System Seven Read online

  Three can keep a secret if two are dead.

  -Benjamin Franklin (1706-1790)

  System Seven

  Michael J. Parks

  Seventh Sense Press

  Copyright © 2016 Michael J. Parks

  All Rights Reserved

  This is a work of fiction. Names, characters, places and incidents either are the product of the author’s imagination or are used fictitiously. Any resemblance to actual persons, living or dead, events or locales is entirely coincidental.

  ISBN: 0985651237

  ISBN-13: 9780985651237

  Acknowledgements

  To my family for their support and patience, especially Chris for being a sounding board for ideas. To Laura (aka Matera the Mad), Daedlanth, Jim Giffen, and Dan Adams for their frank critique and guidance. To Greg Meyer and Erin Tognetti for their early encouragement. Special thanks to Tonja Wilcox and Angela Adams for their support and belief in me on the long road.

  This novel is dedicated to those who dare peer into what is in order to understand what may be. The future is, as always, in your hands.

  It is also dedicated to my parents.

  PART I - Change

  Chapter 1

  Chapter 2

  Chapter 3

  Chapter 4

  Chapter 5

  Chapter 6

  Chapter 7

  Chapter 8

  Chapter 9

  Chapter 10

  Chapter 11

  Chapter 12

  Chapter 13

  PART II - Conflict

  Chapter 14

  Chapter 15

  Chapter 16

  Chapter 17

  Chapter 18

  Chapter 19

  Chapter 20

  Chapter 21

  PART III - Control

  Chapter 22

  Chapter 23

  Chapter 24

  Chapter 25

  Chapter 26

  Chapter 27

  Chapter 28

  Chapter 29

  Chapter 30

  Chapter 31

  Chapter 32

  Chapter 33

  Chapter 34

  PART I - Change

  Chapter 1

  You have to leave the city of your comfort and go into the wilderness of your intuition. What you’ll discover will be wonderful. What you’ll discover is yourself.

  -Alan Alda, 1936 -, American Actor

  From Milan to Mexico to Palo Alto and ending in Munich, Crosstalk’s bots had blazed a trail armed with heuristics designed to locate secrets. Any kind of secrets. Secret crimes, secret transactions, secret affairs, secret events, secret money.

  Secret secrets.

  The one hook started it, a brokerage firm in Italy. A deleted file on a USB stick left inserted in a computer. Keyword matches triggered the auto-analysis for stage one. Email addresses culled from the document helped widen the net. The mail server’s message store yielded further triggers to reach stage two, causing bots to spread out to the various mail servers found in the emails. Clues gathered lead to analysis on database servers in the U.S. and Munich. From that, the bots created a stage three profile of something covert involving big money and buried transactions.

  At that point he had options for any number of operations – theft, extortion, blackmail – depending on what the profile indicated. Only things didn’t stay typical. After Munich the trails became more exotic, the effort more manual, with the keywords and content hinting at something truly special.

  And so it began, almost two months of picking and prying at servers around the globe. At the end of it, the reward was an encrypted file that took twelve days to break open. That had been three days ago.

  Three days that felt like a week.

  Crosstalk left his computer and walked to the window, pistol in hand. Hacking was an art, a serious hobby for sure, but it wasn’t supposed to be like this. This was fucked up.

  He parted the blinds and peered outside his flat. Night’s stillness gripped the London suburb of Kingston. Almost two-thirty and the streets were empty. Down the way a lamp over the cemetery’s gate flickered. For long moments it felt as if the dead were using it to signal.

  “I will send it out,” he muttered. “The world will know.”

  A sound from the hall registered above the whir of the computer’s fans and he turned to look. The doorway held potential, a shimmering vibe, as if it might suddenly fill with intruders. He slid the semi-automatic’s safety to the off position. Thirteen rounds in the clip.

  They’ll know but will they believe?

  He waited but heard nothing more. Turning back, his eyes reflected from the window. In them he saw a glint of fear and fanaticism. The last of disbelief was gone.

  He returned to the screen and set the pistol down. The upload to Alcazar continued. He started an encrypted email to explain the file. Composing became an obstacle. How to convey the unbelievable without sounding insane? Short and to the point, with a link to the file. The content would speak for itself.

  He barely finished the email when another sound came, louder than before. He snatched the pistol and faced the hallway. The fans of the computer grew deafening against the silence. Sweat gathered on his brow.

  “Damn it.” He’d gone too far, scraped too hard. The game had grown too close, too real.

  The progress bar crawled to completion, the upload done. Storing the file in Alcazar might insure its safety. For the email, Magistrate would use conscripted servers to secretly tunnel the mail to its destination. But who to? One person stood out: SlotZero. Intelligent and open-minded, he would take it seriously and know what to do with it.

  He clicked the send button knowing it could be a death sentence.

  For a moment regret lingered – until a much stronger feeling took hold. As if the air pressure had changed, he sensed another presence, maybe several. Pain bloomed in his skull like a headache but modulated, unnatural. Anticipation arched into fear as it spread. It hurt to see, breathe, to hear. Confusion eroded focus. The truth dawned, rising to life from the stolen file.

  “Ah fuck.”

  They could do this.

  He almost missed the tone signaling the email had gone out. Reaching down, he stabbed the power switch and plunged the room into silence. Blood pulsed against his eardrums in time to the pain. The weight of the pistol was a comfort but now only as a sure means of escape from the hell of his body.

  Had he only known, he wouldn’t have done it. His motives had been naïve. Uncover the truth. Everyone deserves to know the truth.

  Straining from the pain, he said, “No one deserves this.”

  • • •

  Austin Bakken stood at a fifth floor window in InterGen’s Folsom offices. The California sun glowed in a sky hazed from a week of Sierra wildfires. Seen through tinted windows, it looked like an alien star. For a few heartbeats, he stood in a starship in low orbit, taking in the view.

  His terrestrial post felt like working in the dirt by comparison. In the distance, the Sacramento skyline sprouted from the tree-covered valley floor like fence posts.

  A hot Friday and most of the office had already vacated. Instead of leaving, he had someone else’s missed deadline to deal with. The server farm upgrade project was in shambles and required saving. Never mind he had migrated from Servers to Network Security – the treadmill just needed a runner on it and he was that guy.

  He breathed deep and let it out. Kaiya would be getting ready to leave work for class. Last night’s talk was still fresh in his mind. Absolutely yes she was important, a huge part of his world. His busy, often self-absorbed world. Between work and chasing his dream, Kaiya time had taken a hit.

  He sent her a text. 105 in the shade. Swim after class?

  Making it big w
ith his home automation system was the dream, but she was, too. Hell, it was as much for her as it was for him. They needed more time together and he wanted to give it to her. It was just embarrassing to have to be reminded. He shouldn’t have to be reminded.

  With a last glance at the alien star, he returned to his cubicle and got back on the treadmill.

  Trading the chilled office for a hot parking garage felt almost lusty. Wood smoke from the wildfires brought to mind camping. He’d finished updating the project timeline, including schedules. Murray would approve but the Boston server teams wouldn’t, of course. Tons of overtime and two lost weekends. It was the only way the project would make the launch date. InterGen’s new IQ Access service had to go live on time and within budget.

  His phone buzzed with a text.

  Swim no. They drained the pool :( Drought. Surprise yes :) Working late?

  His heart soared. Being connected to her still had that effect.

  A primer gray Honda pulled onto the level and expertly missed him before it parked. Matt Phio climbed out.

  “Yo Mr. Bakken, what’s up?”

  He smiled at Matt’s always-good mood. “Gettin’ the hell out of Dodge.”

  “Hey,” Matt thumbed towards his car, “Remember the AC took a shit? Get this: my apartment AC crapped out last night!”

  “Cursed by the AC gods, dude. Plenty cold inside. See ya.”

  He replied to Kaiya. Leaving now. Surprise?

  Half an hour later he turned onto his cul de sac and saw her car in the driveway. In the garage, a male voice sounded from a Muzak speaker nailed to a rafter. It announced Kaiya’s presence, a voicemail, and four personal emails.

  “Thank you, Sam. How long has she been here?”

  “Forty-three minutes.”

  A bump of pride, still. His creation wove technology into ordinary life dramatically: the old house seemed intelligent, aware. He headed for the kitchen and found his girlfriend at the range stirring a pot and swaying to the music.

  “Hey baby.” He kissed her in greeting. “What happened?”

  “Class was cancelled and Nelson let us all go early.”

  “No shit? Why?”

  “Something about power at the school. Nelson just said ‘happy Friday, go enjoy it’.”

  “Wish I had a boss like that.” He dropped his keys and wallet on the island. “What ya makin’?”

  “Thai chicken and noodles. You’ll like it.” She tapped the raw wood base of the countertop. “Um, weren’t you going to work on the tile?”

  He almost laughed. “I was gonna do a lot of things this week. Been nuts at work. The alternator fiasco didn’t help.”

  “Hey, I tried to warn you. BMW, big money waste.” She looked at him, gauging his mood. “I believe I even looked up the year and model. It had problems.”

  “All cars can have problems.” He pulled a beer from the fridge. “Thankfully it was just the alternator.”

  “I noticed you made progress with Sam.”

  “Yeah?”

  “I didn’t have to use my key, he recognized my voice the first time. And I’ve been talking to myself to try and activate him. Not one mistake. I’m impressed.”

  “Thanks. The voice integration is really coming together. The code’s been tough to tweak.”

  “Well you’re doing something right. Maybe it’s time to start attracting those investors. Or are you still thinking a Kickstarter project?”

  “Probably both. I might be ready, yeah. Would need to do a demo video for sure. I’ve got some ideas.”

  “Cool.” She stirred, waiting for him to take his first drink. “So, I talked with my mom earlier. She wants us to visit for Christmas.”

  He rolled his eyes. “Us? Riiiight. Gee, I wonder if she knows that would mean a huge flight across the Pacific?”

  “Oh, I’m pretty sure she does.”

  “Just her way of separating us for the holidays. Or making me suffer the flight. She’ll never forgive me.”

  According to Yuni Wilson, her daughter wasn’t being exposed to the ‘higher class of male specimens’ she deserved. Her mom didn’t hate him but she sure resented him. “If you truly loved her, you would release her to men more of her station. Her future is in question with you, no matter your intentions.” After that he’d given up trying to win her approval.

  “Not my fault you chose me. And I didn’t make her sell the house and move back to Japan.”

  “Um, she didn’t sell the house.”

  “What?”

  “She told me today.” She went to drain the pot. “Well, she let it slip anyway.”

  “That lying old–” Her frown stopped him short. “What? That’s a new low, don’t you think?”

  “I told her what I thought of her lying. Of course she didn’t exactly apologize but I think we won’t have a problem getting there next month. I’m guessing you’d prefer Catalina over camping with all the smoke?”

  Shit. Next month? He’d forgotten to request vacation time. There it was again, the core of their recent problems. He filed a huge mental note to put in for the time off. “As long she doesn’t show up, sure.”

  Kaiya toweled her hands and wrapped her arms around his neck. “Don’t worry, she won’t. And Christmas? I’m not going. I just thought you’d enjoy her latest jab. She can wait until my visit in March. If she misses us that much, she’s more than able to fly out here.”

  Around a kiss he quipped, “Yeah, on her broom.”

  During dinner thoughts of work swarmed. He managed to ditch most of them and enjoy conversation instead. Afterward, they took in a movie which she passed out halfway through. It had been that kind of week for them both. Herding her upstairs to bed, he’d mostly forgotten the day’s issues. Still, he knuckled the wooden banister just in case. Work sometimes kept him up.

  At the top of the stairs a microphone poked from the ceiling.

  “Bedtime, Sam.” In response, the AI sent instructions to sensors and cameras around the property, slipping into night security mode.

  “System armed with zero exceptions. Good night Austin and Kaiya.”

  The digital clock read 1:32am. Chalk one up for work. Giving up, he slid out of bed, pulled on some shorts, and headed towards the shop.

  Built over the garage, the shop was another unfinished project of the previous owner. Only the incomplete work and the recession had made the foreclosure affordable and only then with his father’s help. The sensors, microphones, and cameras were all up and running and most of the walls had sheetrock hung. His free time went into working on the feature set of the AI or with Kaiya so finishing the house wasn’t happening.

  The lights flickered on in the garage. He tapped a code on the shop’s door keypad to unlock it and climbed the stairs beyond.

  “Sam, mode two, volume low.”

  A spotlight lit a desk, a computer screen came alive, and jazz fusion filled the room. He padded over to the mini-fridge and retrieved a beer. He glanced down: the workouts had to resume before his belly ballooned like his dad’s. The resemblance was already forming. Fear the genes.

  The jazz was too much for the hour. “Sam, load my new age playlist.”

  The music shifted to synthesizers and strings.

  At a window he stared at the faint stars hovering over the hills. In the half-tired, half-wired haze of early morning, he imagined stepping out as a giant and foot-planting the Sierras to launch into the heavens to explore. Star-lit nebulas and crowded solar systems swung past in a seconds-long vision that ended with the familiar feeling of being cheated.

  Growing up, everyone thought that by the year 2018 mankind would be in space, working and mining the planets at least, if not flitting from star to star in true exploration. Instead, they hadn’t even come close. Rovers chewing soil on desolate Mars was as far as they’d come. Corrupt and spineless politicians had allowed the government’s coffers to be drained by military industry. Corporations effectively owned the country and war was still the only black hole the
y were interested in. Space programs of substance never regained funding.

  He swigged his beer and thoughts landed on a terrestrial vacation instead. A campsite, firelight, good beer and good grub, followed by mad love under the stars. Truth told, camping sounded better, wood smoke or not. Catalina Island was great but required flying, no matter how short the flight. Driving would steal a half a day.

  He opened a cabinet where a brass Buddha incense holder from Berkeley wafted memories thicker than smoke. He set it on the window ledge and fitted a sandalwood stick into the happy teacher’s belly button. Tiny sparks danced as the first strands of gray lifted into the room.

  At once memories stirred. Gatherings with friends to test psychic abilities. The trip to Area 51. Experiments with dream journals. Ouija boards, channeling, meditation, and nights spent staring up at the stars, sending out vibes to attract aliens. Among the crazy efforts were powerful times that still lingered with a life of their own. The lucid dreams and out of body experiences remained the pinnacle experiences. It seemed a lifetime ago and in a way it was. A part of him was still amazed at the edgy and wondrous experiments and always would be.

  He pushed aside the mesh of memories and settled in front of Grunge, the shop computer. If writing code didn’t wear him out, nothing would.

  Half an hour later, movement caught his eye. A sleepy Kaiya appeared from the dim of the stairwell with his cell phone in her hand.

  “Um, Mr. Bakken? You forgot something. It’s Matt.”

  Seeing her, he wanted to ignore the call. She’d come up wearing only her black silk sleeping shorts. He turned in his chair and welcomed her in an embrace.

  “Sexy,” he whispered around her lips.

  “Mm-hmm. Take your call.”

  Matt apologized before reporting an anomaly at one of the edge routers that protected InterGen’s network. “Utilization went nuts but I’m not seeing why. I think I’m missing something. Can you take a quick look?”