found Stubin’s palm to be hot and moist.
“Where to begin, where to begin?” Stubin laced his fingers together and rocked back on his heels, looking beyond them. “Okay. You’re familiar with terrorism, correct? Not the acts of terrorists so much, but the ideology behind terrorism.”
Josh answered. “Violence directed against civilians, meant to cause fear.”
Stubin nodded. “Excellent. Yes. It should be added that noncombatants are the targets, but the goal is to send a message to those in power. If you scare enough people, the thought is their government will change its policies. We erroneously believe that terrorism is used primarily by fundamentalists, or extremists. But that’s BS. All governments, even Western nations, support terrorists. Sometimes it’s through discreet funding—remember the Iran Contra scandal? The so-called freedom fighters that our government supported were a group of raping, murdering thugs, who destroyed more than a hundred Nicaraguan villages.”
“Is that what we’re facing here?” Josh asked. “Government-sponsored terrorism?”
Stubin frowned. “Actually, what you’re facing is much worse. In recent years, many countries have begun training their own terrorists rather than clandestinely funding them. These units are code-named Red-ops. Everyone has a Red-ops program. And one of them has accidentally landed in Safe Haven.”
Fran thought about Taylor. While he didn’t fit her conception of a terrorist, he certainly did his best to instill fear. “Who sent them?”
“I’m not in the Intelligence loop, but we think they’re Canadian. It’s very likely they got much of their training in the U.S., though.”
“But Canada is our ally,” Josh said.
“Yes. That’s sort of where I come in. I’m a brain surgeon who specializes in transhumanism. It’s a catchall phrase for making humans better with the help of technology. I’ve been working with our own military, experimenting with enhancing soldier performance. Mathison is one of my early successes.”
Fran glanced back at the car. Through the windshield she watched Duncan and Mathison playing what looked like patty-cake. “He seems pretty smart.”
“He’s very smart. It’s safe to say he’s the smartest animal who ever lived, except for human beings, and he’s probably smarter than a great many of those. I named him after Alan Mathison Turing, the grandfather of modern computers. Turing invented machines that run sequentially, figuring out tasks in linear fashion. The human brain, however, is a parallel processor, absorbing and dealing with a lot of information at once. For example, right now you’re looking at me, and listening to my words. But at the same time you can feel the cool breeze, see what’s going on behind me, plus you’re already formulating more questions to ask, and performing dozens of other biological and sensory processes at the same time. A lot of recent research has been done, trying to make computers more human. My research is opposite—implanting neuroprosthetic devices to make human beings act like computers.”
“Brainwashing,” Josh said. He didn’t sound enthused.
“More like programming. The chip allows for the downloading of information directly into the brain, just like running a program on your computer. When the program is initiated, the subject can function with pinpoint efficiency, able to complete tasks that would normally require years of training. For example, here’s one of Mathison’s programs, initiated by a simple word command.” Stubin snapped his fingers, getting the monkey’s attention. “Mathison!” he called to the car. “Dance, please.”
Fran watched as Mathison hopped through the side window and onto the hood. The primate stood on two legs and stuck one paw out in front of him. Then the other. He turned up one palm, the other palm, touched his head with one hand, then the other hand …
“Is that … ?” Josh asked.
Stubin nodded. “Yes. He’s doing the Macarena.”
Duncan clapped his hands, delighted. Fran was amused at first, but the display quickly became sort of sad. It reminded her of that old movie
“How long will he dance for?”
“Until the song ends. We can’t hear it, but it’s programmed onto the chip in his head. The technology is really quite revolutionary. I’ve been able to grow neurons—actual brain cells—on the silicon of integrated circuits. The neurons actually bridge the gaps between transistors, which transmit electrical impulses just like neurotransmitters. Mathison’s dance is a computer program, but to him it feels more like an irresistible thought or impulse. All other thoughts are overridden. As such, he can do things no other monkey can do, without ever even having to practice. Very much like savants can play an entire concerto after only hearing it once, or solve complex mathematical problems without a calculator. With this breakthrough it is now possible to bypass education and automatically download professions into people’s brains. With the right program, a man can have all of the skills of a surgeon, or a lawyer, or a mechanic.”
Josh said, “Or a terrorist.”
“I’m afraid it appears my Canadian colleagues have done just that.”
Fran folded her arms. “And you haven’t?”
Stubin eyed her, and Fran could detect a sliver of distaste. “I haven’t worked on humans. The U.S. government won’t allow it. But imagine having a group of soldiers who could follow complicated, specific orders, better and faster, without questioning them.”
“We don’t have to imagine them,” Josh said. “They’re here in Safe Haven.”
Mathison finished his dance, and Duncan applauded. Fran scanned the tree line, suddenly feeling very exposed. Stubin didn’t seem worried.
“The army asked me to come here, to lend my expertise. But I’m afraid the Special Forces unit I came with was killed. I’m trying to get into town where I can contact my superiors.” He glanced at the broken window, and then up the road. “I’m guessing the people at the roadblock weren’t very welcoming.”
“So why are the Red-ops here?” Fran asked.
Stubin adjusted his helmet, and it slipped right back into its original position. “As far as I know, this Red-ops unit crashed here accidentally, and they’re carrying out their objective and treating your town like an enemy territory.”
“What’s their objective?”
“Isolate. Terrorize. Annihilate. That’s what they do.”
“Then why were they asking about Warren?”
Stubin blinked. “Warren?”
“He’s the sheriff’s brother. If they came here by accident, how do they know about Warren?”
“That’s also standard operating procedure. When a Red-ops unit invades a town, they seek out information —phone books, directories, and such—and memorize it.”
Fran frowned. “Taylor called me by my name. How did he know it was me? My picture isn’t in the phone book.”
Stubin shrugged. “They might have accessed the state driver’s license database. Or maybe he looked through your personal belongings. He attacked you?”
“At the diner where I work.”
“The diner? Do you wear a name tag?”
Fran did wear a name tag. She flushed, feeling stupid. But it still didn’t make sense.
“Taylor knew about Duncan.”
“Duncan?”
“My son. Bernie had gone after Duncan.”
Stubin stared at her for a few seconds before he spoke. “I have no idea how they knew that. This makes it a lot worse.”
Fran didn’t know how this could possibly get any worse, but she asked anyway.
“Perhaps the Red-ops units didn’t crash here accidentally,” Stubin said. “Perhaps they’re here on purpose.”
Taylor looked at the woman bleeding out on the shower floor and felt remorse. She was a tasty little morsel, but he hadn’t had the opportunity to really enjoy her. He recalled his past, before death row, and the women he’d been with. There was one girl, in Chicago, a tiny thing with fingers like pretzels that went
