Hieroglyph (34 page)

Frankly, I didn't see why you'd defer your life for Johnny, why building the Drone Commons should amount to a near-religious life project, especially when you could use the perfectly good, ordinary mediasphere, what government PSAs called
hygienic networks
. Yes, the Drone Commons originally grew out of efforts to bring Internet coverage to rural areas, but mediasphere satellites gave better coverage now. And yes, the Commons wasn't technically illegal, but unless you were up to no good, why would you bother to use it? I didn't ask.

I developed a silly crush on Charlotte for a while, but my one-sided ardor faded fast. I realized we'd only ever be friends. Maa had been searching for a nice Indian girl for me to marry, a condition of my living at home. I wouldn't be single much longer. Better to forget Charlotte and Johnny, the romance of their mobile crusade. It was time to refriend Jobber, to plot my final escape from BigMachine.

ON MEMORIAL DAY OF
that year, Martin Gallagher did what he did. He hacked the computer of his Freightliner D9000, hooked it up to what looked like a standard fifty-three-foot intermodal container that authorities would later determine had been fabbed in an ad hoc compound near Salt Lake City. Filled the container with fertilizer explosive. Drove to downtown Cheyenne, his own hands at the wheel, in control for once. Parked in front of the tallest building in the city, the newly built regional headquarters of the Department of Transportation, which had recently passed Directive 3482, a trial program experimenting with a small fleet of totally driverless trucks. At nine
A
.
M
. of that day, after six minutes and thirty-two seconds, during which time security cameras show him sitting stock-still, staring out his windshield, face neutral, he detonated his truck and himself.

An explosion the equivalent of almost one kiloton near vaporized five city blocks, killing 3,032 souls, injuring ten times as many. It was a miracle more people weren't killed. At that moment, Charlotte and I were having coffee. I'd gotten off my shift at BigMachine, and she was showing me a new prototype drone Johnny had built. A life-real killdeer, down to the smallest particulars. She controlled it with hand gestures, making it fly around my head, laughing at my discomfort, my bashful refusal to try it for myself. Then came a pop, a rattle. Seconds later, chimes cascaded through every phone in the diner. Charlotte got a message from Johnny and left right then, her coffee unfinished, Johnny's life-real killdeer drone left for me to dispose of.

MAA ALWAYS INSISTS I'M
a likable guy. You might say my troubles all followed from that fact. Because, you see, Martin Gallagher didn't like much in his miserable life, but he liked BigMachine, and he
liked me
. I didn't make the connection at first—didn't think to check—but the FBI did.

“Let me see if I understand you, Arun. You're saying you don't remember ever talking to Martin Gallagher?”

“No. I mean, I don't know.”

The second suited man: “Ten minutes ago, you seemed sure you didn't remember him.”

“But then you showed me that video of us talking, and I kind of . . . I'm just saying it's pretty clear I
did
talk to him. I don't deny it. But so many truckers come through BigMachine. It's like
my job
to talk to them.”

“Your pay partly depends on them liking you,” said the first agent. “Isn't that the case?”

“I never said otherwise.”

“So, tell us, did you ever do anything special to make Martin Gallagher like you?”

“You saw the video. I unjammed a vending machine for him.”

“We mean anything
else,
” said the second. “Because if you can't remember now, now that we've jogged your memory, and we find
another
video . . .”

Two special agents sat at our kitchen table, Maa at their side, more afraid than I've ever seen her. When you're on a work visa, you never forget what the bastards can do to you, even if your children are natural-born. The Fourth Amendment cyborg sat very still on our couch in the living room, her eyes flat clouded lenses, tiny wires burrowing into her head sockets, an occasional glance left, right, her movements sudden and odd. Because she had upgraded senses—enhanced vision, superhearing—she bypassed any Reasonable Expectation of Privacy. What her senses recorded was considered admissible evidence. The case law was ambiguous, Charlotte told me later, and the ACLU had been fighting Fourth Amendment cyborgs for years, courts indecisive on the question, no final settlement in sight. But the fact that the cyborg was there at all was a sign that I was of little importance, part of a broad sweep of data collection, no probable cause for a real warrant. Good news, I guess. But the hunt was ruthless. The FBI, agents of the Department of Transportation, and local law enforcement interviewed me six times. Interviews could last all day. When flesh-and-blood agents got bored or tired, they had me talk with interrogation software that directly accessed my biometric feeds. Then I worked all night. I burned through sick days fast, took a day of unpaid leave, spent what little money I had on legal-defense software, used Red Bull Xtreme Dermal Patches to survive savage shifts. I got groggy and irritable, started fighting with my parents and sisters. My work metrics crashed. Just as my legal expenses mounted, my income shriveled up. I couldn't see the bottom, but I knew that it was coming fast, and that it would hurt like a motherfucker when I hit.

THE CHEYENNE MASSACRE CHANGED
BigMachine. Gallagher had released a video manifesto, a seven-hour soliloquy, a darkly frenzied attack against the Department of Transportation, against automated trucking, suggesting all manner of wild conspiracy theory. When asked, I made a point to say I hadn't seen it, wasn't interested in seeing it, and never would be. It was true, too. The truckers weren't sure how to respond. Everyone hated Gallagher, yes. At the same time, he'd taken action, while they, for all their whining and complaining, sat on their hands, waiting for the end, the day they'd finally be fired. The sympathetic chatter—cloaked beneath tortured disclaimers (
“I don't like what he done, but . . .”
)—made me sick. So many died at that monster's hands. How could anyone say a kind word, offer a single qualification or explanation for his actions, include the word
but
in any sentence about him? The truckers knew my views, and though they professed to feel the same way, liked me less than they once had, which further savaged my pay. Gallagher's video was all anyone talked about at BigMachine till the Department of Justice put the kibosh on it. It was material evidence in an ongoing investigation, the press release said. Might contain codes meant for other homegrown terrorists. One day, it was made to vanish from the mediasphere. The truckers, usually an animated lot, even in the darkest times, grew silent, as though they'd gotten some collective memo:
Shut the fuck up about Martin Gallagher
. Loose chatter was no longer allowed.

And then one day the secretary of transportation issued a new directive, and the truckers were gone, literally overnight, as if they'd never existed in the first place. Dozens were arrested, up and down the interstate. The entire trucking fleet of the United States of America became fully automated by fiat. Gallagher sped up what he'd meant to stop. My zone of BigMachine was now almost human-free. I had almost no work. Trucks still fueled up every hour of every day, guzzling DME, but the vending machines stayed full, and the bar was empty, the Lucite robot bartenders museum-still. My dashboard sometimes stayed green all night. Those green lights no longer signaled my diligence, but prophesied my obsolescence. It was just a matter of time before they let me go.

The droneport on the other side of the complex, meanwhile, livened up. Gallagher had used the Commons to plan his attack. He had uploaded his manifesto there, and the authorities couldn't take it down without destroying the physical infrastructure of the mesh network. Newly empowered by Congress, emboldened, the FAA subjected Class G airspace to martial law and policed higher altitudes with a new ruthlessness. The starless sky exploded, night after night. The war was on.

“JOHNNY NEEDS HELP,” CHARLOTTE
said.

I was wedged between Zara and Sandy in the back of the car. Charlotte and Beatrice faced me from the front seats. We were near Laramie, heading to a diner for an early breakfast. I was starved after a lonely night's work. It was a bit of a shock when Charlotte, who'd asked to meet me, came with the entire retinue of interns. Four months had passed since the blast. I hadn't seen any of them. But I'd messaged Charlotte about my situation at BigMachine, told her my job wasn't likely to last much longer, so they must have known I was desperate.

Charlotte added, “He's been making choices that are . . .”

“They're less than wise,” Sandy said. “You might say they're
unwise
.”

“We're really worried,” Zara said. “Things are superbad.”

Most dronepunks were lying low after the Cheyenne Massacre, but not Johnny, never Johnny, Sandy said. The effort to suppress Gallagher's manifesto only confirmed the need for the Drone Commons. The stubborn jerk never used the regular mediasphere, had no idea how the massacre was being covered, how public anger was getting rerouted against dronepunks. Antidronepunk rage was building, but Johnny didn't care. It didn't matter how insane Gallagher's ideas were, didn't matter that he used the Commons to plan his attack. You don't stop bad ideas by hiding them from view. You don't prevent crime by keeping everyone under 24/7 surveillance. Why blame innocent dronepunks for the actions of a madman? Why not blame the fucking Federal Highway Administration? he'd shout. The interns understood his perspective, and as always admired his principles, but they were near rebellion, especially Zara. He ought to quiet down temporarily, she interrupted, angry, wait for the paranoia and sadness to relax, as it would in time. Zara—the only one of Johnny's interns with local roots, the only one who lived at home rather than the motel trailer with the rest—was close to breaking ranks. The whole state was still furious. Everyone knew someone killed or injured by the blast. Someone from Zara's gen ed playgroup had been hurt.

Charlotte: “You've got a social media degree, Arun. Johnny's doing important work, but he isn't one to, let's say, communicate his mission effectively. He assumes you either understand what he's doing or can't be saved. But we've been talking, and we think—”

Sandy: “Look, Johnny needs someone to do publicity.”

“And no one respectable will get within ten miles of the guy,” I said. “You'd do it yourself, but you've all got, like, actual real work to do, and don't know the first fucking thing about this state and its people, except maybe you, Zara.”

Sandy, almost with sympathy: “Bull's-eye.”

“Don't be a jerk,” Beatrice said. “We're asking for his—for your—
help
.”

“Not that you're not respectable,” Sandy added.

“His first male intern,” I said.

“What's that supposed to mean?” Zara said.

“I'm just . . . I mean, at BigMachine, they say . . .”

“Johnny's not—”

Charlotte interrupted: “People say the most awful things about Johnny. But if you work for him, you'll need to check your assumptions.”

“Sorry,” I said.

“No, I'm sorry for approaching you this way,” Charlotte said.

“Well, how much does Johnny pay?”

The long silence, followed by general snickering, was my answer.

“Oh, Arun. I thought . . . You know what an
intern
is, right?”

FBI AGENTS CONTINUED HARASSING
me, casual but persistent. One time—an FAA stormtrooper at their side—they even asked about Johnny. Did he have any connection with Gallagher? Did I approve of his mission? Why did I seem to know his interns so well? On the advice of my legal software, I answered honestly, not mentioning the internship offer, and my answers seemed to satisfy them. When I was served, notified that my networks—and metadata—were under surveillance, most of my so-called friends abandoned me fast. Johnny's interns didn't defriend me, but under pressure from my parents I dropped them. Stopped answering Charlotte's calls. Not that keeping my distance helped. Baba lost his job, officially because of the Bad Economy, but we knew: I was to blame. My sisters still had to pay for their certifications. Only Maa and I were earning money, though I was bringing in less and less every day. BigMachine dropped my shifts. Not much for me to do, they said. If the trend line continued, my hours would zero out in less than a month. Our bank account was in bad shape. We might have to tap our meager retirement investments. I renewed my subscription to Jobber, buying another grossly expensive year of fruitless advice.

“I'm glad you're back, Arun.”

“Things aren't going so well, Jobber. Things are, in truth, terrible.”

“You can talk to me. Tell me about your troubles.”

We talked all night. I'm not proud to admit it, but having Jobber back in my life was such a relief. Sometimes, I'd go to BigMachine to drink, sit alone at the near-empty bar, watch the robot big rigs, and we'd discuss my problems. Jobber revamped my résumé, started sending out hundreds of applications on my behalf every day. I got no interviews, no rejections even. For every open position, hundreds applied, most more experienced than me.

“I know how frustrating this process can be, Arun. But I believe in you. Is there anything we're forgetting?”

“What do you mean?”

“Any opportunities you might, in a self-starting fashion, make for yourself?”

“Well . . . no, nothing.”

“I heard you hesitate, Arun. What were you thinking just now, that you didn't say?”