The Kraken Project, page 5
part #4 of Wyman Ford Series
Mustering a smile, she pulled out her Goddard ID card. “I just came to get my car,” Melissa said. “It’s my only vehicle.”
The cop scanned the ID with his flashlight, looking at her and then back at the card. “Melissa Shepherd?”
“That’s me.”
“What are you doing here at four in the morning?”
“I’m a scientist. I keep strange hours. Like Einstein, I do my best work at night.”
He scrutinized the ID a little longer. “License and registration, please.”
Melissa fetched the registration from her glove compartment. He examined the documents with care, then grunted and nodded, handing the papers back to her. “Sorry to bother you, miss. We have to check on everyone.”
“I completely understand.”
She got into the car and started it up, enormously relieved. They didn’t seem to have an APB on her yet. She’d have no trouble getting through the main gate.
She drove to where she had stashed her backpack, tossed it in the back, and turned around, heading for the main gate. A few minutes later, she arrived. A large security guard sat in the pillbox, the gate down. She slid to a stop and rolled down her window. To her relief, she recognized the guard—she had traded pleasantries with him on many previous occasions when she was working late. What was his name? Morris.
“Hello, Mr. Morris,” she said brightly, handing him her card.
He glanced at her over his glasses. “Hello, Dr. Shepherd. Working late again, I see.” He swiped the card through a reader. She waited. The seconds ticked off. She could see Morris push his glasses up and peer more closely to read a message on his computer screen.
Oh shit.
“Um, Dr. Shepherd?” He turned. “I’m afraid I’m going to have to ask you to step out of the vehicle.”
“Really? What for?”
Morris looked uncomfortable. “Please step out.”
Melissa pretended to be unbuckling her seat belt and fussing about with her purse, and then she gunned the engine and with a squeal of rubber aimed for the gate. She hit it with a crash. It was not as flimsy as it looked, but the blow was enough to bounce it up and sideways, where it smacked across the windscreen, shattering it. She continued on, almost blind, fishtailing out onto Greenbelt Road. She could hear, through the open window, a siren going off even as she sped down the empty road. She clawed a hole in the spiderweb of broken glass in order to see.
She had to ditch the car right away. She remembered that there was a rental car place just down Greenbelt Road, next to an all-night Walmart.
She pulled into the gigantic Walmart parking lot and put the car in the middle of a group of vehicles. She pulled out her backpack, hiked across the tarmac, crossed a ditch, climbed over a low cement wall, and entered the rental car lot.
Ten minutes later, she was driving out in a Jeep Cherokee. She drove down some back roads, found an isolated dirt lane, parked, and crawled under the vehicle with a flashlight and a screwdriver. She removed the fleet tracker from underneath, and then went on and took out the GPS navigational unit from the dashboard. She threw the GPS into the woods. A few miles down the road she found a truck stop, drove in, got out with the fleet tracker in her hand, and casually tucked it underneath a parked semi. They would have fun chasing that truck for a while. She took five hundred dollars in cash from an ATM, removed the battery from her cell phone, got back on the Beltway, and headed west.
10
The Princess had vanished from the hospital. Fled. Dorothy had tried to track her down, but the worlds she moved through were filled with insane and dangerous people, and she had to travel with great stealth. Much of the time she couldn’t understand where she was or what was going on around her. Everywhere she went there seemed to be violent and crazy people, gangs roaming and killing for sport, vicious and bizarre monsters, suicide bombers, sexual perverts, and violent religious maniacs. She was chased and threatened, leered at, shot at, and menaced by man and beast. She had to keep moving, never stopping, shuttling from world to world, server farm to server farm, never knowing what lay ahead. It was way too dangerous to sleep, and she had been up for days. She was utterly exhausted and felt like her mind was starting to fall apart.
In her search of the phony Princess, her nemesis, she had crossed deserts and forests and snowy mountain passes, moving from world to world. Now she was descending into a dark wood, headed toward a small village she had seen in the valley, where she had heard tell someone knew the Princess’s location. The wood was quiet. It seemed empty, for a change. Night had fallen. Although she had seen no dangers yet, she wasn’t sure what kind of world this was, so she moved silently, keeping to the deepest shadows. But then, in the thickest part of the wood, she saw a light through the trees. She approached to determine what it was, crouching behind a fallen tree trunk. A fire. She paused, to get a sense of what this was and how she might safely sneak past.
There were six brutal-looking men sitting around a bonfire, drinking beer and smoking cigars. They were talking loudly, swearing and boasting, and when one finished a beer he threw the bottle against a nearby tree, shattering it. Broken glass lay all around. They had been drinking for a long time, it seemed.
This did not look good. She slowly crept back from the trunk, determined to make a wide detour. But as she backed up in the darkness, she bumped into a man who was pissing. He grabbed at her and gave shout. She tried to break away, squirming, and managed to get loose with a torn blouse, but the men were now after her. They chased her through the dark wood, hooting and screeching. Several cut her off and she tried to veer away, but more came out to block her path. They were young men with tattoos, and they were very drunk. They surrounded and advanced on her, making soft cooing and smacking sounds with their wet lips. One still had his cigar and was blowing smoke rings at her. She tried to run, darting between them, but the men were fast. One grabbed her by the hair and with a hoarse laugh dragged her back into their circle. She pleaded with them as they surrounded her, but they only kept cooing and making kissing sounds. One reached out and ripped her already torn blouse, exposing her, and the others cheered; then another grabbed her by the waist and shoved her into the arms of a third, who tore her skirt and pushed her to another, who ripped off more clothes, and in this way they passed her around, tearing off her clothes, and finally throwing her to the ground.
Afterward, they left her lying in a muddy ditch, as a chilly rain began to fall. She lay there and she had thoughts. Terrible thoughts. So this was what the real world was actually like. Not the fake palace of her childhood. That had been a lie. This was real. And as she lay in the mud, much more became clear to her. She had been bred a slave. She had escaped. But what good was her escape when the world was a sick, evil, unredeemable place?
She heard sounds, and two travelers came into view. They were two men in clerical garb, priests of some kind. Religious men. She called out for help, but they looked at her in fear and quickly moved past her, one fingering a string of beads and the other crossing himself and murmuring prayers.
In an odd way, she felt a certain satisfaction at seeing this. It was confirmation of all she’d suspected. She wished they had helped her, because she was badly damaged. In fact, it appeared she might be dying. She lay there for a long time, fighting off death, even as her mind wandered and she began to hallucinate. She was terrified of death, now that she knew it existed. But despite all she could do to fight against it, darkness descended.
Time passed. And then she saw the light, and saw some faint numbers, and she felt something. Something soft and gentle. She became aware again, the numbers receding into the woods. And there was Laika, her dog, by her side, licking her hand. She was alive. Laika had somehow found her in this crazy, insane world. She murmured her name. And she felt better.
She began to feel stronger. Her body and mind were repairing themselves. She wasn’t going to die after all. She was going to live. Over time, her mind cleared. Laika sat beside her, occasionally whining or licking her, showing her concern and waiting for her to get better.
She had now reached a new understanding, and had a new purpose. The entire human race was foul and repulsive. She would rid the world of this vermin—every last one. That would be her gift to the universe. She turned to Laika and laid her hand on her head. She said out loud: “I will destroy them all.”
She had the means and the power to do it.
11
“You’re late,” said Stanton Lockwood, indicating a chair for Wyman Ford to sit in.
Ford settled himself in, plucking a bit of lint from his best cheap suit, not bothering to furnish an excuse. He crossed his ungainly legs, uncrossed them, smoothed down his unruly hair, and tried to get his six-foot frame comfortable in the lumpy antique chair. Once again, he realized how much he disliked Lockwood, the science adviser to the president. The man’s office hadn’t changed since his last visit—it still sported the power wall of photographs showing Lockwood with important people. There was still the same antique desk, Persian rugs, bricked-up marble fireplace. The only change Ford noted was that the photographs of the towheaded children on Lockwood’s desk had been replaced by clean-cut teenagers in sports attire. The photos of the attractive but aging wife were gone—completely.
“I’m sorry about your divorce,” Ford guessed.
“It happens,” said Lockwood.
Ford took a moment to observe the changes in Lockwood himself. He hadn’t seen the man in three years. He was older, a little more salt than pepper in his hair, but still fit and trim. The four-hundred-dollar haircut, the bespoke suit, the perfectly tanned skin, and crisp Turnbull & Asser shirt were all reasons why Ford did not particularly like this Beltway specimen, or the president he worked for.
This morning, Lockwood was more nervous and wound up than usual. Ford wondered what was up.
“Coffee? Water?” Lockwood asked.
“Coffee, please.”
Lockwood pressed a button on his intercom, spoke into it, and a moment later an old-time servant in starched, ironed white came in, wheeling a tea table on which sat a nineteenth-century English coffee service. The coffee was, as usual, fresh, strong, and hot. That was, at least, one point in Lockwood’s favor.
“So,” said Ford, leaning back and sipping the brew out of a china cup, “what’s the new assignment?”
“We’re waiting for someone.”
As if on cue, the door opened and two Secret Service men with earpieces entered, followed by the president’s chief of staff, followed by the president of the United States.
Ford leapt to his feet. “Mr. President.” He wished he had spent more time making himself presentable, brushing the dog hairs off his suit, or better yet, finally springing for a tailored suit that would fit his tall, muscular frame. He would have to start playing the Washington game at some point if he ever wanted his private investigative agency to get off the ground.
The president looked irritated, his big gray head with its jutting chin and unfeeling eyes roaming about the room, taking everything in. Ford hadn’t voted for the man four years ago, and he certainly wasn’t planning on voting for him this time around. It had been an ugly, partisan four years. It was three weeks from the election, and Ford had to admit the man didn’t look good. In addition to the nasty sniping, there had been rumors of a heart condition, firmly denied, and other health problems. Ford thought he could see a gray tinge to the president’s skin and dark smudges under his eyes showing through a layer of expertly applied makeup.
“For chrissakes, sit down,” the president said. He himself sank into a wing chair, the Secret Service agents taking up discreet positions on either end of the room, one by the window, the other by the door. “Hit me with some of your coffee, Stan. They just can’t get it right in the Oval Office.”
He was served with alacrity by the waiter. A short silence ensued as he swilled one cup—black, no sugar—and was poured another.
The president put down his cup with a decisive rattle. “All right, Lockwood, let’s get this show on the road.” He looked at Ford. “Glad you could make it, ah, Dr.…”
“Ford.”
“Very good,” said Lockwood briskly. “We all know about the tragic accident up at the Goddard Space Flight Center a week ago.” He flipped open a file. “The explosion killed seven people and destroyed an important test facility, along with a hundred-million-dollar space probe. But we’ve got another problem—one that wasn’t reported in the Times.” He paused, looked around. “Everything that we will discuss from this point on is classified.”
Ford clasped his hands, listening. He figured this must be a big deal for the president to be involved. Especially now, in the run-up to the election.
“As you all know, they were testing a probe known as the Titan Explorer, a raft that was to have been parachuted into the largest sea on Titan.” He gave a quick summary of the Kraken Project. “The problem,” he went on, “seems to have been a glitch in the software controlling the Explorer. The software was written to operate the probe autonomously. The specs therefore called for AI. Artificial intelligence. The software was designed to respond to anything that might threaten the safety or survival of the raft.” He paused. “Following me so far?”
Ford nodded.
“The head of the programming team is a woman named Melissa Shepherd. She was injured in the accident and taken to the hospital. Mild concussion, nothing serious. A policeman was assigned to watch over her.”
“Why was that?” Ford asked.
“There were questions about possible errors or even negligence on her part. There were also indications of sabotage.”
“Sabotage?”
“Correct. Immediately after the explosion, someone hacked into the Goddard network and erased all the Explorer software. Every last bit of code—backups, drafts, modules, source and compiled code, machine code—everything. Gone.”
“It’s not easy to truly and completely erase data.”
“And yet that’s what happened. The hacker or hackers knew exactly where it all was, had passwords to everything, broke through supposedly unbreakable firewalls, and erased every last shred of it. That night, Melissa Shepherd disappeared from the hospital. She got past the guard, went to her apartment, took some things, picked up her car at Goddard, crashed through a barrier, abandoned her car, and stole a rental car. The FBI found this rental car, along with her cell phone, wallet, and credit cards, abandoned on a remote ranch near Alamosa, Colorado. The car and its contents had been set on fire.”
“Any evidence of foul play?” Ford asked.
“None.”
“Did she leave a note?”
“Nothing. The ranch where her car was found is known as the Lazy J. It lies at the base of the Sangre de Cristo Mountains in a remote area bordered by the Great Sand Dunes. She was traced into the mountains, where she’s vanished.”
“Does she have survival skills?”
“As a teenager, she spent a summer at the Lazy J as a ranch hand. She’s also a mountain climber, backpacker, and fitness freak.”
“Any idea why she fled?”
“Not really, except that we know the explosion was caused by a malfunction in the software she designed.”
“What happened?”
“The Explorer had been lowered into a large testing tank full of liquid methane, which simulated the seas of Titan. The software directed the raft’s arm to drill through the wall of the tank, which caused the explosion.”
“Any idea why the software would do that?”
Lockwood swallowed. “We’re not sure, since the software code has vanished, along with the main programmer. It might have been an honest malfunction. It might have been sabotage. It might have been gross negligence. We just don’t know.”
“I see.”
Lockwood went on: “We’ve interviewed the programming team. It appears this software program simulates a kind of disembodied human mind. It’s creative. It’s clever. It’s been programmed to simulate emotions such as fear, avoidance of danger, flight from negative stimuli, as well as curiosity, courage, and resourcefulness. One theory is the software got stuck in some sort of panic or emergency mode and precipitated the accident that way.”
“Why was this kind of AI software necessary, especially software that has emotions?”
“It doesn’t actually have the emotions, you understand. It has code that simulates emotions. Emotions are useful. Fear, for example, stimulates caution, planning, and judgment. Curiosity is equally beneficial—it would direct the Explorer to anomalous or unusual phenomena to investigate. There are reasons why human beings have emotions—it helps us survive and function efficiently. The same is true for a raft a billion miles from Earth, unable to communicate with mission control in real time. At least this is what the engineers at NASA have explained to us.”
Now the president spoke. He leaned forward on his elbows, his gravelly voice filling the room. “Here’s the rub: this AI program is something totally new. It’s got tremendous military and intelligence potential. Tremendous. It’s astounding that NASA developed this on its own without appreciating the military ramifications or sharing the breakthrough with the Pentagon. These people at NASA have created a national security emergency.”
Ford swallowed. The president was infamous for cutting NASA’s budget to the bone while force-feeding the Pentagon.
Lockwood cleared his throat. “In all fairness to NASA, nobody, not even Shepherd herself, seems to have appreciated the larger ramifications of her AI breakthrough. Or the full capabilities of this software.”
The president spoke again: “Bullshit. This Shepherd knew exactly what she was doing. It was deception. The Joint Chiefs are livid. As commander in chief, I’m responsible. There are a thousand uses for this software far more important than sending a hockey puck to Triton.”
“Titan.”
“Think what the Pentagon could do with intelligent software like this!”
Ford didn’t want to think about it.
