CNN was running a colorful panel discussion about the national debt and he settled back into the sofa, trying unsuccessfully to get comfortable and regretting letting the saleswoman talk him into the modern design.
What drew him into this particular debate wasn’t his passion for government accounting so much as the fact that a tiny icon in his peripheral vision brightened noticeably when he’d surfed to it. The app was called TVMonitor and its function was to vet what was being said on various news programs. Limitations in network speed made it impossible to do real time, but this particular show must have originally aired early enough in the day that LayerCake had a chance to do its magic.
Smith concentrated on the name of the app and it sprang obediently to life. Craig Bailer had been right. Once you got the hang of it, launching, manipulating, and closing individual modules was surprisingly easy.
TVMonitor glowed green as the host gave a few general numbers and asked a lengthy question about recent budget cut proposals, then took on a reddish hue when a congressman started talking about the relative value of certain changes to Medicare, suggesting they weren’t going to be as effective as he claimed. When the subject of the relatively small impact of recent defense cuts came up, it went back to green.
The concept was simple. LayerCake searched objective facts on government sites, Wikipedia, Snopes, and hundreds of others, then compared them with what was being said. If they matched, the TVMonitor icon glowed green. If not, red. Of course, when the discourse turned to something that transcended facts—abortion, for instance—then the personal values of the user would rise in importance. To the degree that facts were stated, though, they would still be vetted.
And what about those personal biases? Smith launched a subsystem of TVMonitor that split the icon. Now the right side was monitoring the brain waves of viewers who had opted in, evaluating their reaction to the debate. He focused on the pulsating colors, fascinated by how poorly coordinated they were. People’s reactions seemed completely independent of objective truth. It was something that Dresner hoped his little feedback loop would correct.
These were just the kinds of data the Merge’s political apps fed off and why politicians were adopting them at light speed. The ability to see and react to people’s perceptions as well as to see when the system was calling you a liar was an incredibly powerful tool—one that would soon be mandatory for anyone hoping for a successful career as an elected official.
As Smith saw it, the whole thing was one giant psychology experiment. Could Dresner do what he’d set out to do? Not just change the way society functioned, but the way individuals thought and reacted to the world around them? Would people trust LayerCake? Or were they more comfortable wrapped in the warm blanket of their own biases? He himself admitted to harboring a few sacred cows and he wasn’t sure how he felt about Dresner going after them—even if he was justified in doing it.
Smith took another pull from his beer, the dull throb in his head subsiding a bit as he surfed through the channels to a Fox panel on the question of the day: privacy issues raised by the Merge. Interestingly, the TVMonitor icon faded. Was it because it hadn’t had time to vet this particular show or because of the potential for bias? Was Dresner’s search system capable of attacking its creator?
“This is different,” a woman on the right said emphatically. “This isn’t just about the user opting in, it’s about whether the people around that user have. How do we know that the facial recognition software isn’t recording everyone we see? What if I’m walking by when you go into a strip club? Or light up a joint? Will that be calculated into your value as a human being? What if I’m shopping next to a woman buying a pregnancy test? Is that information going to be immediately packaged and sold to her health insurer, BabyGear.com, and potential employers? And why not take it one step further? Why not just correlate everything someone sees to how they feel about it using their brain waves? I’m guessing that’s something Target and Amazon would be interested in.”
“All those things are strictly forbidden in Dresner’s licensing agreement,” someone interjected.
She laughed. “And of course we can trust him. Don’t be evil, right? Unless you can make a billion dollars off it.”
“Let it go, Sharon. We’re not in the information age anymore, we’re in the information overload age. All that stuff is already out there. What we need is some way to sort through it and that’s what Dresner’s giving us. Better him than someone else as far as I’m concerned.”
“Beyond all that,” the host said, “what about accuracy? What if I have the same name as a convicted murderer and it gets confused? How is that going to affect the way people see me? Is there a system for fixing those kinds of errors?”
“LayerCake takes into account the quality of the information and is very conservative about how it weights it. But the answer to your question is yes. You can monitor the facts in your profile—there’s actually an app for it—and dispute them just like a credit report.”
“So what if the facts are right?” the man to the host’s right said. “I’m a decent person, but I’m a conservative. I hunt. I’m for the death penalty. I support Republican candidates. Does that mean it’s going to paint a pointy tail and horns on me to left-wingers?”
“Dresner can’t control people’s prejudices,” someone else chimed in. “But in the end you’ll probably be better off because he’s tempering their prejudice with reality.”
“I’m not sure I want a machine knowing everything about me and using that to tell other people what I’m worth.”
“Too late. The younger generation doesn’t value—or even define—privacy like we do. They don’t mind being advertised to and they don’t so much as have a cup of coffee without tweeting about it. They want to know if the person standing next to them on the train is a Christian who shares their passion for Siamese cats, if they have friends in common, if they’re looking for a relationship.”
The discussion became increasingly heated and Smith finally hit the “mute” button. It was an impossible situation that didn’t turn on right or wrong. Yet another of the growing number of issues that split almost exactly along generational lines. With him right in the middle.
He rose and padded to the bathroom, leaning on the sink and staring at his image in the mirror. The missing hair was a little more obvious than normal because of the military cut and he turned his head, catching the glint of one of the silver studs that had been screwed into his skull that morning. Interestingly, the process had been much quicker and less intrusive than the installation of the tooth mike Bailer had fast-tracked for him. He opened his mouth and pulled back his cheek, but couldn’t spot the molar in question with absolute certainty.
He’d considered wearing a headset and throat mike for the field test day after tomorrow, but then dismissed the idea. After all the germ, drug, weapon, and radiation testing American soldiers had been subject to throughout the years, going in halfway felt oddly dishonorable. And so, like countless others before him, he had been promoted to guinea pig.
Smith hit the light and aimed for his unmade bed, falling into it in the old sweatpants that had been his uniform at home for more than a decade. He reached for the alarm clock out of habit and then stopped, instead laying his Merge on the charging mat spread across his nightstand. When it recognized a power source, the grayed-out icon for the sleep function went active.
The truth was that he didn’t sleep that well anymore. In darkness and silence, the past had a way of consuming him—dead friends and enemies, close calls, critical mistakes. Too many of them.
Of course, he’d written himself a prescription for Ambien a number of times, but it always ended up in the garbage. Why, he wasn’t entirely sure. Maybe he subconsciously saw it as a sign of weakness. Or maybe he just thought the dead had a right to be heard.
Smith stared at the icon for a few seconds and then activated it, reminding himself that this wasn’t about him. It was for king and country.
>
The interface was typically simple and similar to all the others in the way it used eye movement and simple mental commands. He set the start time on “immediate” and the wake time as six a.m. The app provided a number of advanced functions including the ability to wake up at various times throughout the night, but he left those unchecked and settled back into his pillow.
* * *
SMITH’S EYES SHOT OPEN and he blinked a few times in confusion. The adrenaline rush he normally got when his subconscious mind identified an out-of-place sound was completely absent, as was the grogginess that always accompanied nights weaving in and out of sleep.
He frowned into the darkness, realizing that he’d probably never even fully drifted off. And he knew himself well enough to know that he wasn’t going to anytime soon. No, despite all the hype, it looked like he was about to enjoy another night of infomercials for improbable exercise equipment and B horror flicks. Even Christian Dresner couldn’t knock it out of the park every time.
A clock icon at the lower right of his vision gained in strength and he squinted at it out of habit despite knowing that his eyes had no role at all in generating the image.
6:00 a.m.
He rolled toward his nightstand and confirmed that his alarm clock read the same. Unable to believe what he was seeing, he went to the window and pushed the curtains back. Outside, the densely packed homes were just beginning to glow with the first hint of sunrise.
“Jesus…” he said aloud.
He hadn’t slept like that since he was a kid. And even then he’d remained groggy until he was halfway to the bus stop. Right now, he felt like it was the middle of the day—undoubtedly thanks to the Merge optimizing his brain waves for a state of alertness.
Everyone, himself included, had been confused by Dresner’s incorporation of the sleep function into his system. But now it was obvious that it was just another testament to his genius. Even if the Merge didn’t do anything else—if it couldn’t so much as conjure up a decent game of Pong—anyone over the age of thirty-five who tried it would sell their children to own one.
19
Fort Bragg, North Carolina
USA
A LIGHT RAIN WAS FALLING on mountains tangled with overgrowth. Harder on his team, Smith knew, but almost perfect for what he had in mind.
The trail—such as it was—had turned to mud, grabbing at his combat boots and splattering his meticulously pressed camo as he worked his way toward a rendezvous site that he knew was 326 meters away. Normally, in this kind of unfamiliar terrain he’d be relying on a soggy map and wondering if all his men were already gathered, but now that seemed like a scene from ancient history.
In addition to distance, the Merge’s military training software displayed an arrow pointing him in the right direction, an ETA at current speed, and individual green dots representing his volunteers’ positions on an overhead map.
He waded through some wet bushes and came out into a small clearing where five combat-equipped soldiers were huddled beneath a tree trying to stay dry. When he appeared, they gracelessly formed a line and shot off a few awkward salutes.
His SAS friend Peter Howell would have called them “a bit of a motley crew.” Of the two women, one was at least thirty pounds overweight and the other just south of her fiftieth birthday. The man to their right was even older and more overweight, with a round, sun-starved face that made him look like exactly what he was: an army lawyer. Next, to him, adjusting a helmet that seemed to swim on his undersized head, was a skinny kid in his mid-twenties who spent his days programming supply logistics systems. And last, but certainly not least, was an active-duty Ranger who was understandably perplexed—and maybe even a little insulted—to have been chosen for this particular team.
“At ease.”
It was an impossible order for most of them to follow. Two days before, they’d been plugging away at their desk jobs, blissfully ignorant that Smith was combing through personnel files looking for people who couldn’t fight their way out of a paper bag, but who had Merge head studs and tooth mikes installed.
Not surprisingly, General Pedersen had thought he was nuts. And now that he was physically standing in front of the people he’d selected, it seemed that the general might have had a point. In the end, though, this test had the potential to tell him far more than the more obvious course of throwing two equal forces against each other and equipping only one with Merges. Smith had stacked the deck as heavily against Dresner’s technology as he could and now they were going to see just what it could overcome.
“I appreciate all of you agreeing to play our little game,” he said, knowing that they’d actually had no choice whatsoever.
A few queasy nods.
“My understanding is that you’ve all been issued military versions of the Merge and that you’ve familiarized yourselves with them. Is that correct?”
That got a few affirmative mumbles.
“I’m going to repeat myself just this once. Is every one of you the goddamn world expert in the use of this system?”
“Yes sir!” the Ranger barked and the group followed suit, finally showing a little life. He’d been right to throw in a combat soldier. If nothing else, he could set an example.
“All right then. That’s what I wanted to hear.” He pointed to a tall, tangled hill about four kilometers away. “The objective is simple. On top of that is an American flag. We need to get it out of the rain. Any questions?”
His pale attorney—Major Gregory Kent—raised a hesitant hand.
“Yes. Greg.” Smith said, deciding to retreat into a little informality after his show of anger. No need to scare these people any more than necessary.
Kent indicated toward five assault rifles stacked in plastic bags. “What are those for?”
“An excellent question. Those fire a laser that can be picked up by the uniform of an opponent and all are equipped with Merge targeting systems.”
“Opponent, sir?” the Ranger said, perking up.
“Did I forget to mention that there’s a five-man Delta team under orders to stop us?”
Not unexpectedly, his team descended into frightened protests.
Smith held up his hand and they went silent. “If you’re hit—and I’m giving you a direct order not to be—the training software in your Merge will evaluate the damage and reduce your effectiveness based on that evaluation.”
The fear on the skinny programmer’s face faded into cautious curiosity. “How does it do that, sir?”
“If it registers an injury, it’ll limit your vision and throw off your equilibrium to mimic your probable condition.”
“And if we’re dead?” the plump women said. Stacy something. She worked on drones.
“Your vision will go black and your ability to hear will be degraded. Don’t panic, though. It’s just the Merge projecting a solid color onto your visual cortex. I’ll use my simulation leader software to reset your unit when I’ve had a chance to evaluate the situation. Just sit there and wait until you come back online and then go back to the command tent and get a cup of coffee. Understood?”
A little of the energy had gone out of their response but he decided to ignore it and instead pointed to the older woman whose hand was up. “Yes. Carrie.”
“Sir, I think there’s been a mistake. With the exception of Corporal Grayson over here, we’re not combat people.”
Smith nodded. “But you do have Merges. And Delta doesn’t.”
“I don’t see how a fancy cell phone is going to make much of a difference,” Kent said. “I represented a Delta guy once. As near as I can tell, if you shoot them it just makes them mad.”
Grayson rolled his eyes.
“Look, I’m out here to gather some data on Merge effectiveness,” Smith said. “I want that flag, but the only failure here is if you panic or if you don’t give one hundred percent every second of this exercise. Is that understood?” No response. “Is that understood?”
“Yes sir!”
<
br /> They all actually managed to say it at the same time. Things were looking up.
“Okay. First things first. I want you to take your Merge unit and throw it in the mud.”
No one moved.
“Is there a problem?”
Grayson was first to speak up. “We were told that these are incredibly expensive prototypes and that they were to come back without so much as a scratch.”
“Well, those orders have been revised. Now get them into the mud. And stomp on them until I tell you to stop.”
The four non-combat soldiers obeyed, but as delicately as possible. Grayson, understanding the point of the exercise, threw himself into the air and slammed his boot down on his unit so hard it completely disappeared into the soft ground.
Smith turned and contemplated their objective, looking for a sign of the enemy while the splashing and stomping went on behind him. It was really just a test of manufacturing consistency, since he’d already performed a much more stringent evaluation of his own unit.
“Okay,” he said, putting on an armband that designated him as an observer. “Saddle up.”
* * *
CORPORAL GRAYSON HAD TAKEN de facto command of the group and was doing a surprisingly good job of adjusting to the reality of his team’s dismal abilities. He kept them on easier terrain and spread out at five-meter intervals.
There was still more than a little bit of tripping, heavy breathing, and panicked drops to the ground, but they were managing to move in the general direction of their objective and no one had yet twisted an ankle or stroked out. A minor miracle as far as Smith was concerned.
He hung back a bit, focusing on a semi-transparent overlay of the battlefield in the right upper corner of his vision. His people were shown as dots in varying shades of green based on their military records—Grayson’s was predictably dark and rich, conveying his combat experience and other achievements. The others were significantly lighter, with his skinny programmer semi-translucent.