Game changer, p.13
Game Changer, page 13
He shook his right fist vigorously for almost fifteen seconds and then opened his hand, quickly funneling the fly into the tiny steel container. Success. He hastily screwed the lid closed and held the tiny blue canister up to his face.
The individual technologies inside this makeshift prison alone must be worth billions. But the exact combination of these technologies that had resulted in a fly drone of this sophistication would fetch a price that was truly staggering.
Quinn thought for a few moments and then dialed the phone he had taken, audio only. “Hello, Cris,” he said when the phone was answered. “We need to talk.”
“Kevin?” said Cris Coffey in disbelief. “Is that you?”
“Is your line secure?”
“Of course,” replied Coffey.
Quinn could hear any number of people mulling about in the background, but this noise was rapidly diminishing as his former boss was no doubt rushing away from them, seeking privacy and quiet so he wouldn’t miss a single word. Quinn knew he had Coffey’s full attention.
“You can try to trace this call,” said Quinn, “but trust me, you’ll be wasting your time.”
“Why did you call, Kevin?”
“What do you know about micro drones? MAVs? Specifically, the quest to make one that could pass for a housefly? One so perfect, so real, it could fool other flies?”
“What’s this got to do with anything?”
“Answer me, Cris. How well-informed are you about this tech?”
“Very,” said Coffey. “You know I spent a long time in Black Ops. A fly-drone was the holy grail. But we’re a decade away. It’s like AI, we keep thinking we can do it, and it keeps being a harder problem than we realize.”
“Why is that?” asked Quinn.
He knew Coffey would keep talking no matter what the subject. He wouldn’t take Quinn’s word that the call was untraceable. And even if it was, the longer Coffey could keep him on the line the more chance he might learn something valuable, or talk him in.
“Well,” began Coffey, “you could control the broad movements and behaviors of such a fly from a remote location. Theoretically. But to be truly effective, it would need to be able to act autonomously, when cut off from an operator. First, there is an operator time lag, even at the speed of light, which creates more difficulty than you might imagine. And you can’t avoid blockages or interruptions to a signal. So you’d want to program in a destination and let the drone do its thing. So the operator can be passive for the most part, and obtain input from multiple flies.”
“Makes sense,” said Quinn. “Go on.”
“Currently, even operator-dependent flies pose insurmountable challenges. But autonomous ones are out of the question. Biological systems are much more efficient than mechanical in many ways. Think about what a fly can do, with a brain the size of a pinhead. It can process enough visual information to choke a supercomputer, and it can take evasive action. It can avoid obstacles and predators. It can find and metabolize food, allowing it to cover great distances with no need for a battery or external power source. You get the idea. As astonishing as our chips are now, constructing one with the enormous computing power needed, but small enough to fit into a fly, can’t be done.
“And don’t get me started on the battery power needed, the mechanical challenges, and so on. To get it to move with the agility and evasiveness of a real fly would be an extraordinary achievement, but even real flies succumb to predators, so you’d want to do even better. A perfect fly drone would seem to the uninformed to be much easier to perfect than many of the miracles science has managed already, but it’s just the opposite.”
“So you’re telling me the US doesn’t have this technology working?”
“Not a chance. I’m not sure of many things, but I am sure of this.”
The certainty in Coffey’s voice and manner was enough to convince Quinn that this was the truth, and it matched the more limited intel he had heard through the grapevine. “Then we’ve got a big problem, Cris.”
“What are you talking about?”
“Long story short, while running from you, I was captured by two mercs. Ex-military. The man who hired them wanted to see me. I have no idea why. I’m not sure about this, but I have reason to believe he’s a Russian.”
“A Russian?” repeated Coffey skeptically.
“I know. None of it makes sense. But something big is going on. I have no idea how I play into it, but I do. And it gets even stranger. I managed to escape. But I’ve since learned how they were able to find me. Whoever is behind this has perfected a micro drone. A perfect copy of a housefly. The one you say is impossible.”
“Kevin, I . . .”
“I know you don’t believe me. I don’t blame you. But if you had this fly in your hands, could you get it analyzed by someone you trust? Through back channels? I’d need you to keep this completely off the radar. Any knowledge of it kept between you and this one other person. We have no idea who knows what, even in our own government, so you’d have to make this the ultimate secret.”
Coffey sighed loudly. “I could have it analyzed as you ask, yes. But I’m sure you’re mistaken about what you think you’ve found.”
“I hope I am. But I have the fly, and I’m going to mail it to you. Because as much as I want Davinroy dead, I still love my country. And this is important. So prove me wrong about this drone. Or prove me right, and then take it from there.”
“Sure, Kevin. Send me the fly. I’ll take a look.”
“Don’t patronize me!” screamed Quinn. “I know you and I know your voice. You’re just humoring me. Like I’m a mental patient. Promise me you’ll at least check it out, even if you’re sure I’m wrong. Promise me! I know you’re a man of your word, Cris.”
“I will,” said Coffey. “I swear it.”
“Good,” said Quinn, satisfied. “I’ll send it.”
He planned to find a courier service in the area so his ex-boss could get the canister in hours rather than days, but he couldn’t tell him this, or Coffey would have every courier service in the region monitored.
“Whatever you think of me now,” added Quinn, “I’m still one of the good guys. I have reason to want Davinroy dead, but I’m still loyal to my country, and even to you.” He paused. “And you have to admit, this isn’t exactly an ideal time for me to be calling and mailing you packages. I’ll contact you later so you can let me know what you learn.”
“Kevin, why don’t you come in? Let’s talk this over in person. You can be involved in the MAV study yourself.”
The tone in Coffey’s voice made Quinn’s blood begin to boil. He still thought Quinn was crazy.
Quinn took a deep breath and forced himself to calm down. How could he blame his former boss for thinking this of him? Of course he did. Coffey thought he was mad when he had tried to take out the president, and this fly business only added fuel to that fire.
“Cris, I respect you more than any person I’ve ever worked with. Really. And I want nothing more than for us to be on the same side again. So promise me one last thing. Promise me you’ll investigate Davinroy. He has a system of tunnels under a number of rooms at the Catskill Mountain retreat. Find them. Find evidence. Davinroy is a monster. The tunnel system isn’t a smoking gun, but it’s a start. You have to admit, if you find these secret tunnels, my story is starting to look at least a little more credible.”
There was no response.
“Humor me, Cris,” implored Quinn. “What I told you about Nicole is true. Look into it. Promise me you will.”
Coffey hesitated. “Kevin, I don’t know the right way to proceed here. I don’t know how fragile you are. But I am a man of my word, and I can’t make that promise.”
“Why not?” thundered Quinn. “Davinroy is good, I get that! Persuasive! I know it seems far-fetched that the president is the monster I paint him to be. But you’ve known me for years! How can you be so absolutely certain that my accusations aren’t true? How are you so convinced that I’ve lost my mind?”
Coffey let out a long sigh. “Kevin,” he said, “I am truly sorry. You are a very good man. But I know a hundred percent that Davinroy didn’t torture and kill your wife.”
“How can you be so goddamned sure!” screamed Quinn.
There was a long pause. “Because you don’t have a wife,” replied Coffey grimly. “You never did.”
The world spun around Quinn’s head like he was on a rocket-propelled merry-go-round. He was suddenly weak and light-headed. “What?” he whispered into the phone in horror. “What are you talking about? You know I had a wife. Nicole! And a daughter on the way.”
“I’m sorry, Kevin. You never married. There is no Nicole. And you weren’t even at Davinroy’s retreat this year. You were invited to be a guest instructor that week for the Navy SEALS in Coronado, California. Google yourself and you’ll learn I’m right. And then come in and get some help,” pleaded Coffey.
But Quinn didn’t reply. The phone slipped from his fingers and he fell to his knees.
His world continued to spin around him at a furious pace, and he fought back vomit.
PART 2
Omniscient
Omniscient: (adjective): possessed of universal or complete knowledge
—MerriamWebster.com
“Yet misattributions in remembering are surprisingly common. Sometimes we remember events that never happened, misattributing vivid images that spring to mind to memories of past events that did not occur. At other times we mistakenly take credit for a thought, when in reality we are recalling it—without awareness—from something we read or heard. Misattribution can alter our lives in strange and unexpected ways.”
—Professor Daniel L. Schacter, Head of the Schacter Memory Lab at Harvard University, and former chairman of the Harvard Psychology Department
“Neuroscientists have taken advantage of these clues to explore the strong links between imagination and memory, to demonstrate how social factors influence our recollections, and to show how memory may actually have evolved to predict the future rather than keep track of the past. There is arguably little evolutionary advantage to being able to recall the past in vivid detail; it is much more useful to be able to use past experience to predict what comes next.”
— Charles Fernyhough, Time Magazine, March 20, 2013
“Most of what we do and think and feel is not under our conscious control. The vast jungles of neurons operate their own programs. The conscious you—the I that flickers to life when you wake up in the morning—is the smallest bit of what’s transpiring in your brain. Although we are dependent on the functioning of the brain for our inner lives, it runs its own show. Most of its operations are above the security clearance of the conscious mind. The I simply has no right of entry. Your consciousness is like a tiny stowaway on a transatlantic steamship, taking credit for the journey without acknowledging the massive engineering underfoot.
“Your most fundamental drives are stitched into the fabric of your neural circuitry, and they are inaccessible to you. You find certain things more attractive than others, and you don’t know why. Like your enteric nervous system and your sense of attraction, almost the entirety of your inner universe is foreign to you. The ideas that strike you, your thoughts during a daydream, the bizarre content of your nightdreams—all of these are served up to you from unseen intracranial caverns.”
—David Eagleman, Incognito
20
Kevin Quinn loaded the merc’s body into the trunk of the Tesla in a daze. He then managed to stumble back to the shack with the large rucksack that contained the mercs’ cache of weaponry and supplies.
He entered the structure and laid on his back on the deteriorating gray floorboards in one dark corner, struggling for some semblance of equilibrium. He closed his eyes, his mind still reeling, struck by how fitting it was to be in a dark, rotting structure contemplating his own mind, one that had suddenly taken on these same characteristics.
If the second mercenary arrived back from his mission a few hours early, Quinn would be toast, but he couldn’t bring himself to care.
He had Googled himself on the merc’s phone as Coffey had suggested and verified what his former boss had said: he was listed as having been a guest instructor for the SEALS in Coronado during the week of Davinroy’s retreat. It was always possible the Web entries for this had been doctored, but why?
If Coffey had been right about this, could the rest of his claims be true as well? Quinn was terrified by what an examination of his past might reveal. Even the thought of exploring this further sent a shiver down his spine.
But such an examination could not be avoided, no matter how scared he was. He took a deep breath, closed his eyes even tighter, and thought back to his first date with Nicole, their first kiss. The first time they had made love.
His breath caught in his throat as his worst fears were immediately realized: he was drawing an absolute blank. He had a memory of what an extraordinary woman she had been, and how very much he had loved her. But in the abstract. There were no specific memories to support these overarching ones.
Which was impossible. Yes, many men weren’t good at remembering anniversaries and birthdays, or what their spouse was wearing on their first date, but there wasn’t a one who didn’t remember his first date with his future wife, or their first kiss.
And what about Hailey? He thought back to the pregnancy. Nothing.
He tried to recall how they had decided on the name Hailey. Again, nothing.
He had absolutely no recollection of her conception. Of Nicole’s pregnancy. Nothing.
So everything Coffey had claimed was true. He had never married. There was no Nicole, no Hailey. And no torture and murder, even though the memory of both continued to be stubbornly persistent, as much a part of him as his arm. He had been driven so single-mindedly to revenge that, if not for Coffey, would he ever have realized that the existence of his wife and daughter didn’t hold up to a more comprehensive scrutiny?
Were any of his memories accurate?
Nothing could be as disorienting, as devastating, as learning that the most powerful, life-changing memories you’ve ever had were unreal, imaginary. If you couldn’t trust a memory this profound, this visceral, what could you trust?
He had been driven to desperation. He had tried to kill an innocent man!
This new perspective explained so much. How the president had managed to drug him so easily. How tunnel entrances could be hidden inside closets for decades without a single guest, a single rowdy kid, having discovered one.
This explained why his recollections were so spotty. He could remember Davinroy’s horrific words with almost photographic detail, every one of them scorched into his mind. But images were hazy, undefined. He couldn’t recall the hidden structure in the Catskills he had stumbled upon, or how he had managed to gain entry. And how could he have been inside long enough to see the president delivering killing blows to his wife without moving to stop him much sooner?
And while the president could be many things, duplicitous, narcissistic, self-serving, and wrong-headed, it had always seemed surreal to Quinn that he had transformed into such a caricature of a psychopathic villain. The more he considered what he thought had happened, the more flaws he found in the logic of the situation.
This also explained why no one had given him the benefit of the doubt. Because he didn’t deserve it.
So how had this happened? It could be that the memory erasure drug he remembered receiving was real, but delivered by someone else in a different setting. Perhaps when he had thrown off the effects his wires had gotten crossed, somehow converting a nightmare starring an imaginary wife into an indelible memory.
Or he could be stark, raving, mad? How would he know otherwise? In fact, how could he know anything? His entire sense of self was shaken to his very core. Was his name really Kevin Quinn? Impossible to know.
He believed he was sane and that his memories of everything but the torture and murder were accurate. But there was no way to be certain. Sleepers believed their dreams were real until they awoke. Schizophrenics had absolute belief in their delusions.
Quinn could well be psychotic, imagining that he was in a shack, imagining a fly drone, imagining his recent conversation with Coffey. He could be a late-stage Alzheimer’s patient, whose brain had temporarily come to life to create random memories. His time on the run and on this mountain seemed quite extensive, but experiments had shown dreams could impart the illusion of duration, even when they were seconds long. The mind played tricks on itself.
It was possible Quinn had come into existence that very instant, but with a full set of memories. He couldn’t know otherwise. Not for certain. This was a far-out conjecture made by philosophers and re-explored by a stoner friend of his who was higher than Mt. Everest at the time.
It was also possible that Quinn was the only thing in existence, that everything else was just an illusion. Again, this conjecture, no matter how ridiculous it seemed, could not be disproved.
Quinn might think there were billions of other beings on Earth and that he had interacted with many thousands, but what if this was all just his own overactive imagination? What if he was a god, the only being in existence, and had constructed the entire universe in his own mind to alleviate boredom?
Rene Descartes had famously concluded that it was impossible to know for certain if the input coming in through his senses, or anything he thought he knew, was real. It could all be an illusion, and he would have no way of knowing it. He then took this question one step further: could he even be certain that he existed?
Descartes realized that the answer to this question was yes. The act of pondering if he existed or not, required him to exist. This was, in fact, the only thing he could be certain of.
Cogito ergo sum, he had famously written. I think, therefore I am. Or more accurately, I am thinking, therefore I must exist.
