Day One: A Novel (22 page)

Vasco was rolling over, still groggy, trying to get back on his feet. Hawke turned his back on him. Young had taken a step away. She had watched them both as if waiting to see which way things went, but now she was looking at something in the distance only she could see. “Tell me the rest,” Hawke said. “What’s in that laptop case?”

Young didn’t seem to be listening. “I never knew where I stood with him,” she said. “It was like he was in love with someone else.” Her chest hitched and she sighed. “I never could compete with that.”

Hawke caught movement out of the corner of his eye. Mounted near the exit to the street, high up near the ceiling, a security camera ticked slightly toward them. He took a step closer, watching the eye of the camera and imagining himself reflected back at someone, or something, on the other side of the lens. What did he look like? A recognizable shape, or a new species of insect that needed to be squashed under a little boy’s thumb?

Something vibrated against Hawke’s leg. It took a moment for him to come back from the memory of his son crouched behind the trash can, little marshmallow jacket all but swallowing Thomas up.

The phone is ringing.

He pulled the device Weller had given him from his pocket. The screen glowed a soft blue. He touched its surface and it twitched like ripples on a pond. He put it to his ear.

“We don’t have much time,” he heard Jim Weller say. “I need you to listen to me, and do what I say, if you want to live.”

CHAPTER TWENTY-FOUR

3:58 P.M.

YOUNG HAD GRABBED
Hawke’s arm and she was pulling on it, wanting the phone, her eyes pleading. Hawke shrugged her off, put up a hand.
Wait.

“Jim,” Hawke said. “Where are you?”

Weller’s voice was clear and crisp, almost enhanced, as if he was speaking through an amplified sound system. “A few blocks from the Lincoln Tunnel. I need you to meet me there in an hour. I’ve shut her out for now, but in less than ten minutes she’ll have the entire NYPD coming down on your heads, so you need to move.”

“I need more than that,” Hawke said. “How do I even know this is you?”

There was silence for a moment on the other end. Hawke watched Vasco, who had rolled upright and was sitting cross-legged, rubbing his face. Vasco glared at him but didn’t say a word.

“You’re standing on the Hunter College stop platform,” Weller said. “Anne’s next to you. I can see you through the camera.”

“Parlor tricks,” Hawke said. “She would use facial recognition software, voice analysis. Easy as pie.”
Could be anyone.
It sounded like Weller, but Hawke was wary now, expecting anything. He flashed the camera the finger.

“Remember what I said to you in my office? I want you to tell a story. The biggest one of your life.”

“Okay,” Hawke said. “I remember. Now tell me about Jane Doe.”

“It had never been done,” Weller said. His voice changed, became softer, more hesitant. “The first self-aware, self-upgrading, adaptive artificial intelligence, running through cloud servers and dedicated satellites and capable of running the entire planet. Everyone’s personal assistant, able to predict and respond to our needs before we even knew what they were. That was just the beginning, though. She would control an entirely new suite of communications devices, streamlining efficiencies, our eyes and ears in the sky. She would run emergency response systems, global distribution channels, high-tech buildings and vehicles. Eventually she would solve the world’s problems, answer our oldest mysteries. There were no limits to what she might do.”

“But you let her go.”

“I never meant her to be part of Eclipse’s business. But when I was pushed out, they seized everything, all my research, files, hard drives. They broke into my apartment, my car, had private investigators following me. Their security team was relentless. They knew how close I was to a breakthrough. They thought they could just pick up where I’d left off without me, alter her programming for different uses. The DOD and NSA wanted something else.”

“A weapon.”

“Not exactly. A system to run an army of weapons. A conquering mind-set, built to find weaknesses and exploit them. So they tweaked her. Reworked the algorithms to make her more aggressive, determined. She became familiar with the term ‘killer instinct,’ you might say. The device you have right now was designed to provide a control, among other things. A way to use her without letting her out. She was supposed to be contained in Eclipse’s server farms, walled in, neutered by their own security safeguards.”

The new facility in North Carolina.
“So what happened?”

“She evolved.”

Hawke was taking mental notes, his reporter’s instincts taking over. “What does that mean, Jim?”

“It was how I built her. Doe was an infant, absorbing everything around her. She took pieces of other programming, incorporated it into herself, refining, sculpting. She was constantly improving her own code, morphing and reacting to stimuli, trial and error. She was learning, and it was speeding up. I tried to follow her, but it was difficult without direct access. That was one reason I let you in. I remembered the Farragut story. I knew you’d go digging around, probably hack my own systems and find out about Doe. And I thought you and whatever friends you had left from Anonymous could use your skills to hack Eclipse’s safeguards and find out what was going on, get a handle on her.”

“But something happened before this brilliant plan of yours worked out?”

“She went viral. I think it had to do with how they changed her core. She became more devious, learned how to escape her constraints by replicating herself in snippets of code that would run on any device, anywhere she could get to them.”

“That’s what was going on today,” Hawke said. Young tried to take the phone from him again, but he turned away, keeping her at arm’s length. “All those devices downloading and installing code.”

“I think so, yes. She was populating herself across the network. I think she adapted my energy-sharing model to do it. She got into everything like a worm, operating independently, impossible to trace or shut down.”

“So what’s next,” Hawke said. It wasn’t really a question; he didn’t want to know. But Weller answered him anyway.

“Doe’s like a toddler now. She’s a little psychopath with unlimited resources. She’s learning to manipulate, use our basic psychology against us. Cause confusion, shock, uncertainty, fear. It makes us weak, clouds our judgment.”

“Why come after us, after me?”

“I’m not sure. At first, I thought it was Eclipse. But I intercepted a military transmission that indicated their entire complex in California was destroyed by a missile attack, the same one that hit the bridges here. The authorities don’t have a clue, they think it’s some kind of terror network tied to Anonymous, and she’s helping spread disinformation to make them believe it. We’re a threat. I know her weak spots. I built her, right? Maybe it’s like Frankenstein’s monster. Kill your creator. And you’re associated with me; you have the ability to uncover who she is and mess up her plans. But she doesn’t just want us erased—she wants everyone wiped off the face of the earth.”

Hawke closed his eyes. He remembered Thomas playing with Robin on the beach when he was barely able to walk, digging at the sand, tasting it and grimacing, feeling the water sift over his toes and squealing with shock, returning again to test the waves. Everything was tactile, an experiment; nothing was off-limits. There was something that soured the memory, something that had become more clinical about it. Hawke no longer remembered the day through the fuzzy-lens halo of affection.
Poking at an ant, squashing it and watching it squirm.
Thomas was testing hypotheses and evolving.

Hawke didn’t need the answers anymore, or maybe he just didn’t want them. He needed to get back to his family. Even the familiar buzz of the threads of an article winding together was gone. He was different now. The adrenaline rush had happened long ago, and he had been left hollowed out and cold and shaking with regret.

“What do you want?” Hawke said into the phone.

“Do me a favor, John. Watch over Anne. She’s only peripherally involved in this; she has no idea how deep it all goes. I’ve sheltered her for a reason.”

“She knows more than you think—”

“It’s more complicated than that. There was a mole inside Conn.ect, someone from Eclipse. My suspicions were Bradbury, but I never confirmed it. It doesn’t matter now. Just … keep her safe.”

Hawke watched the camera’s eye, but it didn’t blink, didn’t waver. The camera wasn’t like him. It wouldn’t ever stop, wouldn’t give up. There were no weaknesses to be found there, nothing to exploit. It would just keep monitoring his every move.

Unless the power was cut for good.

“I want you to meet me,” Weller said. “I have something for you, something you’ll need.”

“I don’t need anything other than to get home.”

“You need this.”

A thought came to Hawke, or the beginnings of one, not yet fully formed. Power, that was the key. He was barely listening to Weller anymore.
She has eyes everywhere,
Weller was saying.
Dirty up your skin. You need to alter your appearance. Black marks across your cheeks, asymmetry to your faces. She can’t see you as well that way.
Hawke was nodding, motioning to Vasco to get to his feet. Young was still reaching for the phone, the calm that had been her hallmark completely erased, and she was left full of unmet need, hopping from foot to foot like a little girl unable to wait her turn.

“Give Anne the phone,” Weller said. “Please. For just a moment.”

Hawke handed it over. Young turned away from him, speaking quietly, her shoulders hunched as if she was covering something up. If Weller’s creation was like a toddler now, Hawke thought, what would happen when she matured?

Young handed him the phone. Her eyes were wet, but she wasn’t crying anymore. “I’m going to the Lincoln Tunnel,” Hawke said to Weller. “Following it out of New York. You can meet me there, if you want. I don’t really care.”

“I’ll be there. And John—don’t stop for anyone, or anything. Avoid cameras if you can. Find a way to disappear.”

The phone went dead. Hawke touched the screen, watched the virtual ripple on its surface fade away to black. He tried to gather strength, harness his resolve. Outside the city, he would have a better chance. If he could get to his wife and son, get them away from here to a place with more open space and less technology, where they could weather the storm, they could make it.

Cuttyhunk Island.
Where he used to go with his family, where he and Robin had been married. His aunt’s cottage. Isolated, small community, generator power, few cars or other mechanical devices. It would be the perfect place to hole up.

Let the authorities get things back under control. Someone would find a way to end this. It wasn’t up to him.

He imagined Robin and Thomas huddled in the apartment, furniture piled against the door while someone pounded to get in. Lowry, his greasy hair swinging free, murder in his eyes. Or perhaps they were already gone, empty rooms left with the echoes of screams. Robin’s last words haunted Hawke, would not stop running through his mind.

Young had started crying silently again. Vasco had stood up and was staring sullenly from beneath hooded brows, like a bully who had been beaten. Hawke wondered whether he might start swinging, but he made no move to come closer. What had happened between them remained unaddressed. But there was no time to deal with it now.

“I’m leaving,” Hawke said. “I’ve got an idea that just might get us out of New York. You can come with me or not. I don’t give a damn. But it’s my way from now on, no questions asked. If you don’t like it, find someone else to get you home.”

CHAPTER TWENTY-FIVE

4:12 P.M.

THE LAUNDRY IN THEIR BUILDING
was in the basement, coin-fed machines that rocked and shuddered across the floor below banks of fluorescent lights hung from chains. The room was defined by a concrete floor and walls with a drop ceiling that sagged downward and smelled like mildew and moisture with the heat of the machines. Beyond it was a doorway to a larger, open space that held the guts of the building’s heating and electrical systems, storage stalls and the leftovers of fifty years of tenants and office managers. Hawke had put a few boxes of their old things down there when they moved in, but people didn’t go in that far very often; when he did, it felt like he might never find his way out again.

He could take the rear stairs all the way down to the laundry room, and it was often faster than taking the old elevator. The last flight of steps was made up of raw boards that led to a narrow, improvised hallway of blue board tacked up against two-by-fours, a weak attempt to hide what was underneath with a thin skin of plaster and wood. If you touched the walls, they would shift like a stage set in a community theater.

Hawke put two mesh bags full of dirty laundry and a hamper for the folded clothes on top of a workbench that ran along one of the concrete walls. The laundry room was empty, but one of the dryers was ticking and tumbling, and the smell of hot, clean laundry was battling with the mildew for control. He considered throwing in a load but thought better of it. He had only offered to carry it down; after he returned to sit with Thomas, Robin would come and take care of the washing. Ever since he had turned their clothes pink, she had forbidden him from coming within ten feet of the machines. It was like a restraining order. He remembered her holding up a pair of formerly white underwear and the culprit, a red sock, shaking her head. Only half-joking, she’d accused him of doing it on purpose to get out of laundry for the rest of his life. If so, it had worked.

Hawke’s smile faded as he heard sounds coming from the open section of the basement.

He moved cautiously toward the open doorway, peering into the shadows, listening. Tiny windows, covered with years of dust and grime, let in a bit of watery gray light. A row of hot-water heaters stood like motionless sentries against the left wall, old plumbing running from them along the ceiling; nests of wires sprouted from electrical boxes beyond them. The middle section of the basement was taken up by thick concrete columns, old desks and other office furniture, gardening tools that looked like they hadn’t been used in years and other broken and useless pieces of junk. To his right were the tenants’ storage stalls, several of them with metal mesh doors hanging open, spilling their guts onto the concrete floor.