Algorithm: A Dystopian Sci-Fi Technothriller (Nanoverse Book 1), page 7
As Dr. Larson and Bonecrusher oversaw the scene below. To them, it would look only as if Brian and Liza were engaged in an intense stare-down. Brian could faintly sense their thoughts, their feelings, as well. But he could not access them. He had no control over them. Their inhibitors must have prevented it. But why didn’t Liza’s?
Brian’s attentions returned to Liza. Something in his mind alerted him. He had an overwhelming urge to seize her, to arrest her. Her heart rate. Her blood pressure and sweat output. He read the thought that passed through her mind: destroy the nanonetwork.
An alarm sounded in Brian’s ears. It was the algorithm.
Terrorist threat: identified.
Target: Liza Rodriguez.
Goal: Eliminate the threat.
Brian tried to push back the signals that coursed through his mind, but he couldn’t resist. His body lunged forward toward Liza. They collided and the two fell to the ground, Brian on top of her. His hands gripped Liza’s neck and squeezed.
A bright light consumed Brian’s vision. A shock coursed through his body. What sounded like a violent bang jarred his mind. He sensed nothing.
“IED! IED!” he heard as he felt everything around him tumble over. He was one-eye blind. A throbbing pain coursed through his skull. Bonecrusher hung upside down from his seat, a piece of shrapnel protruding from his chest. Blood was everywhere. The smell of sulfur and burning flesh assaulted his nostrils.
Everything went black. One vision after another flashed through his mind. His body was being pulled… dragged away. He was strapped down. He couldn’t move. He heard the sound of the helicopter’s propellers. Sand struck his face. Brian gasped for air as he choked on the blood and sand that filled his throat. Then, silence.
“Hold him down,” a voice echoed. It was a deep voice, a voice he knew. It sounded like it was a mile away, but as Brian opened his eyes, he saw Dr. Flat standing over him. He saw Dr. Flat’s arm. A flesh-colored bandage sealed a piece of gauze against the doctor’s flesh.
“Check his tags,” the doctor ordered. “We need to know his blood type. He’s lost a lot of blood. We have to act quickly.”
“AB,” another voice shouted back. “Lieutenant Brian Goff. His blood type is AB.”
“It will have to do,” the doctor retorted. “It’s not ideal, but it should work.” Brian felt a needle pierce his arm. He couldn’t turn his head, but from his peripheral vision, he saw a blood bag elevated in the doctor’s hand. Moments later, the pain subsided. His vision returned to his bad eye. “It’s working,” the doctor said. “Prepare the other soldier. We might be able to save him too.”
Brian tried to shout, but the words wouldn’t escape his lips. Not the blood! It’s in the blood!
Again, everything went black. He inhaled, smelling sweat and rubber. A bright light shone into his eyes. Brian screamed. A hand struck his face.
“Not the blood! Don’t take the blood!” Brian shouted.
“He’s responsive. He’s coming back to us,” Dr. Larson said, a hint of relief in his voice.
Brian felt a hand grip his own. He clasped Bonecrusher’s palm firmly as he struggled back to his feet.
“Keith… Bonecrusher… You didn’t take the blood. Please tell me you didn’t take the blood.”
“What are you talking about, Goff?” Bonecrusher asked.
Brian turned to Dr. Larson, still breathing rapidly. “It’s the blood. I saw it. I was back in Iraq… it was the blood.”
“Calm down, son,” Dr. Larson said. “What did you see?”
“I was back in the war,” Brian said, trying to catch his breath. “Dr. Flat. It was his blood. He gave me his blood. I think he gave it to Keith next.”
Dr. Larson looked at Brian pensively. “That explains a lot. It explains everything, in fact.”
“Liza, where is she? Did I hurt her?”
“I’m fine,” Liza’s voice responded from the opposite side of the room. Brian turned and looked at her, leaning against the wall, her arms folded and her face disgusted. “No thanks to you, soldier.”
“I’m sorry, Liza. I couldn’t control it,” Brian said somberly. “And I’m no soldier. Not anymore.”
“Semper Fi,” Bonecrusher said. “Once a Marine, always a Marine.”
Brian cringed. “I’m not a Marine. I’m not even a man. I’m a weapon. We’re both weapons.”
“What are you talking about, brother?” Bonecrusher asked.
Brian took a deep breath and reached for his temple. “Keep this thing on me. Don’t ask me to take it off again. I can’t risk…”
“What are you saying?” Bonecrusher asked.
“The nanobots in his system,” Dr. Larson explained, “and in your system too, Keith. They are programmed differently. You two didn’t receive the same Nanovax that everyone else did.”
“I should have known,” Bonecrusher said. “The only reason I wasn’t on the mandate is that as far as anyone knew, I had gone AWOL. Presumably KIA.”
“Not everyone in the government,” Dr. Larson said. “Flat must have known you were here. He had to know.”
Bonecrusher scratched his head.
Brian turned toward Dr. Larson. “Whose idea was it to rescue me in the first place? How did you all know?”
“Seneca,” Dr. Larson said. “Like we told you before. He picked up your code in the system.”
“That’s not entirely true,” Bonecrusher interrupted.
“What are you saying?” Dr. Larson asked.
“I had a hunch,” Bonecrusher explained. “It didn’t make any sense. Just a feeling. I’d asked Seneca to look into Goff’s whereabouts just the day before.”
Dr. Larson took a deep breath as Liza walked over to him, putting a hand on the doctor’s shoulder.
“You realize what this means?” Liza asked.
Dr. Larson looked up, fixing his stare directly at Brian.
“I think I do,” Brian said. “I felt it before. The algorithm targeted Liza in my mind. I lost control. You didn’t rescue me. I was sent here like a Trojan Horse. I was sent to eliminate the resistance.”
“That may be,” Seneca interjected as he stepped into the room. “But there’s something he didn’t plan for. Something I picked up in your brainwaves when the nanobots took over.”
“What did you see,” Dr. Larson asked.
“I could ask Brian the same question,” Seneca said. “When you blacked out. What did you see?”
“Like I said. It was the war. I was back in the war. The IED. My accident. I saw Dr. Flat give me a transfusion. His own blood.”
“These weren’t just memories,” Seneca said. “These were flashbacks. Traumas. It’s like your mind has built a firewall around these memories. Call it PTSD. Call it whatever you want. But there’s a part of your mind that the nanonetwork can’t access. If we can only figure out a way to tap into that… if we can somehow hack into the firewall in your brain…”
“Then I might be able to gain more control over the nanobots?” Brian asked.
“Exactly,” Seneca confirmed.
“Tell me, Lieutenant,” Dr. Larson said. “Do you have any other flashbacks from the war?”
Brian sighed. “Dozens of them, sir.”
“And do you know how they are triggered?” Dr. Larson asked.
“The other day in the park… the sound of a rock thrown against a metal slide might have done it. A car backfires. Fireworks. Any loud sound that takes me off guard could have the same effect.”
“So they're triggered by sounds?” Dr. Larson asked.
“Not only sounds,” Brian said, taking a deep breath. “The sight of sand, even on a beach. That dull beige color covers everything in Iraq. If I see too much of that God-forsaken color I find myself right back at war in my mind.”
“Wait,” Bonecrusher interjected. “If Goff and I both received the nanobots through Flat, why am I not experiencing these same abilities or tendencies? I have plenty of that PTSD shit too.”
“My guess is that your trauma impacted you differently,” Larson said. “Brian suffered brain trauma. Your wound was to the chest. And more than that, if Flat doesn’t know you’re out there, he maybe hasn’t been able to send you the kill command. When Brian was told to eliminate Liza, it couldn’t have been from the nanonetwork. It had to be from a program already embedded in his system. Something Flat sent him before he came here.”
Bonecrusher nodded, a look of unsettled concern still on his face.
“I hate to do this to you, Lieutenant,” Dr. Larson said, “But we’re going to have to do this again. We’re going to have to remove the inhibitor. We need to trigger your flashbacks. Seneca will monitor your brain activity while Keith and Liza make sure you don’t lose control. But we have to figure this thing out. Your beautifully traumatized mind might be the key to unlocking all of this.”
“I understand, sir,” Brian said, masking his own trepidation with a resolute tone of voice. Brian hated his flashbacks, even while he reveled in them. His memories both haunted him but exhilarated him at the same time.
Ever since he’d returned stateside from the war, a part of him still felt like the war itself was his real home. He hated the war, even while he longed to go back. Even after the war had practically ended, something about his experience still beckoned him to return. Not necessarily to Iraq—but to any place where American soldiers were fighting the enemies of liberty.
Brian could remember each of the 23 kills he’d made, most at the end of his rifle. After each kill, he religiously rehearsed every previous kill in his mind. Some of the men he’d killed he’d given names. Every death deserved to be remembered. Yet, he felt no remorse for any of them. Every kill he made likely saved multiple American lives.
No regret. That’s not what he’d call it. Still, he took no more pride in the lives he saved than he lamented the lives he took. It was the lives he couldn’t save that haunted him. It was the soldiers who died when he’d missed the shot when he was out of position… those were the losses that plagued his memories. Those were the deaths that flashed back into his mind.
Brian couldn’t leave another soldier to die. He couldn’t let Carlos languish in a coma when there was something that he might be able to do, even if it was a longshot.
“I’m done training for now,” Brian said.
“But we need to test this out,” Larson said. “We’re on the brink of understanding your potential.”
“I said I’m done, Doc,” Brian said. “Grab Ezra. I may need his help. And bring me to Carlos.”
Liza grabbed Brian by his forearm and pulled him backward. “Are you sure you’re ready for this?” Liza asked. “You just tried to kill me.”
Brian sighed. “Now that I know what’s happening, I know what I need to do. There’s something Flat never accounted for.”
Dr. Flat relaxed on a chaise in his study, gripping his tablet with his left hand. He used the index finger of his right hand to navigate the nanofeeds he was monitoring. Neuhaus was drunk again. Hail to the Chief. He still couldn’t locate Goff’s feed—he was somewhere in the resistance. Even the short reading he’d received the day before, the moment the Resistance broke into Leavenworth, was broken up, each disjointed bit of data separated by a slew of error messages. Still, it was enough.
Flat knew that Goff’s ability to command the nanobots would prove too alluring for the resistance to ignore.
Flat also knew what it felt like. The earlier Nanovax prototype that he’d received, himself, had difficulty restraining its communications to a single body. The prototype, in fact, was more powerful than the model eventually used for Nanovax.
Still, Flat couldn’t explain these gaps in the data feed. The same gap had happened just before Flat had ordered Goff’s seizure from the park. Now, the gap happened right in the middle of the resistance’s attempt to rescue Carlos. It just didn’t make sense.
Flat took a deep breath and set his tablet on the end table beside him. Placing each of his hands on the seat of the chaise, Flat rose to his feet and stepped toward the window overlooking the White House’s majestic front lawn.
A light breeze forced the blades of grass on the lawn to flutter. A group of tourists posed for a picture in front of the White House gates. A group of three or four protesters—libertarians, who objected to the mandate, even though they were now all injected—carried signs objecting to the martial law declaration, still in effect, that had allowed the use of the algorithm. Flat looked a little more closely. “Free Goff,” one sign said. “The Algorithm is a Communist Lie,” said another.
Flat chuckled. With the swipe of a finger, he knew he could identify the protestors and have them each arrested. Protestors in front of the White House, planning a terrorist attack. The narrative practically wrote itself.
Flat walked back and grabbed his tablet from the end table where he’d laid it down before. With a few taps and swipes on his tablet, he quickly identified the protestors.
“This is too easy,” Flat said out loud to himself. But then another idea occurred to him. Flat swiped his finger across the screen and selected an individual from the group of tourists, now gathering their things.
A large man—that will do.
“My apologies, sir,” Flat said. “But I only require your services for a moment.”
A few more swipes and Flat noticed the man, earlier laughing and carrying on with his friends, now standing, stoically, against the fence. Flat spoke into his tablet.
“Proceed down the sidewalk toward the protesters,” Flat ordered as he watched the man move as directed. Flat chucked a bit to himself as he noticed the man’s family turn and shout something in the man’s direction.
“Charge the protestors,” Flat spoke into the tablet, “tackle the first one you meet.”
Flat saw the man start to run.
“Shout loudly,” Flat said, “Fascist scum!”
Perhaps the words were a bit cliché. Still, it would work. Flat couldn’t hear the man scream from his place behind the window, but he could see the man’s mouth move. The protestors turned toward him. Moments later, the large man leveled a teenage boy. The other protestors quickly turned and pulled the man from the boy and started kicking him on the sidewalk.
Flat was pleased to see the man’s family come running to his aid. With another swipe of the finger, Flat alerted his media correspondent to the incident. Another story. Flat told the reporter that the man had meant to simply debate the protesters when they attacked him.
One more story to contribute to the narrative, to expand the algorithm. In time, perhaps, the algorithm could be used to silence any opposing voice.
A wide grin split Flat’s face as he returned to his chaise lounge. With a swipe of the finger, he brought up another profile.
Carlos Rodriguez. A headshot of the former Navy Seal’s photo stared back at him.
Carlos had an intensity in his eyes that was hard to ignore. He was the perfect weapon. The ideal tool to do what he intended. Carlos’ sister had caused Flat no shortage of headaches in recent months. Since she was a part of the resistance, Carlos would have no problem earning their trust. Flat checked Carlos’ biorhythms—no feedback.
Good, Flat thought. He’s with the resistance. Twenty-three hours, twenty-four minutes, and thirteen seconds.
After that, Rodriguez would awaken. The debilitation order would end. After a full day, any order would expire without a signal from the network to maintain it. There was a plan B, of course. Still, Flat counted on the likelihood that his original order remained dormant and ready to be reactivated. Indeed, after what had happened at Leavenworth, Larson’s resistance would be unable to resist taking action. Especially if he left a trail of bread crumbs they could follow.
Larson was like that—a brilliant man, but he focused too much on the moment and lacked foresight. He always seemed to miss the big picture. That’s why Larson abandoned the algorithm. That’s why he’d betrayed the Nanovax project. Larson had too many scruples.
Sometimes, Flat believed, one had to compromise his integrity in the moment for a grander vision. Real integrity demanded foresight—a long-term vision. The future that the algorithm promised to secure for mankind was worth any cost in the present. In this instance, Flat counted on Larson’s insatiable need to do the right thing now, blind to the consequences later.
The gaps in Goff’s data feeds were only a minor cause to worry. A small inconvenience. Everything else had gone exactly according to plan.
Flat heard a light knock on his door. “Come in,” he said.
A small girl pressed open the door. Her dark hair was tied back in pigtails. She wore a pink dress—one that Flat had chosen for her himself. She held a small teddy bear in her arms.
“Come here, dear,” Flat told the girl, “Sit on your uncle Archimedes’ lap.”
“Thank you, mister,” the girl said, “I liked the book you gave me earlier.”
“Well, I’m glad you liked it,” Flat told the girl. “I thought it might help make your stay here a bit more enjoyable.”
“When is daddy coming back?” the girl asked, wide-eyed and eager.
“Soon,” Flat said, ruffling his hand over the young girl’s head. “Very soon, Susie dear.”
8
Mantra
Brian proceeded down the cold, lead-lined corridor. The lead coating on each wall had been affixed sloppily as if done in a hurry. It was probably done with one of those demoleculizers that the resistance used to melt solid matter. It wasn’t pretty, but it was effective.
“What was this place, before all this?” Brian asked Dr. Larson, who walked the hallway beside him, Liza and Ezra not far behind.
“Believe it or not, it was an old asylum,” Larson explained. “It used to house a few hundred patients, but it was shut down almost a century ago. It probably would have been demolished and sold years ago if it were on more marketable real estate. Instead, the man who owns it was a good friend of my father before he passed. The place has hardly been used since it closed. Some imagine the place to be haunted. More than a few groups of so-called paranormal investigators have come, through the years, hoping to see a ghost or two.”
