William Hertling
The Last Firewall
For Erin Gately.
Part One
0
She diced onions until she had a neat pile, and went to work on the red peppers, humming to herself as she worked. A blue cloth, candles, and a bottle of her favorite red decorated the table. She glanced at the clock; twenty minutes until he arrived.
A biting pain cut through her head, her vision flashing white before fading to dark. Startled, she dropped the knife and pressed hard against her temples, afraid her implant was malfunctioning.
The pain doubled, then quadrupled in seconds. She gasped and gripped the counter for support as her knees weakened.
A memory surfaced, unbidden. Her mom and dad; they were young again, and smiling. Her mother clapped her hands. Crisp and vivid, the vision cut across forty years with a glaring intensity. As quickly as it came, the moment was torn away, only to be replaced by another.
Oh, God, no. She was dying.
The next memory was as crystal clear as the chopped vegetables in front of her. She was fumbling with the stick shift in her father’s car, while learning to drive. Glancing over, she saw him sitting calmly, the corner of his mouth upturned.
She sank to the floor, crying, as the memories continued to ambush her, coming and changing, faster and faster. Her husband, handsome in the suit she’d bought him, smiling the day before he won the election and a Congressional seat. She was visiting him at his office; they were going to have lunch together. His colleague, Congressman Lonnie Watson, walked in. The men spoke, paying her no attention. She couldn’t make out what they were saying.
Then, her son’s first steps at the museum. A look of pure joy on his face, his fists clenched, he squealed with delight. She reached out, but it all dissipated before she could touch him.
She panicked, realizing she wouldn’t see these people again. Wouldn’t have a chance to watch her son grow up. She hugged her knees as she sat on the kitchen floor.
Another memory: coming home with her son from a baseball game. Lonnie Watson again, talking to her husband in his office. Her attention was gripped by the expression on her son’s face, his disappointment at being ignored by his father. She felt the memory slow and intensify. The conversation between the congressmen played out and then repeated, the curves of their lips moving in slow motion through the glass French doors. They were working on artificial intelligence legislation.
Her final memory was of her son. The feel of his hair under her fingertips as she’d said goodbye to him just hours ago. A blistering pain spread across her head. She screamed out one final time, before going silent, her mouth open and frozen in place. She tried to stand, but fell sideways, and was dead before she hit the floor.
1
Catherine shrugged on her shirt and looked back to the bed where Nick slept. She watched him breathe, while gazing at his stubble of day-old beard. Cute, but not so smart. She gathered her blonde hair into a ponytail, then checked the mirror, mentally reversing the words on her t-shirt: Life without geometry was pointless. Smiling, she headed for the hallway.
She padded down the stairs. Always the first to get up, it hadn’t taken her long to learn housemates don’t like early risers.
Downstairs, Einstein, a puppen, or half cat-half dog hybrid, slept on an eastern windowsill, catching the opening rays of morning sunlight. Catherine tickled her ears until she purred. The feline part of Einstein’s heritage dominated; at first glance, you saw only a big cat. But take Einstein to a park, and she’d fetch a stick.
Catherine slid out the kitchen sliding glass door into the courtyard, where plants had gone wild around the central patio of reclaimed fireplace bricks. She faced east, toward the house, and started Ba Duan Jin, or Eight Treasure, qigong. She moved slowly, synchronizing the physical movement of the ancient Chinese form with the flow of qi, or life force, within her body. Her eyes unfocused, she followed the prescribed footsteps, her arms tracing graceful arcs through the air. She distantly noticed the breeze in the leaves of the small trees, a neighbor’s wind chime, her breath. She repeated the form twice, paused for a few meditative breaths, then started Jade Body.
When she finished qigong, she bowed once. The peaceful motions of qigong were gone now, replaced with the hard, quick snaps of Naihanchi, her first karate kata. Forty minutes later, she completed Kusanku and bowed again. Her body sank gratefully into seated meditation, legs crossed, hands on knees. A slight sheen of sweat covered her skin, her muscles warm and limber. The sounds of the coffee pot gurgling, laughter, and the toilet running filtered quietly from the house. As thoughts came in, she let them go. Empty mind. Empty mind.
Ninety minutes after she’d gone outside, she opened her eyes and gazed anew at the world. She watched the sunlight play on leaves, then stretched her arms and legs wide.
Some people said they had a hard time meditating, their minds always wandering, becoming trapped in thoughts. She didn’t understand. If they wanted to meditate, why would they think about other things?
She padded barefoot up the porch steps, and pushed the door open. After the cool morning air, the house was stuffy. Her housemates were in the kitchen now.
“Hello, Karate Kid,” Tom said, his tone affectionate. He waved a coffee cup in her direction, his distraction suggesting he was deep in cyberspace.
Catherine concentrated, and switched her neural implant on. A moment later, her vision flickered as the implant came online. Syncing with the net, it revealed a status bubble above Tom’s head: “Busy.”
“How was last night?” asked Maggie, the self-appointed mother of their little group. Everyone who wanted to stay sane found some way to define themselves now that the artificial intelligences, or AI, had taken all the jobs.
“I met this guy, Nick,” Catherine said. She smiled. “He’s upstairs.” She held one hand over a cup, trying to keep Maggie from pouring her coffee. “No, it’ll spoil the effect of meditating. Are those eggs I smell?”
“Quiche coming up in five minutes,” Maggie said, giving up on the coffee.
“Yum.” It was blissfully peaceful in the kitchen. With a sudden suspicion, Catherine asked, “Where’s Sarah?”
“I thought I heard her up,” Maggie turned away in a sudden rush to check the oven.
Catherine looked toward the ceiling, then turned and stalked silently across the living room. She climbed the staircase, the old carpeting masking her approach.
At the top of the stairs, Nick and Sarah came into view in the hallway between the bedrooms. Sarah rested against the wall in a bra and underwear. Nick leaned but an inch from her body, his hands on either side of the wall above her head. Cat couldn’t mistake the expressions on their faces: they had linked. Through the net, she saw the high bandwidth connection between the two, a thick blue stream connecting their heads loaded with an exchange of sensory data.
Catherine’s fingernails pressed into her palms as she balled up her fists. She squeezed harder, the pain barely registering. She waited a second, but Nick and Sarah were too deep in the throes of virtual sex to even notice her presence.
She focused on her implant, reaching out through the net to find Sarah and Nick’s link, and severing it. The blue datastream connecting the two vanished. Nick flew back across the hallway, screaming and grabbing his head. Sarah rocked back and pressed two fingers up to her temples, staring at the wall. “Come on, Cat, don’t do that.”
“Don’t sleep with the guys I bring home.” Her voice broke, but she fought against the urge to cry.