“Dear God, he’s done it,” Thompson said.
“Done what?” Karl wanted to know.
“Broken the code. There’s hundreds of pages here,” Thompson explained.
“All useful?” Karl asked. It was half toward Thompson, half to the I.I.
“I didn’t filter anything,” Maynard replied. “That’s your job.”
Karl shared that information, but the hacker seemed far too engrossed in the document to take note.
How did you do that? the psychologist asked internally.
“What do you mean?” Maynard asked, playing dumb. “I wrote the code.”
You did? Karl was shocked.
“I did,” Maynard replied. “You didn’t think I’d share my patents without some form of encryption, did you?”
No, but I had no idea the code was still in use today, Karl reasoned.
“Of course it is,” Maynard said. “I’m a smart man and developed smart encryption. It’s no wonder people continue to use it decades later.”
Karl explained Maynard’s knowledge to Thompson despite the I.I.’s protests. He seemed to want to keep the knowledge secret in order to impress, but the psychologist reasoned that desire away.
“Just none of you forget that the dead have your back,” Maynard concluded.
Second Nail
The only thing that halted the work of the three “outlaws” was the sudden introduction to a breaking news story. It popped up unannounced like an amber alert or an evacuation announcement might and gave both of the living humans a scare.
They exchanged a few curses as video from a broadcast appeared in the corner of their eye displays. It was designed not to impair walking in traffic or important moments of concentration, like surgery. The video didn’t seem to think Karl, Maynard, and Thompson’s work was too important to interrupt.
“Tragic news coming out of Miami,” a woman of about thirty-five said from under a short mop of red-dyed hair. “Thirteen people are confirmed dead and two dozen reported injured after five gunmen allegedly burst into the Miami Beach Convention Center and opened fire on a gathering of anti-I.I. activists.”
“Jesus,” Karl heard his friend say, watching the report on his terminal rather than his C.C.
Karl said nothing. A sense of dread washed over him as he listened.
“Two of the attackers were shot and killed by responding officers, while two others were reportedly taken alive and are now in custody,” the anchor continued. “The fifth suspect has been fleeing officers in what has become a deadly pursuit. I-95 has been cleared of all civilians to minimize public risk.”
The camera shifted shots and a woman rotated to face the audience head on. Next to her face was an image of the gunmen who had attacked the building. “Tonight, we turn to Rebecca Rinney, who is on the scene just outside the convention center. Rebecca, what’s going on down there?”
A Latina woman with a dark blue blazer was positioned next to a long line of police tape. Officers could be seen moving about in the background, talking into their radios and signaling to others nearby.
“Julie, it’s been a blur of chaos for the last forty minutes, when gunmen initially entered the building and started shooting attendees,” the woman explained, looking over her shoulder occasionally.
“Is the scene there still active, Rebecca?” the anchor asked.
“As of four minutes ago, it was declared that all attackers in the area are either dead or in custody. The fifth is still being pursued, I believe.”
“That is the report we are receiving,” the woman hosting the show said. “What do we know about these gunmen? Has there been any speculation as to the motive?”
Rebecca gave a nod, and the wind blew some of her hair into her face. “Inside sources are telling us that police have a lead, but they have made no official statement as of yet. There is a rumor circulating that one of the attackers immediately confessed to the arresting officers and is even willing to provide details. He is being interrogated as we speak.”
“Rebecca,” the host started, “could you give us some insight into what was going on before the shooting began? Who were the victims?”
“Well, again, there is no official statement on the identity of each individual victim, but what we do know is that most or all of them were members of the Humanity Party. They were among other members for a public forum at the center.
“I’ve spoken with one woman who was present for the shooting, and she had this to say.”
The video feed transitioned to a pre-recorded interview that seemed to be recorded earlier that day, about a stone’s throw away from the convention center’s front door. A woman of about sixty-five with long silver hair scattering in the breeze became the focus of the shot. Her face was smeared with tears and sweat.
“There were about forty or fifty of us there,” she started, prompted by an off-screen question, “just talking about that new bill being proposed to force our schools into accepting proge students. The mood was rather communal, until these five guys in dark black combat clothes simply walked in the front door and started shooting.”
“Did you know you were under attack right away?” Rebecca asked.
“Not at all. I almost thought it was some sort of performance or prank, but no—people were dying all around me. It was so loud. Each pop echoed around the room until my ears rang. I didn’t know what to do except drop to the floor.”
“How long was it between when the attackers starting shooting and when police arrived on scene?”
“Lord, I don’t know,” the woman replied. “It felt like ages, but was probably less than five minutes. When the cops first arrived, I didn’t know who they were at first, because the shooters were dressed so much like SWAT guys. I just kept thinking, ‘Oh no, there’s more. None of us are getting out alive.’ ”
The woman started to sob a little while trying to catch her breath before the stream cut back to the anchor.
“Terrifying,” she said. “Absolutely horrible. Our hearts go out to the victims and their families. We will
