifting her head.
She closed her eyes, forcing herself to relax, feigning unconsciousness as the
straps pressed against her, taking her weight, preventing her from sliding off.
When the bed was at forty five degrees, it stopped moving.

Christa felt a familiar telepathic presence
probe her mind, then her mother said, “She’s awake.”

“Of course she is,” Dr Ralph Nautern, the
Chief Surgeon declared. “I timed the anesthetic to the minute.”

“No last words?” McNamara asked.

Christa opened her eyes, to see McNamara,
General Gray, her mother, and the surgical team standing before her. “Am I . .
. conditioned?”

“Not yet,” McNamara replied with an amused
smile. “We had to remove that first.” He nodded toward a small glass jar containing
a tiny metallic sliver, with three hair thin wires leading from it. It was
Christa's implant, and she realized her headache was a result of the surgery
that removed it. He picked up the glass jar and looked at the implant with
interest. “You didn’t think your mother would forget to tell us about this
insidious little device, did you? I’m told it’s crude, but effective.” McNamara
put the jar down, and turned to Christa. “We just need to ask you a question
before you go in for your . . . improvement.”

Christa ignored McNamara, focusing instead
on her mother who looked on with disconcerting remoteness. She concentrated her
mind, transcending the dull post operative pain as she sensed the strictures
imprisoning the free flow of her mother’s thoughts. Caroline’s faculties were
undamaged, but her free will was gone.

Yes my dear, our
abilities are strangely unaffected by the process.

There was a disturbance in the pristine
quality of her mother’s thoughts as she projected a meaning that appeared in
Christa’s mind, not as sequential words, but all at once, the trademark of
telepathic communication.

Oh Mama,
she thought, instinctively projecting a wave of heartfelt anguish
and love in response to her mother’s plight.

Caroline’s face remained impassive, but
Christa sensed a deep emotional shudder within her, an involuntary response to
her daughter's love that even her conditioning could not suppress. Feelings and
memories, isolated by the conditioning process, resonated with her daughter’s pain,
momentarily warping the artificial boundaries imposed on her free will. It was
the last remnant of the love of a mother for her daughter, bound behind a
subtle, yet seemingly impenetrable barrier. A moment later, invisible mental
chains swept Caroline’s response aside, leaving an indifferent stranger in its
place, shocking Christa.

McNamara leaned closer. “Where is Mitchell?”

Christa couldn't pull her eyes away from
her mother. “I don’t know.”

McNamara looked at Caroline. “Well?”

Caroline sensed Christa’s mind. “She’s
telling the truth, she doesn’t know.”

The double doors were bumped open by a
wheeled trolley bed guided by two orderlies in green surgical pants and
trousers. As the orderlies wheeled the trolley past Christa’s bed, she saw
Mouse lying unconscious on it, his head shaved and marked with perfectly
symmetrical vertical and horizontal black lines, segmenting his cranium into a
pattern of squares.

The orderlies parked the trolley in an
empty corner, then one of them turned to the group of doctors. “He’s ready for
capping.”

“We’ll do his procedure after we’ve
finished the girl’s neural patterning,” Dr Nautern said. “Have the technicians
unsealed the node?”

“They’re doing it now, sir. Node 783. The
life support diagnostic tests should be finished in about ten minutes,” one of
the orderlies replied as they left.

General Gray glanced at Mouse uncertainly. “Are
you sure it’s wise putting him on the Neural Net? Isn’t he a computer genius?”

Dr Nautern shook his head unconcerned. “We’ll
permanently disable that part of his brain that allows self directed thought. The
remaining computational and creative power will be fully available to the
system, with no adverse risk.”

McNamara returned his attention to Christa.
“How did you find out about this facility?”

“Don’t you remember? You told me.”

He smiled, amused at her defiance. “We know
there’s a traitor. We know someone has been feeding you information, and we
know it came from this facility.”

“I don’t know what you’re talking about.”

Caroline sensed a ripple of deception through
Christa’s mind. “She’s lying.”

General Gray stared thoughtfully at
Caroline. “If you can tell she’s lying, why couldn’t you identify the traitor?”

Caroline looked confused. “I don’t know. I
checked everyone on the base. Perhaps the traitor has some way of concealing
his mind structure from me, but . . . that would require an extraordinary gift.”

“Hmm.” General Gray looked doubtful, then
turned to the doctors. “When will she be ready for questioning?”

“In a few hours,” Dr Nautern replied. “We
completed the sub atomic brain scans while she was unconscious, after the
implant was removed. The computer has already calculated the adjustments
required, however, because you want us to be especially careful with her, we’ll
be allowing a longer stabilization period between each neural sequence.”

“We don’t want to risk cerebral damage with
this one, General,” McNamara said.

“Very well,” the general replied,
suppressing his impatience. “Have your security team on alert. As soon as we
know who the traitor is, arrest him for immediate interrogation and
conditioning. I want to know if anyone else is involved and what information
they’ve leaked. This facility remains locked down until then.”

“I’ll be glad to have the communication
blackout finished with,” the third doctor declared. “It’s been days since any
of us have spoken to our families.”

“Once we knew there was a mole, I had no
choice but to cut communications with the outside world.” General Gray turned
to McNamara. “Have you been able to decipher the computer disks you took from
Mitchell?”

“Not yet. The computer staff are using the
latest NSA code breaking tools, but so far nothing. It must be something we’ve
never seen before.” McNamara glanced curiously at Mouse's unconscious form. “I
don’t know how Szilinsky could get access to encryption like that. I doubt he
could write it himself.”

“Add that to the list of questions for Szilinsky,”
the general said. “Where this super encryption system came from. Sounds like
something we can use.” He turned to Caroline. “The National Surveillance
Organization didn’t have a code breaking section, did it?”

“No, the NSO only monitored government
agencies and black projects. We relied on the NSA for code breaking.”

McNamara smiled, amused. “Too bad they
missed us, the blackest project of all.”

The general scowled. “Siren was never an
official government project.”

“The government paid for it,” McNamara
retorted, “Even if they didn’t know it.”

“Call me as soon as she’s ready to talk. I
want this matter resolved ASAP.” The general started to leave, then turned back
to McNamara, “And you! Find Mitchell!” The general stormed out, leaving
McNamara in no doubt, the security breach was his mess to clean up.

He turned back to Christa. “You’re lucky. The
general took a lot of convincing to let you be conditioned. He wanted to
eliminate the lot of you. After Mitchell spoiled the big show in New York and
killed Bradick, the general became quite intractable where Mitchell was
concerned. At least we managed to save you and the computer geek.”

Christa glared at him, but said nothing.

“You know doc,” McNamara said thoughtfully,
“When you’re rewiring her brain, make her a little friendlier.”

“You'll find this will be a relatively
painless procedure,” Dr Nautern said to Christa. “For someone with your unique
characteristics, and based on our experience with your mother, we can guarantee
you a perfect transition. You'll retain your full memory, but you'll have no
personal attachment to it. You will, of course, be fully committed to following
orders, and you will derive some satisfaction from doing so.”

“Does my mother have any feelings for me
now?” Christa asked, studying her mother's face.

Dr Nautern shrugged vaguely. “We focus on
the logical centers of the brain involving personal will and decision making. Emotions,
being erratic and unpredictable, are more difficult to control directly. Does
she love you? Yes. Can she act to aid you, if it is acting against her
imperative to follow orders? No. You may find, once you’re both acting under
the same directives, that you’ll share each other’s affections, as there will
then be no contradictory forces at work.” He looked thoughtful. “We should
conduct some tests on that after the procedure. It may prove interesting.”

Christa stared for a long time into her
mother’s eyes, seeing impersonal detachment, but sensing something more. She
reached out with her perception, feeling a deep inner conflict in her mother's
mind, locked away within an invisible mental prison. Christa projected memories
of shared moments, of happy times and sad, trying to break down the artificial
walls, but to no effect. In the end, she simply radiated her love for her
mother, tinged with the sadness of knowing that this was the last time she'd
ever be herself.

“The nurse will administer a preop that
will put you into a light sleep,” Dr Nautern continued, “And then we'll give
you a full anesthetic prior to the procedure”

“I thought I had to be awake during the . .
. procedure.”

“It can be helpful doing research for the
subject to be conscious, but it is more dangerous, and we're not taking any
risks with you. If you have no more questions, it's time to scrub up. Nurse,
you can prepare the patient now.”

The nurse left the recovery room, followed
by Dr Nautern and his team.

“Will you know if he’s out there?” McNamara
asked Caroline. “Sense his mind?”

“Perhaps,” she replied uncertainly.

“He is coming here, isn’t he?” McNamara
asked Christa, but she didn't answer.

“She’s concealing her thoughts from me,”
Caroline said, “Indicating she believes he will come here. She knows he'll come
here for her and . . .” Caroline hesitated.

“And what?”

“Kill you,” Christa said.

“Now she's telling the truth,” Caroline
said in a disinterested tone.