Dale Brown - Puppet Master

“It’s for you,” prompted Chelsea.

“Wow.”

“Bot B, go home and close down,” commanded Chelsea. The small aircraft climbed a few feet, then zipped across the lab to the bench where its “nest,” or launching pad, was kept. It plopped down on the pad and promptly shut itself off.

“Is this some sort of trick?” asked Borya.

Chelsea laughed. “No, but sometimes it does seem like magic. Come here. I’ll show you the coding.”

She walked over to a sixty-inch computer screen powered by a workstation at the side of the room. Chelsea tapped the command key and had it display one of the subroutines the on-board computer used to pick out the flower by comparing it to its on-board records.

As impressive as the demonstration was to the uninitiated, the bot had actually done nothing that wasn’t being demonstrated in the MIT robotics lab three or four years before. The truly innovative thing was its size and autonomy. The processors used a carbon nanotube architecture (licensed from IBM for experimental purposes only) that made the small aircraft’s brain as powerful as a 1990s-era mainframe. The nanotubes replaced silicon, allowing the transistors on the chip — essentially the on-off switches that made everything work — to be about a twentieth the size of the smallest possible in silicon, roughly 7 nanometers. They were thinner than strands of DNA.

Borya gaped at the coding. It was a proprietary language, presented here without notes and explanations.

“It’s not C++,” said the girl. “But this sets up an array, right?” She pointed to the screen.

“Very good,” said Chelsea. She tapped the keyboard. The screen began scrolling quickly. “I just want you to see how long this is.”

“Wow,” said Borya as the characters rolled off the screen.

“This is just one subroutine. There were five thousand six hundred and thirty-two involved in that test we just ran.”

“Really?”

“When we started, there were almost twice that many. We had to find a way to tighten it up. We’re still working on that.”

“How long did it take you to write this?”

Chelsea laughed. “I’d love to take credit for writing the whole thing,” she said, “but I had a lot of help.”

“How many people?”

“I can’t tell you that.” It was, in fact, proprietary information, as were the tools they had used to help construct it. “But I can say that it wasn’t just people. Automated tools are very important. They’re like computer writing assistants.”

“I’ve heard of that,” said Borya.

“Smart Metal is a pretty cool place, huh?”

“It’s all right.”

“Hungry? We can get something to eat. There’s a café upstairs.”

“I should go home,” said Borya. “My dad will be wondering where I am.”

“No soda?” Chelsea asked. “We have Coke, root beer—”

“Do you have potato chips?”

“We do. Come on.”

Borya followed her to the elevator. The doors in the hallway were to other labs, where different scientists and engineers were working. A few wore white clean-room-style suits, but most were dressed in jeans and casual shirts. There were computers and sensors and wires everywhere. When they’d come in, Chelsea had walked Borya through a display area of artificial limbs. It was like a museum exhibit, starting with peg legs and moving up to a sleek arm and hand with thin metal tubes and wires, which, Chelsea told Borya, connected to a person’s nervous system.

She wanted one. Not that she would trade her actual arm for it, though.

“Who’s this?” asked a short, white-haired man as they stepped off the elevator on the top floor.

“Mr. Massina, this a friend of mine. Borya.” Chelsea put her hand on Borya’s back and pushed her gently toward Massina. “She’s a high school student. She’s very good at math.”

“Hmmmm.”

Borya stuck out her hand. Massina shook it. He had a firm handshake, though not quite as crushing as her father’s.

“Keep studying,” he said as he let go. Then he stepped around her and entered the elevator, frowning until the doors closed.

“He’s a bit of a sourpuss,” said Borya.

“He owns the company,” said Chelsea. “A lot of the things you’re looking at, he invented.”

“Really?”

“Yup. He’s pretty much a genius.”

Chelsea got the girl some chips and a soda, then led her out to the terrace. It was a beautiful early spring day, nearly eighty degrees; the large windows at the side were open, letting in the gentle breeze.

Borya had clearly been impressed, but that was all. Chelsea had imagined that the visit would open her up. She’d ask a few questions and find out everything there was to know about the ATM scam — like, had her father put her up to it? Was she involved? Had she even done the coding, possibly with the help of some scripts off the Internet? Just how precocious was this girl?

But Borya hadn’t opened up. And sitting down at the table overlooking the harbor and skyline, Chelsea felt as if she was back in middle school, trying to make friends with one of the cool girls.

That had never gone well.

“Have you thought about college?” asked Chelsea. As soon as the words left her mouth, she regretted them; they were something a parent would say.

“No.”

“College is a good thing.”

God, I’m hopeless.

“Uh-huh.” Borya ripped open the bag of chips with her teeth and began eating.

Don’t ask her about a boyfriend. Or anything else about school.

What, then?

“So — what did you do with the ATM card?” There was nothing else to talk about, Chelsea decided. She might as well just cut to the quick.

“The ATM card?”

“The other night. One of my drones, a Hum, saw you at the machine.”

Borya shrugged.

“I know you have a way of stealing money from the accounts. I’m not going to turn you in. I just want to see how you do it. It’s pretty clever.” Chelsea’s mind flailed, trying to come up with some strategy that would work. “Did you write it in C++?”

“You have to use coding that the bank systems understand,” said Borya.

“And how’d you learn that?”

“The machine at the bank uses one language, then it gets translated. You don’t know that?”

“I don’t know anything,” fudged Chelsea. “I don’t work on those systems. Did you have to revise the program every time you hit a different bank?”

“I have to go.” Borya jumped to her feet.

“It’s at the intermediary,” said Chelsea, finally realizing that she had been mistaken about how the thefts were arranged. The code in the bank account that was queried went there, which then issued other commands. Otherwise it’d be too cumbersome.

“I have to go. My father is going to be looking for me.”

“Sure,” said Chelsea as nonchalantly as she could. “Come on. I’ll get you a ride.”

“I have my bike.”

“Sure you don’t want a ride?”

“No.”

“When do you want to come back?” Chelsea asked as they waited for the elevator.

“Come back?”

“You haven’t seen half of the awesome stuff we have. There’s plenty more.”

“I don’t know.”

Borya said nothing until they got to the lobby. Chelsea walked her to the security desk, where they retrieved her phone.

“You’re not coming with me, are you?” asked Borya. She seemed worried.

“I have to work.”

“OK.”

“Here,” said Chelsea, holding up her phone. “Here’s my number. Text me when you want to come back.”

Reluctantly, Borya pressed the key combination to allow the phones to exchange information.

“Anytime,” said Chelsea at the door to the lobby.