Читать книгу Fall or, Dodge in Hell - Neal Stephenson, Neal Stephenson - Страница 19

Maeve didn’t want to think of herself, or to be seen, as someone who had been in need of getting rescued by a Prince Charming in a jet, and so this added a lot of texture to her relationship with Corvallis in the early going. Fortunately for that relationship, but not so much for Maeve and her family in Australia, those issues were soon swamped by something else.

All of the people in the Miasma’s conspiracy/troll ecosystem had been sucked into the vortex of Moab and begun to devote excruciating levels of attention to the entire cast of characters: the actor from the red-eye, all of the other performers in all of the fake videos, the cops who had searched the penthouse suite in Vegas, the sheriff ’s deputies who had manned roadblocks, et cetera.

And, of course, Corvallis Kawasaki and Maeve Braden. For he had been identified by name, on national television, by the president of the United States, and had been a reasonably well-known person to begin with. And she had been standing next to him. So within twenty-four hours, the citizens of Crazytown had compiled a huge dossier of mostly wrong material on him, and begun to evince interest in her; and within a week, she had become a figure of greater significance, in the collective mind of Crazytown, than he.

Crazytown was repelled by facts and knowledge, as oil fled from water, but was fascinated by the absence of hard facts, since it provided vacant space in which to construct elaborate edifices of speculation. Toward power it felt some combination of fear and admiration, and Corvallis was powerful. Toward vulnerability it was drawn, in the same way that predators would converge on the isolated and straggling. Within a week, Maeve—who suffered from the fatal combination of being mysterious, vulnerable, and female—had been doxxed. Canyonland Adventures, as a business, had been destroyed by a flood of fake negative reviews and various other hacks. Maeve sought refuge at Angel Rock Ranch, but after a couple of days, Bob’s wife decided to believe some of the more wildly slanderous posts being made about Maeve on social media and decided it was time for her to leave. Tom, having nothing else to do now that the business was wiped out, bundled Maeve into a car, handed her a shotgun, and drove her to Salt Lake City, where he dropped her off (minus the shotgun) at the private jet terminal to await a jet that Corvallis had dispatched. Maeve only went into the waiting lounge long enough to use the toilet. Her legs were visible under the stall door. They were glimpsed in a mirror by a young woman who was standing in front of a sink freshening up. She was the best friend of another young woman who was the daughter of a hedge fund manager and private jet owner; they, along with other friends and family, were all on some kind of one-percenter vacation trip. The two young women, having recognized Maeve, took pictures of her and posted them on their poorly secured social media accounts. One of the pictures included the tail number of the private jet that Maeve boarded en route to Seattle. Its flight plan was obtained from the Miasma. More Moab truthers were awaiting Maeve in Seattle; they weren’t allowed into the private jet terminal at Boeing Field, but nothing prevented them from witnessing Corvallis’s arrival in his Tesla.

And so it went. All they could do was let it burn. Maeve’s harassment became the topic of hand-wringing coverage by the decent folk of the Miasma, but the mere fact that people were defending her only drove the truthers into higher transports of rage or made it that much more amusing for trolls to go after her. Maeve’s entire family was doxxed. Business records of Sthetix were pulled up from somewhere and laid bare. That she was now under Corvallis’s wing dampened the truthers’ ardor, since they were sadists and preferred to focus their energies on the helpless. But they did manage to find her sister, Verna, who lived in a bedroom community outside of Adelaide. After a first round of surgery and chemo, she’d enjoyed three years’ remission from her cancer, but it had now come back. She was on chemo again. Through a combination of social engineering and poor security precautions, a particularly avid set of nihilist hackers tracked her down to a hospital in Adelaide, and phoned in a bomb threat, and SWATted the place for good measure. All of the patients had to be taken out of the wing of the building where Verna was receiving her treatment. Not enough gurneys were available, and she was strong enough to walk with assistance, and so she ended up lying on the ground in the shade of a gum tree, dressed only in her hospital gown, still hooked up to the wheeled apparatus that was dripping the chemo drug into her IV line. A local truther, positioned outside the place with a long-lensed camera, was able to capture video of her rolling onto her side to puke. It went up on the message board favored by the truthers and became a humorous meme. The mother of Maeve and Verna got really angry and ventured out onto the front stoop of her house to denounce the hackers; a still frame of her indignant, tear-stained face became another meme.

Corvallis chartered a larger, longer-range jet to take him and Maeve to Australia. They drove to Boeing Field. The jet wasn’t quite ready yet and so they had to wait in the lounge for half an hour.

Shortly before they boarded, Pluto showed up.

Pluto had been one of the cofounders of Corporation 9592 and had made a corresponding amount of money. For a while, Corvallis had seen him every day, but after his switch to Nubilant, they’d lost contact and had not communicated at all except for a brief, awkward exchange at Dodge’s funeral. Pluto, well aware of his own social ineptitude, had obviously pored over an etiquette manual before showing up, and so, during his rote interactions with Zula and other immediate family members, had acquitted himself well if bizarrely, addressing them in high-Victorian grief speech straight out of whatever scanned and archived Emily Post book he’d memorized.

Pluto walked into the waiting area, which was furnished like a high-end hotel lobby, and shrugged his bag off onto a leather club chair. He seemed to have packed for a long trip. He sat down across from Corvallis and Maeve, who were in a love seat, just zoning out, not daring to look at the Miasma. Instead of greeting them, or even making eye contact, he opened up his laptop and pulled on a pair of reading glasses.

“Presbyopia has caught up with you, I see,” Corvallis said.

Maeve startled, and tensed; she hadn’t realized that this new guy and Corvallis knew each other.

“It would be unusual for one of my age not to have it!” Pluto scoffed.

Maeve had been sprawled back with her head resting on Corvallis’s outstretched arm, but she now sat up, the better to pay notice to this interloper.

Corvallis remembered, now, that back in the old days, the key persons at Corporation 9592 had made use of an iPhone app that enabled them to track each other’s locations on a map. It saved a lot of messing around with text messages whose sole purpose was to establish someone’s whereabouts. Corvallis had shared his location with Dodge and with Pluto. Dodge was dead. Pluto he had forgotten about. He made a mental note to turn the feature off. Not that he didn’t trust Pluto. But it was bad practice to just dumbly leave that stuff running.

“Your luggage is of impressive size and weight,” Corvallis observed, “and I note you have purchased a new sun hat.” For the price tag, and the tiny documentation booklet, were still dangling from Pluto’s headwear.

“Because of the ozone hole,” Pluto began, in a cadence suggesting he had a lot to say about it.

Maeve interrupted him, though. “This person is coming with us?”

“His name is Pluto,” Corvallis said. Then, before Pluto could correct the error, he amended his statement: “Nickname, I meant to say.”

Pluto seemed to finish whatever business he had been conducting on his laptop and peered over the lenses of his reading glasses at Maeve’s legs. Pluto’s general habit was to stare at people’s shoes when he was talking to them, and so Corvallis interpreted this as Pluto’s gearing up to engage in conversation. Maeve saw it as gawking at her prostheses. Corvallis, whose arm was still draped around behind Maeve, reached down to give her shoulder a squeeze and a pat.

“It came to my attention that you were being abused on the Internet,” Pluto said, “and so I am here to destroy it.”

“Destroy what?” Corvallis inquired.

“The Internet,” Pluto said. “Or what Dodge referred to as the Miasma. Does your jet have Wi-Fi?”

“Yes, but it doesn’t work over the Pacific Ocean.”

Pluto sighed. “Then it will have to wait until we have reached Australia.”

“I didn’t like your friend at first,” Maeve said, “but I’m warming up to him.”

“That is convenient, Maeve, if I may take the liberty of addressing the lady by her Christian name, because I will require your permission. Your complicity in utterly destroying your reputation.”

“It’s already destroyed, haven’t you seen a bloody thing?”

“It is not sufficiently destroyed yet,” Pluto said. He glanced at the screen of his laptop. “The total number of unique slanderous and defamatory statements that have been made about you, on all of the blogs, boards, and social media networks being tracked by my bots, currently stands at a little more than seventy-three thousand. Peak traffic occurred yesterday, at four point five kiloBradens.”

“What’s a kiloBraden?” asked Maeve, taking a personal interest since her last name was Braden.

“A Braden is a unit of measurement I coined for my own purposes, equal to the number of hostile posts made in an interval of one hour. It has now slumped to just over one hundred Bradens as the focal point of the attack has shifted to your mother and …” Pluto’s brow furrowed as he read something from the screen. “Someone called Lady?”

“Her Lhasa apso,” Maeve sighed. For the dog had been heard yapping incessantly on the soundtrack of Maeve’s mother’s front-stoop press conference, and was now receiving death threats.

“Anyway, we need to get that up into the megaBraden or preferably the gigaBraden range in order to achieve saturation,” Pluto intoned, “and we need much wider ontic coverage.”

“Ontic?” Corvallis asked, so Maeve wouldn’t have to.

The jet’s pilot entered through the door that communicated with the tarmac and gazed at Corvallis in an expectant way. “One more,” Corvallis told him, since there’d be paperwork. To Pluto he said, “Passport?” and then regretted it.

“A passport and a visa are required for entry to—” Pluto began, a little confounded by the question.

“Never mind. He has a passport and a visa,” Corvallis called to the pilot.

After they had walked to the plane and got settled into their seats, Pluto resumed the previous conversation as if nothing had happened. “This kind of thing has to be gone about in a systematic way, so that nothing is missed,” he said, now staring out the window at a fuel truck. “Partly through direct study of dictionaries, thesauri, and so on, and partly through brute-forcing archives of defamatory Miasma postings, I have compiled what I think is a pretty comprehensive ontology of execration. A mere lexicon doesn’t get us anywhere because it’s language-specific. Both in the sense of relating to only one language, such as English, and in the sense that it only covers defamation in a textual format. But many defamatory posts are now made in the form of images or videos. For example, if you want to call someone a slut—”

“We don’t need to go there right now,” Corvallis said.

“‘Slut,’ ‘bitch,’ ‘hag,’ ‘fatty,’ all the bases need to be covered. If we generate traffic in the gigaBraden range—which I think is easily doable—but it’s all skewed toward, say, ‘feminazi,’ then the impression will be created in the minds of many casual users that the subject is indeed a feminazi. But if an equal amount of traffic denounces the subject as a slut, a bitch, a whore, an attention seeker, a gold digger, an idiot—”

“I think we get the idea,” Corvallis said.

“—why, then even the most credulous user will be inoculated with so many differing, and in many cases contradictory, characterizations as to raise doubts in their mind as to the veracity of any one characterization, and hence the reliability of the Miasma as a whole.”

“Pluto, we sort of missed the part where you explained the whole premise of what you’re doing,” Corvallis said.

“I’m glad you said so,” said Maeve, “because I was wondering if I had blacked out.”

“What I’m gathering is that you have been developing some kind of bots or something …”

“Autonomous Proxies for Execration, or APEs,” Pluto said. “I took the liberty of drawing up a logo.”

“Please don’t show us programmer art, Pluto, it’s not—” But it was too late, as Pluto had swiveled his laptop around to display an unbelievably terrible drawing of an animal that was just barely recognizable as some kind of ape. One shaggy arm had its knuckles on the ground, the other was whipping overhead as it hurled a large, dripping gob of shit. Wavy lines radiated from the projectile as a way of indicating that it smelled bad. It was even more terrible than most of Pluto’s programmer art, but he was smiling broadly and even sort of looking at them, which counted for something. Worse yet, Maeve liked it, and laughed. Corvallis hadn’t heard her laugh in a while.

“By typing in a few simple commands, I can spawn an arbitrary number of APEs in the cloud,” Pluto said.

“What do you mean, arbitrary?” Maeve asked.

“As many as he wants,” Corvallis said.

“As many as I want.”

“Don’t they cost money or something?”

Pluto looked startled for a moment, then laughed.

“Pluto has ten times as much money as I do,” Corvallis said.

“Nineteen,” Pluto corrected him, “you don’t know about some of the interesting trading strategies I have been pursuing.” Redirecting his attention from Corvallis’s shoes to Maeve’s prosthetic legs, he went on, “I have hand-tuned the inner loops to the point where a single APE can generate over a megaBraden of wide-spectrum defamation. The number would be much larger, of course, if I didn’t have to pursue a range of strategies to evade spam filters, CAPTCHAs, and other defenses.”

“Have you tried this out yet?” Corvallis asked.

“Not against a real subject,” Pluto said. “I invented a fictitious subject and deployed some APEs against it, just to see how it worked in the wild. The fictitious subject has already attracted thousands of death threats,” he added with a note of pride.

“You mean, from people who saw the defamatory posts seeded by the APEs and got really mad at this person who doesn’t even exist.”

“Yes. It worked unexpectedly well. So, another part of the strategy might be to spawn a large number of nonexistent harassment targets and deploy APEs against them as well. I just thought of that.”

“You said earlier you needed my complicity,” Maeve said. “My permission.”

“Yes, what I would like to do is run a troop of APEs at something like a gigaBraden for a couple of weeks, directed at you.”

“So if I understand the math,” Corvallis said, “during that whole time, a billion defamatory posts would be made every hour, personally directed against Maeve. Denouncing her as every kind of bad thing you have included in your ontology of execration. In all languages as well as using imagery. And on all kinds of social media outlets.”

“Her Wikipedia entry alone,” Pluto said, “would be edited a thousand times during the first tenth of a second. New material would be added describing Maeve’s career as a pirate, murderess, sex worker, headhunter, terrorist, and coprophage. By that point the entry will probably have been locked by the administrators, but not before all of the defamatory material is archived in the page history. Meanwhile my APEs will be spawning hundreds of thousands of new accounts on social media systems, and using those accounts to make millions of posts in a similar vein. Existing botnets will be leveraged to generate a colossal spam campaign. The Twitter attack will proceed in three phases. Phase Zero is already under way, in a sense, and consists of—”

“Why do you need my complicity?” Maeve asked. “Don’t get me wrong, it’s polite of you to ask, but …”

“It’s an open campaign. We would announce it. Publish statistics on how it’s going. You could do press interviews, if you wanted. The sheer magnitude of it would make it obvious, even to the most credulous user of the Miasma, that it was all a bunch of nonsense. Afterward, no one in their right mind would ever believe anything negative about you that had ever been posted on the Miasma. But because it is all technically slanderous, you would have to promise not to sue me.”

“Didn’t you say, when you first came in, that you were going to destroy the Internet? The Miasma?” Maeve asked.

“Yes.”

“How does this accomplish that?”

“I am going to open-source all of the tools for spawning APEs and running troops of them,” Pluto explained. “Combined with an easy-to-use graphical user interface, this will make it possible for anyone in the world to spawn an APE troop for pennies, and manage their activities from an app.”

Corvallis raised a finger. “I work for Lyke,” he pointed out. “If your APEs are setting up fake accounts and hurling shit on Lyke, it’s a problem for me.”

“An opportunity,” Pluto insisted. “It’s an opportunity for Lyke to differentiate itself from those old-school platforms that, in the wake of Moab, can never again be trusted.”

“Are you responsible for the Moab hoax?” Corvallis asked him flat-out. The idea had only just occurred to him.

“No.”

“Did you have anything to do with it at all?”

“No. Which is weird because whoever did do it thinks like I do in a lot of ways. But, I try to draw the line at anything where people die.”

“You’ve been working on this for a while,” Maeve said. “No one could create all of what you’ve described in a few days. I don’t care how good a programmer you are.”

“That is correct. I have been working on different parts of it ever since I retired from Corporation 9592.”

“Two years ago,” Corvallis said, for Maeve’s benefit. “And now you’re just being opportunistic. The aftermath of Moab is the perfect time for you to launch this.”

“And the perfect time,” Pluto insisted, “for your company to set itself apart from the competition.”

Maeve thought she had better sleep on it. Which was actually possible, on a business jet flying across the Pacific Ocean. She slept soundly for nine hours, which somehow gave Corvallis the premonition that she was going to say yes. Consequently, he slept poorly indeed, lying next to her making mental checklists of every action he was going to have to take as soon as they reached a place where he could connect to the Internet. The technical side of it was going to be easy; Lyke’s engineers, forewarned, could hack together some processes that would filter out most APE traffic. The legal aspect was what kept him awake, largely because it was out of his domain and there was nothing he could do about it save come up with half-baked nightmare scenarios and then worry about them.

He calmed down somewhat when he talked to Pluto. Pluto, as it turned out, had for a couple of years been employing several lawyers full-time, looking for ways to set this thing up so that he wouldn’t run afoul of any of the laws that had been established to inflict draconian punishments on persons identified as hackers.

In one sense, APEs had been decades in the making. In a tightly compressed, fast-forward style of discourse, Pluto reminded Corvallis of a lot of history that he already vaguely knew. Pluto, as it turned out, was part of a loose group of like-minded persons calling itself ENSU: the Ethical Network Sabotage Undertaking. The APE was his personal baby but others had been working on it too, cross-breeding his code with filter-evading, CAPTCHA-spoofing spambots built to flood Wikipedia with bogus edits and Amazon with fake product reviews.

ENSU’s vision in the long term was noble and beautiful: they wanted to make a new thing called the Trusted Internet. Short term, the way they wanted to get there was to bury every old-school blog in fake comments, follow every legitimate Twitter account with a thousand fake ones, clone and spoof every Facebook page with digital myrmidons, and bide their time for weeks or months before suddenly filling their victims’ feeds with garbage.

“I can see why you hired lawyers,” Corvallis remarked after he’d heard that.

Pluto chuckled. “Only for the APE part of it. There are many participants on the ENSU list. Some more extreme than others.”

“And all anonymous, untraceable, et cetera.”

“Well, we use PURDAH.”

Corvallis sighed. “I’ll bite. What is PURDAH?”

Pluto was delighted that he had asked. “Personal Unseverable Registered Designator for Anonymous Holography.”

Corvallis leaned back and thought about it for a bit. Some parts of it were obvious, others less so. “How does holography enter into it? That’s a way of making three-dimensional pictures, right?”

“That’s the modern usage. It’s a very old word. Academically, ‘holograph’ means a manuscript written entirely in one hand.”

“One hand?”

“Manu. Script. Hand. Writing,” Pluto said, incredulous at his slowness. “How can you tell if an ancient manuscript was written entirely by one person? The handwriting is the same all the way through, that’s how. The author’s name might not be known, but you can identify them, in a sense, by their handwriting—with greater certainty than could ever be conferred by their name alone.”

“I’ll give you that much,” Corvallis said. “Writing a name on a title page is easy. Forging a whole document written in a consistent hand is hard.”

“It is damn near unforgeable evidence that one specific person wrote the whole manuscript. That’s what a holograph is—it’s what the word denoted before it came to be used to mean three-D image technology.”

“So ‘holography’—the H in ‘PURDAH’—is shorthand for ‘creating documents that are provably traceable to a given author.’”

“Documents or any other kind of digital activity,” Pluto corrected him.

“And just like a holograph doesn’t need the author’s name on the title page—”

“Anonymous Holography,” Pluto reminded him, with a satisfied nod.

“Run the whole thing by me again?”

“Personal Unseverable Registered Designator for Anonymous Holography.”

“It’s just an anonymous ID,” Corvallis said, “dressed up with a fancy name.”

“Well, yes and no. Anonymous IDs aren’t registered anywhere. PURDAHs are registered using a distributed ledger, so their veracity can be checked anytime, by anyone. ‘Unseverable’ means that no one can take it away from you, as long as you take reasonable precautions.”

“And Personal?”

“Just there to make the acronym work out, I guess,” Pluto said. “But each PURDAH is linked to a ‘person’ in the legal sense of that term, meaning a human being, or a legal person like a corporation.”

“So anyway,” Corvallis guessed, “all of the people involved in this Ethical Network Sabotage Undertaking are talking to each other and posting documents using some kind of PURDAH system.”

“It’s not very systematic. Really clunky to use. We could use some help from an investor to clean it up, put a UI on it.”

“Pluto, you just told me a few hours ago that you have nineteen times as much money as I do, why don’t you fucking invest in it?”

“It’s not in my wheelhouse.”

Corvallis sighed. “Here’s what I’m getting at, Pluto. This thing that just happened? The Moab hoax? It was really well done. Like, eerily well pulled off. I mean, maybe when we’re done sifting through the wreckage we’ll find a place where they put a foot wrong, but overall, it was a masterpiece. I’m wondering who is smart and well organized enough to do something like that.”

“I already told you it wasn’t me.”

“And I believe you. But I wonder if you know the perpetrator. Not personally but through their PURDAH. I’m wondering if they are part of your loose ENSU network.”

Pluto shrugged. “There’s a lot of interest in the topic of distributed organizations. Which means, a network of PURDAHs that operates by an agreed-on set of rules just like a normal company, but with no identifiable center.”

“You’re saying that the people who ran the Moab hoax could have secretly set up one of these distributed organizations to do it. And they didn’t invite you, because you didn’t know the secret handshake or you said the wrong thing once in a discussion thread.”

“It’s possible. But I doubt it.”

“Who do you think did it?”

“Russians again?”

“What’s their upside in running something this big, though?” Corvallis asked. “Who benefits from Moab?”

“What’s your opinion?” Pluto asked.

“ENSU benefits. People who hate the Miasma for being so unreliable, who have been dreaming of replacing it with something better, more secure.”

“I can’t argue with that!” Pluto said, with a delighted chuckle. And something in that childlike expression of enjoyment twigged Corvallis to a flaw in his own argument. Pluto had an infinite amount of money, sure. So he had means. But did he have a motive? Well, sort of. He and thousands of other hackers, including all of his ENSU buddies, were perpetually annoyed with the Miasma’s security deficiencies. But was that alone sufficient motive to perpetrate a hoax on the scale of Moab? People had died. Thirty-one, at last count, had perished in traffic accidents or of heart attacks and strokes suffered while fleeing from imaginary bombs. Who would do something like that?

The obvious motive was money. Someone had figured out a way to profit from the hoax, most likely by short-selling stock. And no doubt the SEC was already investigating that angle, combing through stock exchange records for suspicious patterns of activity in the days leading up to it. Or maybe it was a more subtle play, something that the SEC wouldn’t be able to pin on anyone.

But it seemed like a roundabout and uncommonly irresponsible way to get slightly richer. Anyone with the brains and the technical acumen needed to pull this off would have other opportunities.

Corvallis pondered it as the jet winged south and west, across the equator, across the international date line. Pluto fell asleep in front of his laptop, which obligingly shut itself off, plunging the cabin into darkness. Corvallis looked out the window and saw nothing but stars, and a single, isolated light down below that must have been a ship.

He realized that it had been done by Elmo Shepherd.

The awareness came full-blown into his brain. No train of thought led to it and no evidence supported it, but he knew it as certainly as if El had been sitting across from him in the jet and confided in him personally. Like a scholar looking at an anonymous holograph in a library, Corvallis had simply recognized El’s handwriting.

Australia—at least the first bit of it that hove into view—was greener than Corvallis had been led to expect. He was debating whether to wake Maeve up, but some internal alarm seemed to have gone off in her head alerting her to their arrival in her home country’s airspace. He dreaded asking her whether she’d made a choice regarding what Pluto had proposed. She had a placid confidence about her that he hadn’t seen since she’d found herself in the crosshairs of the Moab truthers. After enjoying a heavy breakfast served up by the flight attendant, she took over the bathroom for half an hour and emerged in triumphal makeup. Maeve took an all-or-nothing approach to makeup, going completely without it most of the time but turning it into an impressive production when she had decided the occasion was right. Corvallis hadn’t known her long enough to be able to predict what those occasions would be; it wasn’t always the obvious triggers, like going on a date. He knew without asking that it was all tied in with Sthetix and that, if he dared ask, she’d explain to him that makeup was just another prosthetic, and she’d remind him that the root of the word had something to do with strength. She looked strong when she came out of the plane’s bathroom, though not necessarily strong in a way that would be recognized or respected by her legions of Miasma detractors. She was getting ready to use her face to send a message to her family, written in a code of incredible sophistication that he would never understand.

By that time Australia had turned red-beige and begun to make Utah look, by comparison, like a rain forest. She spent the last hour of the flight quizzing Pluto about APEs and about how it was all going to work once he unleashed them. They agreed it would be better to wait for a day or two so that she could explain matters to her mother and her sister.

Once they had landed and cleared customs, they dropped into family mode, which from a fundamentalist nerd standpoint meant a way of being that caused vast amounts of time to disappear while people pursued activities that ruled out getting any sort of productive work done. The first few hours were entirely devoted to collecting Mary Catherine, who was the mother, and Lady, the imperiled Lhasa apso. Lady got dropped off at a kennel for a few days. From there they went to the hospital to pick up Verna, who had finished her round of chemo. They drove out to the McLaren Vale, south of town. An acquaintance of Corvallis—the centurion of a Roman legion reenactment group in South Australia—had recommended a certain retreat center embedded in a winery, and Corvallis’s assistant had booked a little villa there. They moved Verna and her support technology into its best bedroom so that she could recuperate. Never until now had Corvallis been close enough to a chemotherapy patient to be exposed to all of the details. He saw that Cancer Land was a whole alternate civilization, as complicated as everything he did for a living.

Only after a few hours of getting to know the family and sharing a meal and getting Verna squared away was Corvallis able to get some time to himself and alert his colleagues at Lyke to what was in the works. Most of his nerd mind, however, was still fixated on Elmo Shepherd. Not clear to him was whether El might somehow sense that Corvallis had figured it out—might indeed be disappointed in Corvallis, as a teacher is disappointed with a prize pupil, if Corvallis failed to say anything the next time they encountered each other.

And encounter each other they would. For El and his panoply of non-, not-for-, and for-profit entities had become inextricably intertwined with the fate of Dodge and Dodge’s brain. A disproportionate amount of the time that Corvallis spent on his own foundation and nonprofit work was devoted to puzzling out the latest gambits of El’s attorneys. Indeed the last board meeting that he had attended, the day he had driven out to the Roman-legion camp in Montana, had been dominated by a discussion of a new maneuver that had only just been initiated by El. He could not help wondering now whether there was some connection between that and the launching of the hoax—a link that would only become obvious to him years from now. For he always had the sense that he was playing tic-tac-toe while El was playing four-dimensional hyperspace chess.

Australia in general, and this winery in particular, were fine places to reside while a stupendous onslaught of Miasma defamation was launched against Maeve Braden. Astonishing birdcalls were woven through its dry, quiet air, which was scented with eucalyptus and softened with a haze of reddish dust filtering down from the great desert to the north. Broad tin roofs and heavy steel screens sheltered them from sun and bug while somehow making them feel they were right in the middle of the trees and the vines. The design of the place was simple and comfortable without any taint of what was normally thought of as luxury. Verna’s bedroom opened onto a second-story verandah under deep eaves, which felt like a treehouse. Maeve would sit there for hours with her, chatting and drinking tea, while Mary Catherine bustled and fussed. She was first-generation Irish-Australian, messily divorced from the father of Maeve and Verna, who had some kind of complicated-sounding dual citizenship that enabled him to flee to America when his relatives in Oz were sick of him, and vice versa. The Miasma had long since doxxed him and gleefully posted mug shots commemorating his brushes with the law in jurisdictions that were so improbably far-flung as to deliver a certain dry comedic payload. Mary Catherine’s obsessive devotion to small, nearby, concrete matters, such as scones and the doings of nearby birds, was the perfect antidote to the Miasma.

As Verna got her energy back, he spent more time with her. In the early going, Maeve was always in the room to keep an eye on things and nudge the conversation forward when it stalled, but as the days went by the discourse between Corvallis and Verna became more and more geeky, and Maeve withdrew by degrees, sitting in the corner reading or knitting, then absenting herself. Verna turned out to be the real deal: a programmer, largely self-taught, who, once the chemo fog had abated, was able to hold up her end of a conversation with C-plus. Had the situation been different, he’d have considered hiring her. She’d have come in for interviews. Other programmers would have circled round her warily. They’d have reached the conclusion that she was “awesome” but they’d have found reasons to reject her due to a lack of cultural fit, and they’d have passed her on to smaller, more off beat startups run by friends. All of which was still possible in theory. But having cancer was still going to be a full-time job for her for a while.

He wished he could have introduced her to Dodge.

He checked in with Pluto, who had ensconced himself in the most expensive hotel suite that was to be had in Adelaide. He contacted Corvallis every few hours on a “burner” phone that Corvallis had picked up on arrival in Australia, when he’d discovered that his usual phone number had been doxxed and rendered useless by a festival of reckless hatred originating from a cluster of racist conspiracy theorists. It wasn’t until forty-eight hours after they’d landed in Australia that Pluto was ready to spawn his troop of APEs, and Lyke was ready to fend them off. Pluto called Corvallis to inform him that his right pinky was hovering over the Enter key on his keyboard, and that if said key were momentarily depressed, it would all happen.

Corvallis received the call while pacing aimlessly around the villa’s ground floor. “Okay,” he said.

“Okay as in you have understood what I just said?” Pluto asked. “Or okay as in ‘Yes, go ahead and do it’?”

“Go ahead and do it.”

“Do you want to check one last time with Maeve?” Pluto inquired, showing, for him, an unusual degree of sensitivity.

“If I ask her one more time she’ll probably slap me,” Corvallis said. “Here, it’s a done deal. She and her sister are discussing what to do next—hatching a plan.”

“Okay, here goes,” Pluto said, and let Corvallis hear the key getting whacked before hanging up the phone.

Corvallis sent a text message to his colleagues at Lyke and then shut off his phone.

If everything went according to plan, the Ethical Network Sabotage Undertaking would now issue a press release announcing its existence and explaining what it was doing. It would include a signed statement, as well as a video clip, from Maeve Braden, announcing that she was completely fine with all of this. Also included were links to servers where all of the APE-related code was available in the form of a carefully documented open-source code package, complete with sample projects that programmers could use to modify and extend it in various ways. Following up on an idea that had emerged during the conversation on the jet, ENSU also made public a list of several hundred completely imaginary, nonexistent people against whom campaigns of reckless slander and defamation could now be unleashed, as well as an easy-to-use tool that anyone could exploit to create new such fake persons and reasonably convincing social media shaming campaigns that would make those fake persons the object of real, genuine, sincere obloquy on the part of millions of social media users who were dumb enough to believe everything that scrolled across their screens. Following a brief pause for all of this to propagate, the APE troop would come online at an initial pace of one gigaBraden. Pluto would sit up for a few hours watching its progress through a control panel UI he had running on his laptop, which would plot various metrics for him in real time, using a comprehensive suite of data visualization tools. Then he would sleep for eight hours. Then he would get up and take stock of how it was all going, and make any adjustments he felt were necessary, such as upping the pace to ten gigaBradens if that seemed like a good idea.

Corvallis got a deck of cards out of the cabinet in the living room and played solitaire for half an hour. Then he went for a walk with Maeve, who was, at least for a day, the most famous woman in the world. She told him about an idea she and Verna had been hatching, somewhere between tech startup, performance art, fashion accessory, and political manifesto. They were going to bring back the veil.

They waited three more days before holding a press conference. They announced it only an hour ahead of time, then drove into Adelaide and held it in a conference room at Pluto’s hotel. The short notice ensured that it was dominated by Australian media. This worked well. They could be every bit as superficial and tabloidy as media elsewhere, of course, but there was something about this project that seemed to appeal to their collective sense of humor. The atmosphere in the room was jokey and celebratory, and pervaded by a general sense that the Aussies had pulled one over on the rest of the world and that everyone here was in on the joke.

It was a week before the Bradens went back to something approximating their normal life. By then Pluto had already flown home. Corvallis went back alone on the jet, and Maeve followed him two weeks later. By that point it was possible to stand back and tally the numbers from the Moab hoax and from the ENSU project, which were now increasingly being viewed as two phases of the same basic event—the week that the Miasma had fallen.

Corvallis and Maeve carried on an odd, colorful long-distance relationship for the next two years. She got pregnant and moved in with him to a big old house in an expensive Seattle neighborhood, which they fixed up for the purpose of raising a family. It was a boy; they named him Vern, after Verna, who died from another recurrence of her cancer a month before he was born. Lucid to the end, Verna donated her brain to science. Specifically, she entrusted it to the Forthrast Family Foundation. The legal documents by which she did so grew more and more complex as the lawyers dreamed up more and more hypothetical contingencies. Having literally no time for such things, she ended up cutting the Gordian knot by saying she wanted “most favored nation” treatment, meaning that whatever was done with Richard Forthrast’s brain should also be done with hers. When Verna’s condition took a turn for the worse, Corvallis and Maeve flew her to Seattle, so that when she died her remains weren’t encumbered by any discrepancies between Australian and U.S. law.

On a ranch just outside of Moab, they maintained a second home. This did double duty as the headquarters of the Moab Project, a nonprofit organization funded by Corvallis and others—mostly people who had made a lot of money in social media—to sift through hoax-related data and think important thoughts about it.

The Moab Project investigated and documented the operational details of the hoax in forensic detail, right up to the point where each separate trail of evidence dead-ended in perfect cryptographic anonymity.

The total budget for the hoax was estimated to have been less than one million dollars. The networks had actually paid out more than that for the privilege of airing fake footage supplied by the hoaxers. Those payments, made in Bitcoin, had gone to anonymous overseas accounts presumably controlled by the hoaxers. Between that and short-selling various affected stocks on Wall Street, it appeared that they had paid for the exploit many times over.

Which was a mere detail when set against the thirty-one deaths and the direct economic losses, which were way into the tens of billions. Lawsuits filed against social media companies—including Lyke—depressed their valuations, distracted their executives, and took years to resolve.

The culprit was at first assumed to be an arm of Russian or Chinese intelligence. But the further the investigation went, the less likely this seemed. Some of the fake footage had originated from a Chinese computer graphics firm, but this proved nothing. The scripts and other written material, such as fake blogs and social media postings, seemed to have been written by native English speakers.

More people than just Corvallis began to suspect Elmo Shepherd of being the mastermind. He was a major shareholder, or a member of the board of directors, of more than one company that would profit from what came next. He was libertarian minded, a Bitcoin advocate. And he was from Utah, with a lot of local practical knowledge of conditions on the ground there. And so one school of thought said that he must have done it.

The opposing school of thought said simply “nah.” Simply “nah.” It was too ridiculous—too far-fetched. The connection to El’s home state was a mere coincidence, or a deliberate scheme to cast suspicion on him.

Corvallis and Maeve visited Moab less and less frequently as raising Vern made a stay-at-home life seem like the best thing in the world. Two years later they had a daughter named Catherine, and a year after that they adopted Eduardo from Guatemala. Maeve chose not to work full-time. A nanny and a housekeeper, and the many less visible privileges of wealth, gave her enough free time to think about and to lay the groundwork for the VEIL Project, which she hoped would one day finish what she and Verna had started with Sthetix. The Moab hoax receded into the past with swiftness that seemed extraordinary when, years later, Corvallis would, from time to time, be reminded of it somehow, and have cause to review the events in his memory. He, along with many others in the tech world, had arrived at the conclusion that the answer to the riddle must be known by the NSA and other such top secret agencies that had the wherewithal to penetrate the cryptographic screen in which the hoax had been so meticulously shrouded. One day the answer would leak out as some disgruntled employee went rogue or some document was declassified.

When the answer came to him, it came from a surprising quarter. Corvallis attended a meeting at the headquarters of the Forthrast Family Foundation in the South Lake Union neighborhood of Seattle. The meeting’s purpose was to go over some dry but necessary legal matters with people representing Elmo Shepherd’s nonprofit. After several years of intensive R & D, and the expenditure of nearly two billion dollars pooled by Forthrast-, Waterhouse-, and Shepherd-funded entities, they’d finally constructed an ion-beam scanning device capable of capturing the full connectome of a human brain, and the “back end” of hardware and software needed to process the data that would pour out of such a machine. Fifteen hundred patent applications had been filed: enough to keep a phalanx of patent attorneys and paralegals busy for years. Twelve different major universities and medical centers were involved. Brilliant young lawyers were building their entire careers around the attendant complexities. A few of them were in this meeting, presenting ready-to-sign documents on which they’d toiled for years. Corvallis, Zula, and others were there just to sign them.

One of the people on Elmo Shepherd’s side of the table was pretty senior—surprisingly so given that all of the big decisions had already been made by this point. He met Corvallis’s eye from time to time, and checked his watch, and gazed out the window in a manner that seemed significant, and indeed when the meeting concluded he approached Corvallis and inquired in the most gentle and polite way whether he might have a moment of private time with him.

His name was Sinjin Kerr. Depending on who was keeping score he was Elmo Shepherd’s first-, second-, or third-most important legal henchman. His role was generally that of Good Cop. In his appearance and grooming he was a straight-from-central-casting Harvard/Yale product with swept-back hair, rimless glasses, and an impeccable suit, protected for this occasion under an overcoat.

They ended up strolling down to the lakefront and, seemingly on the spur of the moment, renting a little electric boat from a business that catered to the tourist trade. Business was light because spring was being a little slow to turn into summer. It was cool and the lenses of Sinjin’s glasses were already flecked with tiny droplets of rain.

Sinjin sat down at the controls and piloted the boat out into the middle of the little lake. This had always been monitored by steep hills to the east and west but during the last couple of decades had been hemmed in along its southern reach by high-rise buildings occupied by tech companies. Some vestiges of old Seattle remained, including a seaplane terminal that helped make life good for tourists and for geeks who liked quick getaways to Vancouver or the San Juan Islands. Everyone who lived and worked within earshot had grown accustomed to the occasional sound of propellers coming up to speed as one of these planes made its takeoff run across the lake.

The water was a bit choppy, as the wind had come up and brought with it a gentle but assiduous rain. They deployed the boat’s folding canvas cover, snapping it to the top edge of the windshield. Sinjin dropped the throttle to the minimum needed to maintain headway and pottered about, keeping an eye out for outgoing and incoming planes. As this seemingly pointless idyll went on, Corvallis got the impression that he was timing some of his utterances so that the most important words would be spoken just when a seaplane was droning overhead. Sometimes Sinjin would turn toward Corvallis, prop an elbow casually on the boat’s dashboard, and raise his hand to cover his mouth. Only later, in memory, did Corvallis understand that he had done so to hide his message from any lip readers who might be tracking them through telescopes.

They’d been chatting about their respective families. Catching up with each other, as people did when they were maintaining these long-running, sporadic business relationships.

“You might find it a curious thing, Corvallis, that your family is an inadvertent, and happy, by-product of something that Mr. Shepherd was involved with,” Sinjin mumbled through his fingers as a plane buzzed past them at full throttle.

Corvallis was a while processing that news. There was only one way to make sense of it: El was behind the Moab hoax that had brought Maeve and Corvallis together.

Sinjin seemed to derive a bit of light amusement from watching him think about it. “Your next question ought to be, why did I just tell you that?”

“Not because you get a kick out of snitching on your client, I’m guessing.”

Sinjin thought that was funny. “Indeed. Otherwise I’d have a very fun, very brief career. No, it’s my job to look out for Mr. Shepherd’s interests. I’m divulging this to you, and you only, because the time has come when his interests are best served by allowing you, Corvallis, to have a broader understanding of the context within which Mr. Shepherd and his foundations and companies have been operating.”

“I’ve suspected from day one that El was responsible for Moab,” Corvallis said. “Up to a point it kind of made sense. The Internet—what Dodge used to call the Miasma—had just gone completely wrong. Down to the molecular level it was still a hippie grad student project. Like a geodesic dome that a bunch of flower children had assembled from scrap lumber on ground infested with termites and carpenter ants. So rotten that rot was the only thing that was holding it together. So I can totally see why El or anyone with a shred of crypto knowledge would want to just burn it down. To make it so that no one would ever trust it again. Moab was a pretty effective way of doing that, and ENSU came along right on its heels and dumped a 747-load of gasoline on that fire. But the other shoe never dropped.”

“What do you suppose the other shoe ought to have been in this case?” Sinjin asked.

Corvallis was about to answer, then stopped himself, sensing the absurdity of it.

Sinjin let him work it out on his own for a bit, then, in a gentle tone that barely rose above the lapping of the waves on the boat’s hull, said, “Elmo Shepherd releases a statement a week after Moab in which he fesses up. Pulls back the veil. Maybe plays some behind-the-scenes video showing how the hoax was staged—a blooper reel of the actors, some ‘making of’ footage about burn makeup and CGI mushroom clouds. ‘All this was done on a one-million-dollar budget,’ he says, and gives a sermon about how if he can get you to believe Moab was nuked by spending a million bucks, just imagine what the Russians and the big Internet companies are doing to your mind every day with much larger budgets. Followed by a pitch for a cryptographically secure successor to the Internet.”

“Yeah,” Corvallis said. “That’s pretty much what I had in mind in the way of an other shoe.”

“That video was actually made,” Sinjin said.

“No shit!?”

“I kid you not. I was there, Corvallis. I vetted the script and sat off camera while he read it off the teleprompter. That whole video was in the can, ready to go, before the exploit was launched.”

“But he changed his mind.”

“By degrees.”

“What?”

“El changed his mind by degrees, over a period of weeks. He was holed up in Z-A to avoid any possible issues around extradition.”

As Corvallis knew, Z-A was Zelrijk-Aalberg, a Flemish nanostate and tax haven where El had been spending most of his time the last few years.

“So there was a degree of insulation from legal consequences—but even so he was disconcerted by how effective it had been. By the fact that people died.”

“I can see how that would give you pause,” Corvallis said, a bit sarcastically.

Sinjin raised his eyes studiously and declined to rise to the bait. “So the airing of the video was delayed, and delayed again, as he pondered his next move. ENSU happened and seemed to take the wind out of his sails. He wasn’t expecting that.”

“It did a lot of his work for him,” Corvallis said, nodding. “Made the same point.”

“Inasmuch as ENSU succeeded, it made Moab seem unnecessary. Cack-handed. Inasmuch as ENSU failed, it made him wonder whether there was any real future in his own visions for a secure Internet.”

“When you say ENSU failed, you’re referring to the fact that—”

“That billions of people went on believing everything they saw on the Internet in spite of it.”

“I can’t argue with that,” Corvallis said.

“Then you must feel a little of what Elmo Shepherd felt,” Sinjin said.

“Why fight it?”

Sinjin nodded. “What’s the point? The mass of people are so stupid, so gullible, because they want to be misled. There’s no way to make them not want it. You have to work with the human race as it exists, with all of its flaws. Getting them to see reason is a fool’s errand.”

“Seems kind of bleak. There are things you could do in the way of education—”

“Not if your primary focus is on preparing for the next world.”

“You mean, what happens after death.”

Sinjin nodded.

“I’ve seen El on social media, suggesting that Moab actually was nuked. Like, openly pandering to the people who still believe that,” Corvallis said. “I don’t see how that helps. That’s crazy.”

“Exactly!” Sinjin said, brightening. “This brings us back to the main thread of this conversation.”

“Which is?” Corvallis asked, throwing up his hands in bewilderment.

“El’s going crazy.”

Corvallis turned to look Sinjin in the eye. Sinjin wasn’t joking.

“Elmo Shepherd suffers—has always suffered—from an incurable genetic disorder. I’ll tell you the medical name later and you can Google it if you want to know the gory details. It runs in his family. He’s been aware of it since he was in college. One of its inevitable results is a degeneration of the brain that typically begins when the sufferer is in his forties or fifties. Mr. Shepherd is fifty-two.”

“Okay,” Corvallis said, after a pause to consider this news. “I see what you mean about the main line of the conversation. Everything he’s done with Ephrata Life Sciences, the preservation and scanning of brains—it all relates to this.”

“We are all mortal,” Sinjin said grandly, “and we differ only in the extent to which we ignore that fact. Mr. Shepherd was never granted the luxury of being able to ignore it and so he has prepared for it with greater forethought than most.”

“How does Moab fit in?”

“I wish I knew,” Sinjin sighed. “In addition to the things you and I talk about—the brain stuff—there is a vast scope of other activity. He compartmentalizes well, so I don’t always know of these projects until he chooses to make me aware of them. But in the last year or so I have become conscious of an acceleration.”

“You mean, he’s getting sick faster, or kicking these projects up into high gear?”

“Both. And since ‘getting sick’ here is a euphemism for going crazy, well, you can probably see that I have a quite interesting job. When one of his fascinating projects comes to light, as it does from time to time, I honestly can’t say whether Mr. Shepherd is pursuing some profound strategy or succumbing to his disease.” Sinjin paused for a few moments—a rare occasion in which it seemed he was groping for words. “You should understand that El thinks highly of you and of Zula Forthrast. In my judgment, he would not knowingly take actions that were in any way injurious to either of you.”

“‘Knowingly’ being the key word in that sentence,” Corvallis said.

“Indeed, Corvallis, just as the existence of your beautiful young family is an unpredictable side effect of one of my client’s more imaginative projects, there’s no telling what the future may hold as Mr. Shepherd’s disease progresses toward its inevitable conclusion and his affairs pass into the management not just of me, but of others he has decided to entrust with this or that task. Until he changes his mind, however, I’m your man when it comes to all things brain related.”

“When does he want to do it?” Corvallis asked.

Sinjin said nothing for a while. He pretended to pay attention to some important nearby boat traffic.

“That’s his dilemma, isn’t it?” Corvallis went on. “On the one hand, he should wait until the technology is better proven. On the other, his brain is degenerating, and he knows it. What’s the point in perfectly preserving a brain that has gone to pieces?”

“It’s a question we could all ask ourselves,” Sinjin said. “He just has to ask it every minute of every day.”