Alex Q - The Becoming

Nate bounced back from the collision, while the man in front of him hardly flinched. There were two of them. Gorillas in gray suits with decidedly unsympathetic faces and filled with the potential for controlled violence. One heavy would have been enough to take him in, the way he was feeling today.

“Excuse me,” Nate said, turning to step around the first man. It was worth a try.

Clone one did the speaking while clone two did the silent menace thing.

“Dr Taylor, we’d like you to come with us, please.” It didn’t sound like a request.

“Do I have a choice? You might at least tell me where you’re taking me.”

“We’re instructed to escort you, nothing else. Everything will be explained when we get there.” He paused, as if reading Nate’s mind. “It would be easier if you came with us willingly.”

Duly noting the implied threat, Nate walked between the suits to the limousine and was ushered into the rear seat. He felt the outsize Ford rise as the Dyno-Glide mechanism negated its mass and pushed it forward. The technology was only affordable to the wealthy or the powerful. After a short drive, he found himself once again entering the doors of a building he knew well. It used to be called Taylor Cybertronix.

They rode the elevator to the third floor. The door to the conference room quietly closed after they had passed, and the clones deposited him at the desk in his dad’s office at the end of the same corridor. He fumed silently, thinking about his father and what this whole fiasco was doing to him. Frank Taylor had sat at this desk for the last twenty years, creating Cybertronix with not much more than his bare hands and intellect. He had been so proud when Nate joined the firm after passing top of his year at MIT, and now it had all come to nothing.

He picked up the tiny prototype Quad-cube from the desk, one of his dad’s keepsakes from the early pioneering days. Nate had lost his way for a year or so, mostly because his sky-high IQ was accompanied by a wild streak that had to break out from time to time, or he would have gone crazy. Frank was understanding and stood by him no matter what. Throughout Nate’s drinking, the womanizing and a period of depression, his father was always there.

Eventually Nate found his balance and threw himself into his work at Taylor Cybertronix. His published papers were respected among his peers, and he was rapidly building on his father’s work; “standing on the old man’s shoulders”, Frank always said. The door opened and Agent Alders walked in with another man, who sat at the back of the room. Alders approached the desk.

“It’s nice to see you again, Dr Taylor.”

“I doubt it very much. I’m equally sure you don’t expect me to say the same.”

Alders actually attempted to laugh, with disastrous results. Nate could see he wasn’t used to expressing joviality. This wasn’t right; the agent was trying too hard to be nice.

“We did get off on the wrong foot yesterday. This is one of the reasons why you’re here today, to make amends.”

“If you call throwing us out, firing everybody and ripping apart my father’s life’s work getting off on the wrong foot.”

Alders’ face hardened a little before once again apologizing. “You must realize these are difficult times. However, notwithstanding the level of urgency implied by The Event, perhaps we could have handled things a little differently.”

Nate considered this. Why is Alders being so agreeable? He holds all the cards. “Damn right, you could have! I don’t accept your apology. Why don’t you tell me what I’m doing here and what you want?”

Glancing at the silent figure sitting behind him, Alders continued. “We have reconsidered our position. As Team Leader of your previous project, you have particular insights that may be invaluable to us. For the good of the project, we would like to ask you to join our group.”

“This gets better and better. First you throw me out, treat me and my colleagues like pariahs, and the next day offer me— Wait a minute! He won’t talk to you, will he?”

Alders straightened himself and squared his shoulders. “I’m not at liberty to discuss project details unless you sign a non-disclosure agreement and join us.”

“Non-disclosure agreement, my ass. You son of a bitch. He won’t talk to you.”

“Do you agree to work with us or not, Dr Taylor?”

“You know what? I don’t think I will. I’d feel dirty just coming to work every day. You people think you can bulldoze your way through anything, bullying anyone into doing what you want.” Nate got to his feet, anger rising. The two men leaned towards each other over the desk.

“You must realize we can make things uncomfortable for you. You have no idea what—”

A small cough from the man sitting by the door stopped Alders in mid sentence.

“If I may, Agent Alders?”

Alders moved back to the bookshelves at the side of the desk, standing motionless while the second man approached and gestured towards the vacant chair opposite Nate.

“May I?”

“Why not? You own the place.”

The older man exuded a quiet authority that wasn’t particularly threatening. “Would it be possible to have some coffee brought in?” he asked, looking directly at Alders, who reached for the desk intercom. A slight hand movement stopped him. “Why don’t you get it yourself? It would be quicker.” Alders walked out, closing the door behind him. “Please excuse my colleague, Dr Taylor. Such dedication is to be applauded in the right circumstances, but the younger elements in our agency have a tendency to be a little inflexible in their approach. When the only tool you have is a hammer, any kind of problem becomes a nail, does it not?”

Nate relaxed a little and studied the man in front of him. Obviously cultured, he spoke in an unhurried way, choosing his words carefully. If it wasn’t for the expensive suit and tie, he could be speaking to a favorite uncle, if he’d had an uncle with an English lilt to his speech. Nate had no doubt that in his way he was as ruthless as Alders; his gray eyes were as hard as diamonds.

“You don’t like Agent Alders any more than I, do you?”

“Who was it said, I neither like not dislike any man, for we are made from the same cloth, unwittingly doing our worst as we strive for the best.”

“Barron Trump, 49th President of the United States of America. Do you know what a Schmidt Hammer is, Mr ...”

“Boyd, but you can call me Steven. This constant formality can get a little tiresome. A Schmidt Hammer, also called a Rebound Hammer, is used to measure rock or concrete strength.”

“That’s right. Thing is, the English equivalent to Schmidt is Smith. A Smith hammer was a one-handed weapon used in medieval times to crush an opponent. Was Alders measuring me or attempting to crush me, Steven?”

“Touché, Dr Taylor. Once again, your treatment yesterday at the hands of the Bureau was regrettable. My hope is that we can start again. Our offer still stands, and by the way, your previous salary would be doubled.”

“So was I right? Do you have communication with Quadnet?”

“You are indeed correct. There has been no activity whatsoever. Questions posed either by keyboard or verbally elicit no response. We need your services.”

“And do you want to force me to help you, like Alders? I’m sure you have the means at your disposal.”

Boyd considered the question. “Certain among us have discussed that course of action, but the consensus is that it would not be in our best interests at this time.” He continued in response to Nate’s thin smile. “We are not thugs, Dr Taylor, but we do have purpose and are committed to using all means available to attain our objectives. We are dealing with an unknown quantity in the Quadnet entity. Coercion would serve to destroy your cooperation and would create an enemy of someone we may have to rely on.”

“I understand perfectly. A person is of value for as long as he can be used. That’s the good, bad and the ugly of it. What if I simply declined? Could I go home?”

“You have my word.”

“Then I’ll say goodbye, Steven. I can’t say that it’s been much of a pleasure, and good luck with your pet project.”

If the other man was disappointed or annoyed, his face didn’t show it. “Please take my number,” he said, handing over a plain white card with his name and a telephone number embossed in the center. “It’s a secure direct line and cannot be compromised.”

Slipping the card in his back pocket, Nate left the agent standing by his father’s desk and two minutes later was out of the building. Boyd took a phone from his inner jacket pocket and spoke quietly for a few seconds. Alders returned, and they watched from the window as Nate crossed the road, shoulders hunched against the wind.

“You must take the time to understand people, Agent Alders. It will be essential to your success. There are simply too many of them to coerce.”

“He’s just one man, sir.”

“Yes, and on the face of it, easily controlled. However, Dr Taylor will be of no use for our purposes unless he gives his services freely. In Quadnet we are confronted with an intelligence so vast we cannot begin to guess at its capabilities.” He turned and smiled at the other. “Do you think such an intellect would communicate freely with a man under obvious duress? I think not. We will wait. Dr Taylor is angry now, but he’s also a curious man.”

Nate took the Express Metro to the Exeter suburbs. He knew this wasn’t the greatest time to visit, particularly as the last one ended in a shouting match with Melissa, his dad’s second wife. He’d tough it out because he needed to make sure his father was OK. Besides, the old man was pretty astute, and a new perspective on today’s events would be welcome.

He’d peck his step-mom on the cheek and be polite for his dad’s sake. As he hurried along he couldn’t help looking behind him, which didn’t help his agitated state. He was acutely aware that the State knew exactly where he was every minute of the day. The technology making this possible was the growth of the Internet, precursor to Quadnet.

The Internet of Things had long ago evolved into the Internet of All Things. It was hardly possible to buy a toothbrush without some basic connectivity and associated marketing: ‘Download the best rotational sequence for your teeth as you brush, because we’re all different. You deserve the best.’ He could see the actor smiling in his mind’s eye. Those teeth hadn’t seen a brush in a long time. The surfaces of Ceramo-titanium implants reconstructed themselves overnight.

I need a drink. Leaving the Metro station, he crossed the street and pushed open the door of a dismal bar with a flashing neon sign and ordered an old fashioned rye. Two men played pool in the rear, and a man at the bar crooned into his beard. The TV showed an image of Senator Grantham, and Nate asked the bartender to increase the volume.

“ … and in a bizarre twist to our earlier story featuring Senator Robert Grantham, we go over to our correspondent in Riverside, California, for the latest update.”

“Thanks, Vanessa. As most of us know, California is the home of what used to be known as the biggest cryogenics facility in the United States. The biggest, that is, until Congress outlawed the practice. After succession, California’s repository not only became bigger, but also exclusive, housing the whole nation’s successful applicants, commonly called sleepers, from the forty-nine states. Sleepers are gambling they can be unfrozen in the future when medical science can cure their terminal illnesses. For some of them, this dream ended last night.”

The journalist stepped back as the camera panned across the facade of Cryogenics CA, fading to an image of a cryo-pod.

“Last night, the control systems of ten pod systems failed, and their occupants died.”

Zoom in to talking head for dramatic effect.

“Although unusual, such a failure rate has happened before, but here’s the rub; nine of the ten deceased sleepers had the same name as the prominent Senator, Robert Grantham. Coincidence? Stranger things have happened. Back to you in the studio, Vanessa.”

The Senator didn’t know it, but Robert was the third most popular given name among US males. Grantham, however, was way down the list of American family names at three hundred fifty-eight. Out of the one hundred ninety-two men bearing the name Robert Grantham and currently living in North America, ninety-eight had their cyber identity erased and consequently found it impossible to function in a connected society. Sixty-two took to the streets and the rest committed suicide. As for the rest, fifty-nine muddled through with the help of family, a further twenty-six died tragically in hospital when their life support systems malfunctioned, and ten ceased to be when the temperature control of their cryogenic pods went haywire.

Considering on average ninety-five people lost their lives each day on US highways and byways, these events hardly made a ripple. An optimist might say it could have been worse. If Senator Robert Smith had been chosen, the problem would have been multiplied by forty-five thousand. A pessimist might say give it time ...