Ramez Naam - Apex

Who was she then? A spook? A spy?

Aggarwal pulled the door shut behind him, then met Kade’s gaze, and spoke.

“Mr Lane, I regret to inform you that our government has received a highest priority request from the government of the United States for your incarceration and extradition. Our treaty obligations compel us to honor this request.”

Kade closed his eyes. The icon in the corner of his mental vision loomed large.

10

Overnight Delivery

Saturday 2040.11.03

At the Indian Consulate in Shanghai, the more-perfect-than-nature diamondoid data cube was slipped into a Faraday-lined pouch, which itself was then tucked into a second compact Faraday cage, no larger than a purse, for good measure. The resulting bundle was locked inside a tamper-resistant diplomatic case, protected from search and seizure by treaty and international protocol, which was then handcuffed to the wrist of a senior courier. The courier, accompanied by two members of the Consulate’s security force, was driven immediately south and west towards Shanghai’s smaller Hong Qiao Airport.

With the massive disruption caused by the cyber calamity – the cyber- attack according to Indian intelligence – they would take no chances with the closer but more seriously affected Pudong Airport.

The black Opal sedan – the vehicle of choice for diplomats and aristocrats throughout Asia – sped across the roads, minimal traffic providing no obstructions, diplomatic immunity rendering it oblivious to local traffic laws.

At the rear security gate to Hong Qiao, armed guards and imposing barriers brought them to a halt. The driver lowered his window, showed diplomatic papers to unsmiling soldiers with improbably large fully automatic weapons. Tripod mounted cameras and robotic defense systems tracked them. The car beeped, scrolled data across the driver’s display as the airport’s security AIs interrogated it, validating authority. Tense moments passed.

Then the unsmiling soldiers tersely handed the papers back. Lights turned green, and they drove directly out onto the tarmac, towards the fully fueled, ready-to-fly, diplomatic jet bearing the emblem of the Indian Ministry of External Affairs. The courier and the security men exited the sleek black Opal and boarded the Indian jet, the stairs retracting behind them.

Within minutes they were taxiing down the runway, a flight plan filed for New Delhi, a landing less than six hours away.

And a call was placed, informing certain people that a package was on its way.

Five thousand kilometers away, in the southern Indian city of Bangalore, on a campus that once belonged to the Defense Research and Development Organization of the Indian Ministry of Defense, a scientist named Varun Verma received the call.

“Now?” he asked into his handset. “You’re sure?”

Afternoon sunlight illuminated the boyish, clean-shaven face of a man in his thirties, on a tall lean frame, in a white shirt and grey trousers.

“I see.”

Dr Varun Verma hung up, and rose to his feet. Through the windows of his office he watched the palm trees lining the streets of this verdant, tropical campus. This research facility had once been a place where aeronautics engineers worked on high tech fighters for India’s Air Force, freeing the nation from dependence on imported Russian MiGs and French Mirages. Now, it was something different. No longer part of DRDO or the Ministry of Defense, it was part of a Ministry few had ever heard of, a Ministry whose very existence was classified. It was a place ideally suited for the work it did – advanced computing research with the aim of pushing the frontiers of intelligence, both human and artificial. And with the high tech workforce of Bangalore, Silicon Valley of Asia, all around it, there was no better place to find talent.

Of all the secret projects housed here, none were quite as secret, or as dangerous, as Varun Verma’s.

Varun tapped his pocket to be sure his badge was with him, lifted his slate off his desk, and strode out of his office, tapping away on the slate. The team must be summoned. The cluster must be prepped. The cube was en route, first to Delhi, and then here, to Bangalore.

He finished sending out instructions as he reached the first checkpoint. The guards recognized him, nodded. But still he waved his badge, held his eye to the retinal scanner, waited to be cleared.

The elevator opened with a soft ping. In he went. And then down, in the gleaming chrome and carbon cube. Down five levels. Then a hallway, another security check, another retinal scan, another ultramodern lift, and a plunge: one hundred meters down, straight down.

The lift opened onto beauty. Onto the most powerful computer in India. Varun took it in, with its monitoring consoles and its glass walls, its egg-shaped helium pressure vessels, with the vacuum chambers deep inside. The row after row after row of entangled quantum processors linked by thick optical cables.

A quantum cluster.

Their very own.

Built to specifications stolen from the great Chen Pang in China.

Waiting only for the software to run it. Software now on the way.

There was one last thing to arrange. One vital ingredient necessary for the stability of the software they were about to load. Varun looked down on his slate, navigated through the necessary pages, and started looking through the list of candidates. They needed a body, still living, that wouldn’t be missed. A body with a brain they could wire to the quantum cluster. A brain to restore Su-Yong Shu to sanity.

11

Reactions

Sunday 2040.11.04

Carolyn Pryce woke in her room at the Houston Intercontinental to an urgent chiming from her slate.

Less than a dozen people in the world could cause her slate to wake her.

She rolled over. The clock read 4.31am. Her deputy Kaori’s face was on the slate, coming in over a highly encrypted link from Kaori’s home office.

Pryce answered. “Go.”

“You need to see this,” Kaori said. “Barnes is dead.”

Then the video started to play.

She was on her way to the President’s suite five minutes later.

Secret Service let her pass. She went in to find the President standing, a red velvet robe tied around him, his face still with attention. Even in a robe, even in his fifties, he was undeniably the athlete, dominating the room with his height, his broad shoulders, that square jaw, his sheer physical presence. Behind him, Cindy Stockton was sitting up in bed, wrapped in her own more delicate dressing gown. The First Lady’s eyes were wide open in horror. On the wall screen the video Pryce had just seen was finishing.

“I’ve killed men to keep my secrets,” Barnes was saying. “To keep the President’s secrets.”

Then she saw Greg Chase, standing by the screen, in suit and tie. Did he sleep that way?

Barnes said something else on the video, then he leaned back, and fell, and fell, and fell, a long way down into the fast moving river, and the video collapsed into black.

“Jesus,” the President said.

“It’s going viral, Mr President,” Chase said. “All the networks. Everywhere on the net. We’re getting press inquiries now.”

“We’re under attack,” Stockton said. Then he went on. “What’s the weather in DC?”

Someone behind her answered.

“The storm’s dissipating.” It was Larry Cline, the President’s Campaign Manager. “Air Force One should be able to land by the time we gather every one up and reach DC. Or at least get us close.”

Stockton nodded. “Cancel the rest of the trip, Larry,” he said. “I need to speak to the country. From the White House.”

[Kaori: They’ve identified the bridge. PA state police & DHS are searching river for the body.]