Chapter 49


Twenty people were scattered across the top floor of a paper-free office building. Rick sat on a podium under a curving window. One kilometer away, the highway roared in the evening air, as it had for eighty years. A convoy of trucks hummed like a string. The enemy was close, but not close enough. Surveillance cameras waited for the right blur.
  An agent from the Intelligence Group stared back at him from the corner. The most important inspectors watched each other.
  It was time to choose a new policy. As part of the UN plan to decentralize authority, Damon led the meeting, while random world citizens attended online. The plasmid conspiracy was an international crime, but every local jurisdiction had a voice at the table.
  "Posse Comitatus still applies to all sixty thousand North American security forces," explained a deputy director (the only kind) of the reformed Federal Information Agency. His cheap, scanner-produced suit had a deliberately crooked tie. The best agents were too busy not to look like slobs. Obsessed with their work, they only got mad at their own mistakes.
  "Who makes your decisions?" Rick asked.
  "FIA falls under the old Executive Office, along with our rivals the IIA. Our board includes every security force in our operating zone."
  They were known as the Star Chamber, a public corporation with the monopoly on violence - the true basis of society, even if it was rarely used. Political power flowed from the barrel of a gun, before that from swords and spears, before that stone axes and sharpened sticks.
  Today, Federal law enforcement also responded to virtual complaints, where the crime had not yet been committed. They had learned the true value of time and money, of laboriously established social networks, and tended to favor the status quo. Twenty years ago, the release of one vial of viruses, which had killed no one, had caused a trillion dollars in "clean up costs", plus legal fees for mental anguish. Mexico had ignored the whole thing, while the US economy stagflated and collapsed.
  The national debt had reached tens of millions of millions (of tens) of dollars before the final default. In layman's terms, if that money had been stacked in no-longer-legal-tender pennies, the top would have moved many times faster than the speed of light and traveled back in time, where it could have been reinvested. Many politicians had been forced to change their identities.
  "If humanity had worked 1% harder during the past 2000 years, the economy would now be a million times larger," Donitz had told Rick before the meeting. "Remember, whatever you do today will change the future. I would hesitate to act at all."
  "If I believed that, I would kill myself," Rick had replied. He thought about persuasion. If he made Donitz angry, Donitz would want to fight him, which they both wanted.
  According to Richardson's power law, any event with double the death toll was about three times less likely to happen. He would be more likely to start the next small crisis than the final big one.
  The walls and partitions were decorated with inspirational mottos: "Something is going to happen", "You don't have to be crazy to work here, and you would probably be fired", "IF EVERYONE WOULD SHUT THE HELL UP THEY COULD HEAR ME scream". The situation was perfectly normal, it had just never happened before.
  When a meeting participant coughed, the sound-canceling speakers made a scary echo. Onscreen, a World Health representative spoke in an accusing tone. "Gram for gram, the plasmids are potentially deadlier than antimatter. The latest Einstein-Boltzmann FlowGraphix suggest they will float for less than an hour, and oxygen destroys them even sooner, but the phage viruses could stay dormant forever. Initial infection requires a massive induction phase while the victim is sleeping. They're unpredictable co-evolvers, so we've issued a preliminary Epidemic Warning, and prepared a Quarantine Alert. We should have a simple antigen test next week, virion samplers next month."
  Through the window Rick saw an old US flag, the stars like the ancient game "Space Invaders".
  The participants voted who spoke next, and chose the Millipol agent. A trim and tanned lawyer who seemed to be on a permanent vacation, he worked in the law firm Rick had passed through during his escape.
  "The anxiety we're all feeling is normal and perfectly healthy," the dynamic lawyer said. "Our brains are wired to fear the unknown." He spoke as if he had checked all the connections himself. "I'm glad the Resistance just released another video of the robot attack." He seemed privately amused. "When the world is about to end, remember the first rule of statistics: add up every probability. There was no attack! The whole thing was an illusion, meant to prevent its own realization. Micron systems are much too complex to function in the real world. The robot followed a carefully planned script, calculated in advance, guided by radio beacons and feedback interfaces. The sideswiped truck was a control vehicle."
  Rick nodded sagely. No one had told him, because they assumed he already knew. He had figured it out during the flight, but Damon had understood immediately he was being used. That didn't mean that he hadn't expected to die.
  When people were first confronted with a new technology, they often couldn't tell what was possible or not. "The right software could create an unstoppable micron opponent, but that would take decades," the lawyer added. DNA had existed almost four billion years, and still hadn't reached its full potential. Someone mumbled "cover-up".
  "I want to emphasize," he continued, "that no Millipol agency had the necessary skills to create the microns. Inspired by the Starter Swarm, the technology was probably discovered by accident, perhaps inside a simulation. It turned into an emergent group effort. Dozens of independent inventors and contractors used a string of unrelated cover stories, both too clever and too naive for law enforcement. In fact, all the available evidence points to the Resistance as the robot's creator, though that's probably a deception." He smiled at Damon, who nodded with his eyes apparently closed, the lids glowing slightly.
  The attack had already changed mankind. "They wanted to intimidate us," the lawyer went on, "and almost succeeded. Several robot incidents earlier this week established a dangerous pattern which they decided to exploit, a perfect way to personalize a remote threat. Meanwhile, the UN has accused Millipol of violating certain human rights by infiltrating and manipulating groups without their knowledge. Those are serious charges. As we get smarter, we know ever less about ourselves, so we started an internal investigation as part of the Total Search. I can now confirm there has been some unauthorized research." He looked suitably abashed. "A few dozen of our most creative associates in eight different agencies apparently infiltrated the Prophet Fam. They wanted to test new social theories, and develop control tools. Their apparent goal was to protect mankind, but what they did was very wrong. Our members are not supposed to fight each other, except in rare cases, when one of them becomes too powerful." That might explain why Xiao had exposed the Chinese government's secret social policies.
  "Have you questioned any suspects?" Rick asked.
  "We don't have their names yet, just some suspicious gaps in the Prophets' member list. Some of our most qualified agents were not allowed to join, suggesting they had already reached their quota. There are other clues I can't reveal yet. Our investigation will be fully transparent. We are very scrupulous, and always put safety first. You will recall the plasmid and micron designs had many safeguards."
  "If the plasmids had mutated, the Prophets would have been blamed for any outbreak," Damon said. The best treatment for a retrovirus was another retrovirus. "Millipol would gladly sacrifice an ally. If all else fails, they will encourage all the illegal Fams to destroy each other."
  There was a second of silence. Two working groups were studying the Prophets, who claimed they had been framed. A dozen questions were merged into one: "Did Millipol cooperate with Anonymous?" The computer generated voice tone indicated the askers wouldn't be surprised.
  "I don't know," the lawyer admitted. "If we did, all evidence has been destroyed."
  Rick was no longer in awe of Anonymous. He didn't think she was that smart, just extremely focused, an intense form of concentration. A lack of imagination, really.
  "Why not conceal the plasmids inside bacteria or insects?" someone wondered.
  "Old-fashioned privacy laws still protect most medical records," Rick replied. "I can inspect your home, but not your body."
  "The rogue agents will claim the plasmids were designed to fight diseases," Damon said. "DNA replacement could help us live forever, or kill us all in months. I believe they're really factories. Millipol will think of something."
  "A plasmid disease would force everyone to cooperate," the lawyer said, "which may be exactly what we need. It would of course be highly immoral."
  A professor in his early teens explained the plasmid life cycle. He did not seem surprised by anything. "Different parts of Knil's brain respond to signals in the form of smells and pheromones to evolve short-lived messenger viruses. His mood and outlook are also important. The airborne viruses alter the behavior of other infected individuals depending on their social rank." The professor showed a diagram with too many arrows. "At one end, we have reverse transcription enzymes. At the other end: thought." He continued matter-of-factly. "At first we thought the plasmids were modified mitochondria. They look similar enough, but the one we tested had no detectable base pairs. Gamma diffraction suggests a folded, tubelike xenome structure. They might be aliens." There was no reaction from the attendees, as if they heard this type of thing every day. In their present frame of mind, it seemed normal. Damon appeared to stare through his screen. Rick's typing sounded like an off-tempo drum.
  "If we're not mistaken, and our sample wasn't degraded, it probably evolved on this planet from a non-DNA based lifeform," the professor continued. "An 'Earth alien', or 'endoterrestrial', if you will. I predicted this contingency last year. Why would Earth life evolve only once? If so, it's become an almost perfect parasite. We may all have them. I'll need a few weeks to make sure, since they're chemically similar to us."
  The original sample had been destroyed during the test. Another thing Rick could safely ignore. To him DNA looked like a chain. He leaned forward, trying to follow the self-calculating summaries and reports. Humans had finally learned how to manage their lives by dividing their attention. They could have several arguments at once, file away insults for later, and relax at will.
  It would be difficult to fight two technologies at once, both prominent threats on RedList. He thought of two fins slicing through the ocean.
  There were ten levels of nanotech, from mechanical to nuclear transmutation. The plasmids were level six, more dangerous than their controllers. The UN Inspectors' Creed said: When in doubt, delay; but some problems could only be solved by creating bigger ones. Perhaps he had already accomplished this task. He wished there was more time to think.
  "Tarek Golog claims too much diversity may actually slow the rate of progress," Rick finally said. "As technology gets more complex, the error rate increases even faster. Nonetheless, the UN must attempt to neutralize the Millipol/Prophet conspiracy, and confiscate their research. The only question is the appropriate level of force."
  Thousands of questions appeared at once. Soon there would be a vote. The final result would stay secret until it was too late to change.

  The setting sun made the room more glamorous. This was the beginning of the end.
  "M . . more coffee?" Rick asked.
  "Tastes like furniture polish regurgitated by fruit bats," Damon said approvingly. He took another can, sealed for the paranoid. Non-stress coffee was too addictive. He felt as if he had been beaten up, and it had just ended.
  Damon sank in his chair. In dangerous times, he seemed to become sluggish. The decision had been made, the Resistance had been excluded, and suddenly he had secrets.
  "We're interested in how you will solve this problem, especially if you fail," he said.
  "Don't say good luck, it doesn't help."
  "You don't need luck, just firepower."
  "And patience. All the forbidden technology would fit inside a one-meter cube." Rick thought about the upcoming night. He finally accepted this case would never end. He would keep doing this until the day he died. Even the past felt like the future now.
  Starting this January, he would conduct a percentage of his inspections by telepresence. New bots would visit people at home, forgetting most of what they saw there. Soon, danger would become a nostalgic memory. In twenty years, every remaining government would be replaced by a "power continuum". Rick's current goals would be obsolete long before then. Perhaps he could help others find new ones.
  First, he had to live that long. After Damon had closed the meeting, Rick had stood up and surprised himself by announcing his retirement from the involuntary inspections program. He had endured enough risks to last several lifetimes, and would no longer go on any dangerous missions. Strange, he had never heard Donitz laugh before.