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Grath and Merry Ramirez. Encrypted messages, obviously, only the
NSA had yet to break the code. Aaron thought about the thousands
of computers wired into the prisoners heads, and shuddered.
RFID sensors and CCTV showed Brent in his cell. Eventually, Aaron
called over the PA for Brent to come out.
Brent took his time appearing, but it was attitude, not injury. He
was hardly limping anymore. Hello, Aaron.
Hi, Brent. Aaron took a seat, then gestured at a chair across the
partition. All the furniture inside was nicked and dented, made of soft
wood. I saw Kim yesterday and she asked about you. I thought you d
want to know.
Brent rubbed his chin. How is she?
Good. What did one more lie matter? And I finally met her new hus-
band. Nice guy.
Nick? Yeah, he is. Took his time asking, though. A hint of a sad
smile. Maybe I can take a bit of credit that Nick finally did ask. The
life-is-too-short principle, and all that.
And how are you doing, Brent?
His patient chewed that over for a long time. I could be better.
Aaron stood to go. I know how you feel.
Brent stayed in his chair for a full 4.72 seconds after Aaron left: fixing
details of the encounter in his mind, reviewing every nuance of
Aaron s demeanor and every subtle implication thereof. The paisley
pattern to the necktie and the slight asymmetry to the knot. The razor
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SMALL MI RACLES
nick on his chin. Every word choice, oral hesitation, shift in posture,
and eye blink.
Kim and Nick married, Brent thought. A paper-thin silver lining.
You re welcome, One responded across his vision.
For all the sarcasm, One s politeness was real. Its main source
of stimulus, with the Internet out of reach, lay in mining Brent s
memories and the further back One delved, the less it understood. It
needed explanation and interpretation from the mind that had experi-
enced that world, the mind that had made those memories.
So for a while, at least: a truce.
They ll let us out, One wrote. Sooner or later.
In the part of Brent s brain still wholly his, he hoped not. He had far
too much on his conscience.
The government doesn t care about your conscience, One countered. It
wonders only under what circumstances it can trust me/us, and what I/we
can do for it.
That One might be correct was the scariest notion of all.
Brent ambled around the little prison. Concrete everywhere except
for the thick windows and viewing wall. Those were polycarbonate
resin thermoplastic: bulletproof. A single way in or out: the transpar-
ent mantrap whose controls were on the other side. Sensors every-
where, presumably many more than the naked eye could see. Nothing
inside made of metal, not even in the plumbing fixtures, with which to
scrape at the walls or short out sensors. Knockout gas at the ready. As
a general engineer, Brent could find no fault with his captors precau-
tions.
What he wouldn t give for a fern, a cactus, a weed.
He went over to Alan for some chess. Five games took less than ten
minutes, mostly spent handling the pieces. All five ended in stalemate.
Every opening, gambit, or ruse any of them knew had long since prop-
agated throughout the group; every Emergent could forecast se-
quences of move and countermove and counter-countermove . . . for
many turns ahead. Thanks for the games, Brent said. Poker?
I m in, Alan said.
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EDWARD M. LERNER
Poker offered a more reliable diversion. All their heads were full of
computers; the big variable was in the ability to bluff, and bluffing was
a slipperier skill than chess. Money was totally useless now, of course.
The only purposes to poker were ego trip and head game.
Brent/One sauntered over to Morgan and Merry. They tapped non-
stop, their meaning hidden. Public-key encryption, with new keys to
be tapped/distributed more often, Morgan had assured them, than the
NSA could crack the older ones. Messaging about escape, most likely.
What else was worth keeping secret?
Anyone for poker? Brent asked.
Why not, Morgan said. Merry nodded, still tapping.
Brent had no idea what they tapped about. The decryption key
wasn t among the few anyone had shared with him.
They enlisted two more players and Alan dealt. The tapping never
stopped.
Any news? Morgan asked Brent. This time, the encryption was one
for which everyone here even Brent had been given the matching
decryption key.
No, Brent answered. There never was news. Personal stuff.
No novel ways to screw us over? Morgan tapped.
For who to screw them over? Their jailors or Brent?
Since their imprisonment, Morgan never missed a chance to goad
Brent. If Brent could have been killed without also killing One why,
he would be dead. Few of the others would have objected.
Simple math, One wrote pointedly. Simple justice.
Quite simple. The Emergent, in all their diversionary attacks, had
collectively killed twelve out of billions. Brent, through his virus,
had assaulted every overmind. But only in the case of Two had Brent
wholly succeeded.
One twisted the knife: Splattering Charles in the process. Very humane.
To whom, add three completely innocent strangers, killed by Emer-
gent cars gone out of control. And for what? The bots always reset.
The overmind always came back.
But if Brent had not stopped the Emergent, he had delayed them.
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SMALL MI RACLES
There had been a cessation in transformations. He must take victories
where he could.
Not even One could refute that.
Brent won the first hand with a full house, earning fifty broom
straws.
Enjoy your little victory, Morgan tapped. The last laugh will be ours.
When they got out? Using tools and weapons fashioned from the
clothes on their backs, paper plates, and plastic spoons?
Now here s my plan, the optimistic prisoner said in that well-
remembered cartoon.
Only it wasn t funny when the inmates were so much smarter than
the jailors.
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monday, may 29, 2017
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