Cutting Edge

22

The Buick was a peach, or so said Agnes Murch Reynolds. They settled on four thousand cash, and according to Ed the license plate was good for thirty days. With any luck, DeBolt thought, twenty-eight more than I’ll need.

He got a handshake from Ed, a hug from Agnes, and after best wishes were exchanged DeBolt set out south along Route 1. He estimated that his journey to the lake district south of Beddington, Joan Chandler’s presumed place of employment, would take roughly an hour. The Buick handled differently from the Cadillac, the suspension stiff and the steering loose, but it was at least his own car, legally if not morally.

Having not requested information for over an hour, he tried for a map in his head, but the image drifted in and out of view, and he finally gave up. It hardly mattered — he needed only to identify one turn to reach the general area. It felt good to be making headway, to have seized the initiative. For too long he’d been reacting. DeBolt would find the place where Joan Chandler had worked, and confront anyone he saw there. He would ask and plead and demand, in that order, until someone gave him answers. Until someone told him what had been installed in his jury-rigged head.

Meeting Ed Murch and his sister had been a pleasant diversion, and acquiring a car under such simple circumstances was a godsend. He had ample cash to see him through the coming days, and a vehicle that could not be traced to him. DeBolt suspected things were about to get more difficult.

When he passed through a place called Columbia Falls, his connection strengthened, and a new idea came to mind. He had requested a locator history on Joan Chandler’s phone, and gotten it, albeit a day late. Why not check my own phone? Voice mail, email, messages — perhaps there was something to advance his cause. At the very least, he might hear a familiar voice. He uploaded the request, and it seemed to process. The delay this time was only sixty seconds:

He tried to select them, and got the response:

What on earth did that mean? DeBolt was wondering if there was some kind of audio capability in his new cranial system when the voice mails arrived in transcript format. The first two were anticlimactic — his mother’s nursing home thanking him for a donation he’d made, and a reminder for a dental appointment he’d missed because he was dead.

The last one caused his heart to miss a beat:

“Another, monsieur?” said the sommelier.

“Yes,” said Atif Patel, “but no more until my guest arrives.” His glass came full with the rich Rhône garnacha, and without so much as a sniff he sucked down a great gulp.

Restaurant Ville was ten miles west of Vienna, along the A1 West Autobahn near Pressbaum. Patel had chosen it for his meeting with General Benefield because it was one of the few things he could control. The place was small, with a subdued atmosphere and, more relevantly, served some of the most varied and exotic cuisine in Austria. Not that the general was a connoisseur of fine dining. To the contrary, he was, as they said in America, a meat-and-potatoes guy. Restaurant Ville would do its small part to keep the man off kilter.

Patel had arrived thirty minutes early, but was shown to a table in spite of it. The general was now thirty minutes late. In that time Patel had kept the sommelier busy — only, he told himself, to appease the staff in light of his protracted use of the table. He turned his glass by its base, spinning an endless circle. His eyes bounced between his Timex and the room around him. The place was busy. He saw staunch business meetings where profits were being toasted, and other tables where happy couples celebrated … whatever happy couples celebrated. Patel had never found the time to marry, much to his mother’s despair, but he thought he might manage it someday. Perhaps even a child or two. He was still young, having only recently eclipsed thirty. The problem was that in his field, youth was reserved for making one’s professional mark. The good news — success was imminent. This Patel knew with absolute conviction.

He had just emptied his third glass when the general appeared. He wasn’t in uniform, of course. Benefield unfailingly dressed in what he called “civvies” when he traveled overseas. He’d once explained that it was actually a higher headquarters directive — in too many foreign countries, terrorists, kidnappers, and political protestors would salivate at the sight of a flag officer of the United States military in full regalia.

Benefield saw him right away, and he ignored the maître d’ and charged across the room as if assaulting a pillbox. Patel rose and took a bricklayer’s handshake.

“My flight was late,” said Benefield. It was as close to an apology as Patel had ever gotten. As soon as they were seated, the waiter appeared — one of his best tables had been occupied for an hour with but three drinks to show for it. Benefield didn’t even look at the menu — a disappointment for Patel — but simply told the man to bring him the biggest steak in the house, medium rare. That was exactly how he said it, in blunt American English, and Patel thought he might have heard a tsk from the waiter. He himself ordered the six-course special, and the waiter was gone.

“There’s been an accident,” Benefield said, never one to bog down in pleasantries when business was at hand.

Patel hesitated before replying. “What kind of accident?”

“A fire in the operations center — it was catastrophic. We lost the entire team.”

“What?” Patel went ashen. “Lost as in—”

“Yes,” said the general impatiently. “Everyone was inside during a shift change. There were no survivors.” Benefield said nothing for a time, letting it sink in.

“Howard? And Ann Dorsett?”

“I’m sorry. I wanted to tell you personally — I know you were close to many of them.”

“Dear God … when did this happen?”

“Yesterday. I don’t have many details yet, but apparently everyone was overtaken by some kind of toxic smoke. The facility is a total loss.”

Patel set his fingers very deliberately on his silverware. He stared at the empty bread plate in front of him.

“I’m afraid there’s more,” said the general. “This will cast everything in a very bright light — something you and I knew from the beginning that the META Project could never survive. Not without putting both our careers at risk. That being the case, I’ve decided to shut it down.”

“You can’t be serious!” said Patel incredulously. “Not after so much work!”

“I’m sorry, but my decision is final. I’ve already informed our overseers at DARPA. Aside from a wind-down account, funding has been zeroed.”

The diminutive programmer stared pleadingly at the soldier, and got a predictably iron gaze in return.

“I’ll carve out a good severance for you from the budget,” said Benefield. “A man of your talents will have no trouble finding new research.”

“It’s not that,” said Patel. “What we’ve put into place is so … so unique, so groundbreaking. META is a visionary concept. The government access you worked so hard to attain might never be repeated. Who can say when such an opportunity will come again?”

“I understand your frustration. If one of the subjects had survived the neural implantations, even without achieving a network … maybe we could have made a case.”

“None of the original subjects were expected to survive — all were terminal cases from the outset. Phase two might bring success.”

“Atif, you know we’ve put ourselves on extremely delicate ground. Terminal or not, we subjected live human beings — service members, for God’s sake — to extremely invasive surgery. In my opinion, META is as much a breakthrough in ethics as it is in technology, but the risks going forward were simply too great. Which leads me to something else. You said there would be a way to wipe the servers clean of your control architecture — some kind of abort code to erase the highest level software. We can’t just leave something like that lying around like an unexploded bomb.”

“We didn’t get past phase one, so the software never activated. I don’t see any harm in leaving it in place.”

“That,” Benefield said decisively, “is out of the question. We have to be very careful in shutting things down. The software code you inserted must disappear — it’s the only way to be sure the more delicate aspects of META can never be traced back to us.”

“All right,” Patel relented, “I will take care of it.”

“No, Atif—I need to take care of it. I worked very hard to get unprecedented access. The host agency only agreed, only gave us that autonomy, because I guaranteed that I would have a kill switch. Since we never reached phase three, I never bothered to ask you for it. But now we’re aborting, and only I have the security clearances necessary to initiate the termination.”

Patel sighed. “Yes, there is a special sequence of commands. It requires a series of codes.”

“Do you have them memorized?”

Patel might have laughed if the situation weren’t so delicate. Those who were not brilliant gave great credit to those who were. Sometimes too much. “I will return from the conference next week. When I get back to Washington—”

“No!” Benefield said, chopping his hand down on the table like a blade. He whispered in a venomous tone, “I need them now!”

“All right. But I would never keep anything so critical on my laptop — it will take time for me to retrieve the codes securely. Even then, I’ll need help from my liaison on the server end.”

The general seemed to look right through him. Or perhaps into him. Patel held steady.

“All right,” said Benefield. “We’ll meet again tomorrow evening. Have them by then.”

Dinner was an afterthought for both men. Benefield seemed content, devouring a massive slab of beef. Patel mostly spun his fork, nibbling at three of his six courses. In the end, the general paid and they walked outside.

“Where are you staying?” Patel asked.

“The Grand Hotel Vienna — it’s not far from the Hilton. I took a cab here.”

“I have a rental,” said Patel. “Can I give you a lift back to town?” There was little invitation in his voice.

Benefield smiled congenially.