Next History: The Girl Who Hacked Tomorrow (43 page)

As the sun climbs higher, those on the
west side of the building experience firsthand the long shadow that falls across the parking lot, stretching nearly to I-395. Like Friedman and others before them, they are perplexed to find nothing in the sky to cast such a shadow. Something indeed blocks the sun, but is invisible to the eye.

The priests know that
multiple possessions are possible, that a demon can migrate from one person to another. Aside from that there is a fundamental difficulty. Exorcism is about the encounter of a demon with a possessed soul, the unwilling takeover by an unclean spirit. But here the possession is not of a person, and nothing in the training of exorcists by the Vicar of Rome prepares them for this. The plan, which most have agreed to, is to regard the possessed soul as Mother Earth herself. Their exorcism is framed as ridding the entire world of Satan. The priests are on new ground.

They have a careful strategy. Aside from the cadre of
exorcist priests here in person, every exorcist from each of the Church’s 3000 worldwide dioceses will be with them on closed circuit video, and will likewise pray for the cleanliness and health of Mother Earth. Tens of thousands of other priests, along with many devout Catholics will do likewise, for as long as it takes.

Beginning now.

Baptism is the most basic exorcism, and these priests and their brothers worldwide are prepared with thousands of gallons of holy water to sprinkle on plants and trees, on animals and people, on anything that walks upon, touches or owes its life to the Earth, and on the soils of Mother Earth herself.

The loudspeakers are ready. The Archbishop of the
Roman Catholic Archdiocese of Chicago, an anointed Cardinal, steps to his microphone beneath the awning near the helipad, the rising sun behind him, and spends a few moments in silent prayer. Around the Pentagon, the priests stand beneath suspended microphones in the five awning tents, ready to add their voices. The Bishop lifts high a gleaming silver cross. At this moment, all priests raise their own crosses, facing the building walls. From the loudspeakers comes the Archbishop’s incantation.

“Ecce crucem Domini.”
Behold the cross of the Lord
. The priests echo the chant repeatedly in unison, a call and response taking on a rhythmic feel. Their voices reverberate from hard stone.

After ten minutes the chanting ceases, echoes whisper away. Each priest kneels and presses the hem of his robe to the ground, holding one hand on his head. Typical behavior of demons is they will try to hide, making the exorcist’s task therefore to coax
, invite the unclean things to show themselves, to expose and expel them. The priests sprinkle from their canteens holy water upon the ground. After all priests have risen to their feet, crosses and crucifixes held aloft, the Archbishop continues.

“What is your name?”
The voice firm and strong from the loudspeakers. The assembled priests echo the stern command.

There is no answer.

“Are you alone or are others with you here?” The amplified echoes die to silence.

“When did you enter the Earth?”

The ritual proceeds thus through the long morning.

Late in the night at a fitness center near Tule Springs, Nevada, three dozen miles from the runways of Creech, William Exley and Veronica duLac run on side by side treadmills, looking out tall windows into a dark parking lot that holds two cars besides their own. Through reflections in the glass, each can read the other’s facial expression as they run. Both pilots for the last hour appear to be in concentration on the stages of their workout.

The pair have seldom met outside of their duties at the RPV command center. Their visit this night is rare, nearly wordless, the
hi, how are ya
kind of thing walking from locker room to treadmill. But their private conversation has continued at a steady pace. Their talk is composed of a language known only to the two of them, an amalgam of American Sign, facial expressions, glances, the occasional word, grunt or laugh. Worked out over the last 21 months in the command module of Reaper Six, they communicate fluently in silence.

This private lingo came about due an accustomed paranoia, and to the fact that both realize their every word while on duty, and perhaps off, is recorded and evaluated. It was also prompted by personal feelings that have grown between them. Typical of workplace romances, where the parties understand the details, the stresses and pleasures of
the life, their chosen work, Veronica and William also share a particular love of nature, wildlife and books, passing many e-books and hardbound volumes between them. Fiction, science fiction, the lives of accomplished people from musicians to pilots.

In a daring move, Exley, as they walked to their cars one morning after a mission, handed Veronica a book about the human brain. He referred t
o a paragraph on a certain page with no expression. When she looked at the page later, there was a note on a small piece of paper tucked into the crease:
I hope we can talk.

Veronica’s
immediate reaction was to destroy the tiny scrap, with trembling fingers examine the entire book for anything else. There was nothing. She was a pissed at her crew chief. It was an enormous risk. Still, over the next week, they found a way to bump into each other randomly at a bookstore. Their brief meeting included a whispered exchange and hungry embrace back in the stacks. It was then the sign language began.

Exley, married and with two young boys, found in Veronica a woman who is dedicated, serious, and beneath her professional surface enormously loving and warm. Veronica, divorced the last three years, saw in William a
loyal Air Force officer devoted to family and respectful of duty, honor, and country. And a smile that crinkles his eyes when he laughs.

The coded
, silent convo between William Exley and Veronica duLac this night goes something like this:

i am afraid

so am i

your wife, what does she say?

i tell her not to believe the news - doesn’t help – the boys are excited, they think it’s a movie

they are fun at that age

yes

what about this mission

the munitions scare me

terrified

nuke the citadel unreal

unreal

can we

mission – duty –
we must

i’ll be there for you – with you

damn I want us to talk – somewhere sometime

yes yes time is short

if there was only a way

thinking hard as I can

same

told myself i wouldn’t say this

yes?

feelings for you

shock and pleasure – what a lovely thing to know

hope i’m not out of order

you are the most adjusted man I know

what about the whales

it was a transmission – coded information

what are they telling us?

i cannot imagine

veronica this is serious

?

what is going down - serious

armed guards on us 24/7 after today – wanted at least one chance

thank you

serving with you a privilege – knowing you a blessing

true for me as well

something else is serious

?

me and you

the best feeling I have known

if we get through this?

yes?

together

There is a long pause before Veronica makes her final reply. Just prior to stepping from the treadmill and walking alone toward the sauna, she makes a quick hand gesture.

forever

Chris Strand puts in a visit to his wife and young son at home, a couple hours of rapid conversation during which he brings them up to speed as much as he dares. He has tasks that cannot wait. Leaves them with food and flashlights, and departs hastily with the promise to be home soon. His wife is angry, informs him this work thing has gone too far. His explanation that he’s at the crux of things makes scant impression. Not with his 9-year-old frightened and in tears.

Alone at Next History
’s offices, Strand works at furious speed, redacting whale transcripts as fast as he can read them. He wants a computer algorithm that will do it faster, but Carl, the team’s best AI guy, is sidelined at home tracking down Annetka vectors, on Strand’s own order. As combinations of whale messages are unpacked and decoded, Strand’s computer launches a complex search through the text of each one, seeking out key terms and relationships. He wants to read everything in the Whalesong that is authored by anyone on his team, published at any time after next week’s date. There are many.

Meanwhile
Next History’s info-feeds pour torrents of Internet data into supercomputer filters, dissecting and refining. On the large wall monitors, Strand’s activity traces map a substantial turbulence of events converging in the next two days. He regards it as a singularity, a collision of unstoppable forces. With dread he notes a white hot energy vortex centered firmly on the Pentagon. It echoes Grace Cooke’s calm prediction.

Using
Carl’s success algorithm, Strand calculates the probabilities of Next History’s team members surviving the next seven days. Carl and Gary’s survivability numbers are high, consistent with their documented conversation three decades in the future. Jerry’s probability he cannot calculate. His own survival looks good but not great. It is with wrenching sadness he discovers that Sami’s survivability, according to his computation, is near zero. Desolate, he again checks his code, hoping it is in error.

F
ingers trembling, he brings Carl and Gary’s coffee shop conversation to his screen, tells himself he will read to the end. The discussion, thirty-two years in the future, digresses from theoretical points of Carl’s success algorithm to a reminiscence on the early days at Next History. Reading quickly, he finds confirmation of what he most feared. Sami’s disappearance is documented, only days hence, her body never recovered. Jerry survives the next two weeks but dies shortly after, an illness. Of Christopher Strand, there is only rumor.

Firm in his convictions,
Strand now knows enough to speak to General Solberg. It’s the middle of the night, but Solberg’s call filter lets him ring through. The general picks up right away.

“Chris! Was just thinking to call you. What do you have?”

“Ralph, you and I have been friends for a long time. And we will be friends far into the future.”

“Of course we will,” Solberg scoffs. “Don’t placate me
, Chris. Give me something I can use.”

“Fine. First, the future. These whale messages mainly concern the future.”

“The future?”

“Let me tell you what we’ve found so far. What would it be like if des
igns for ultra-powerful weapons, for surveillance systems that collect human thought and human intention, became commonly available? What would it be like if the design of every super weapon since World War Two and for the next several hundred years became available to everyone, every foreign power, every closet terrorist?”

Solberg is silent on the link. The moments stretch. “What are you telling me, Chris? Are you saying that weaponry is the content of these messages?”

“It’s about much more than weaponry. It is about the power of human consciousness. And I’m one hundred percent telling you that these Whalesong documents cannot get out. Not even to your senior staff. One example. I learned that in the next two days the world arrives at a critical singularity.”

“
Singularity? You talking about Vernor Vinge? Kurzweil’s AI horizon?”

“No, not
artificial intelligence machine supremacy. Something else. A massive change of thinking on the part of every person on Earth. Every prediction involving the next two days is dark, Ralph. Filled with death. After that, the fog begins to lift. It is not pretty, but afterward... How quick can you get down here?”

“Twenty minutes. On my way.”

“Come alone. It’s vital.”

When Strand opens the door for Solberg it is three in the morning. On the porch
in his garrison cap and leather bomber jacket the general’s breath mists white. Behind him two military staff cars and six armed men on the sidewalk. Under one arm he has a bottle of 98-year old Jenssen Arcana Brandy. Strand has coffee ready, and a large Greek pizza. They start in.

“Ralph, first take in the fact that
the post-parade blue whale count worldwide turns up no animals with markings on them. Zero. This is the National Marine Fisheries Service’s latest spot survey. No whales are seen bearing numbers, messages, text-like markings of any kind. The survey so far covers thirty percent of all blues, including eighty of the one hundred twenty-eight animals that were tagged. There are no numbers on any blue whale located anywhere on Earth.”