You’re going solo. Give me your datasleeve. Come up to my office within the hour and you’ll get it back,” she said, and walked away without a backward glance.
After I had handed over my datasleeve, she slammed the door shut. I whirled around, confused. I felt a tiny vibration in my feet when the door slammed home and a thrill of fear. What if she
My cell had carbon shielding around the perimeter, and a carbon floor and ceiling. It could be harder than diamonds or as brittle as graphite. Maybe I could kick the door open or just break down one of the walls. But Eva had said that there was one way out and that I was only permitted one try.
I started by inspecting the locking mechanism on the door. I couldn’t see anything besides an old-fashioned doorknob. No visible biometrics sensors, no old-fashioned combination keypad. I reached to check how sturdy it was, but pulled my hand back. One try.
I turned to the small table. The dataslate was rolled up. Could I use it to reprogram the door? If it worked, I could. Maybe. But I couldn’t tell if it was operational. Heck, I couldn’t even tell if it was real. If only I could lift it up and examine it.
The pencil was an ordinary #2, made from old-fashioned wood. I could use it to write the Great American Novel but I had maybe 55 minutes left. Not even enough time for a short story, let alone a novel. I doubted I could create a decent three-line haiku poem in that time. But I could use it to poke at the dataslate and see if that works. Would that be within the rules?
I looked at the doorknob again and ruled out the wrenches. The magnet might work if the doorknob were metal. No dice. The locking assembly appeared to be a non-magnetic material. I couldn’t think of any appropriate use for the abrasive cloth. I couldn’t file my way out in an hour.
That left the square box with the round button on it. I looked at the device. Nothing on the outside of the box gave me any kind of a clue as to what was inside of the box, nor could I intuit anything about the doorknob and doorjamb. Was this Eva’s sense of humor?
I wondered how much time I had. With my datasleeve gone, I was cut off from the rest of the world. My pockets were as empty as my inventory of solutions for escaping from this coop. I didn’t think a lot of time had elapsed, but in the isolation of a very small room, it was hard to estimate the passage of time.
If I could solve this problem, Eva and I could continue to collaborate. I had to try.
“When you want to hide something, put it in plain sight” was a maxim that Eva had drilled into me over and over. So, I looked around my little cage for something obvious. Eva, for all of her eccentricities, would never give me a test I couldn’t pass, and she always kept her word to me. But would anyone find me if Eva went mad and forgot about this room?
Time was running out. My hands were sweating and my mouth was dry. I had an itch on my back that was driving me crazy. I could think only of the itch. If it were not for her instructions, I’d grab the pencil and use it to scratch my back.
Then I saw the answer. I smiled. An elegant solution, simple and economical, like her software coding. I picked up the pencil. It reached the itchy spot on my back and I scratched. That felt good. I stuck the pencil behind my ear and walked over to the door. I grabbed the doorknob, turned it, and walked out of an unlocked cell.
Five minutes later, I walked into Eva’s work area, whistling a happy tune. She looked up and grinned for a second and then pointed me to a chair. She tossed my datasleeve back to me.
“You put some nice security on this,” she said. “I couldn’t jack it, at least not here and not in the time it took you to stumble out.”
“I made a few modifications,” I said, trying for nonchalance. “What’s next?”
“You solved the riddle. Remember, when you face an impossible challenge, your first move should be to look for the easiest solution. That’ll probably be right.”
“Now I have a self-study project for you. To finish this last assignment, you’ll need to use every bit of the chemistry, nanotechnology and materials science, and physics that you’ve learned.” She got up from her chair and walked around her desk. Perched on the edge, she was about as tall as I was, seated.
“Fact is, it’s time for you to fly solo. Take on a role at NMech. So here’s what you have to do. Here is a list of 34 senior researchers at NMech, 26 department heads and 18 executives.” She held up her arm in a transmit gesture and my sleeve pinged receipt of a file. “Your job is to jack every single one of them. Learn the chemistry or physics or materials science of each one of them by ghosting through their pillars. Learn how they manage their departments by observation and by jacking their diaries. Then link to me and we can carry on our conversations again.”
“That’s a big job, Eva,” I said, with maybe a little complaint or trepidation in my voice.
“And you’re a big boy. You’re fifteen—”
“Almost sixteen…”
“—and you’ve been taught the science by your mom and me, and your dad taught you some lessons that will make the assignment a lot easier.”
“Why all of this? Why jack 78 people’s sleeves?” I asked.
“Keys to the kingdom, kiddo. When you’re done, you can run the show if you want.”
“Dana? Get your ass in gear. I have things to do, places to go. Time for big mischief.”
Her voice was starting to quaver again and the sound made me nervous. I had a very bad feeling right then, but nothing I could put my finger on, just a sense of foreboding. Had she really been her old self the past hour or so? Or was she just putting up a good front? Either way, the sound of her voice right then worried me.
Still, I did as Eva asked, and over the course of the next few days I would learn more than I ever wanted to know about the business end of nanotech and 3D manufacturing. I also found a strange piece of art in an unlabeled account. Eva would say nothing about the image. No matter how I pressed her, she refused to discuss it with me.
25
SECOND SKIN
BOSTON, MASSACHUSETTS
TUESDAY, FEBRUARY 28, 2045
Dr. Colleen Katy Lowell, creator of morphing textiles technology, walked along Boylston Street, near the Public Garden, looking into the window displays of high-end clothing stores. She joined the shoppers who stopped to watch as the garments on display morphed from style to style. Colleen’s technology had made its first appearance at the expensive boutiques in the heart of Boston. She grinned and rushed past strollers on the broad sidewalk.
She was exhausted and elated after a successful week of around-the-clock negotiations to secure funding to produce her line of nanocouture. She signed three prominent designers on the promise of venture capital money, and the VCs came on board when Colleen promised the designers.
The week had flown by. Meeting with the money people, then the nanofabbers. After agreements were reached, on came the marketing and distribution experts, and channel sales organizations. The manufacturers were the toughest of a tough lot—the few factory managers who understood fashion also understood that they were a very small group and wanted to charge accordingly. Admins crept in unnoticed with food and beverages and crept back out with the trash that the week’s conclaves generated. Samples of fabric, design, and prototypes appeared when required and disappeared when no longer needed. Colleen barely noticed the faces of the bearers of these items. She scarcely remembered breaks for food, changes of clothing, or the odd shower. Sleep? Forget it.
