"Breach"

The cave was empty save the janitorial staff and the overnight
monitor. Pierre-Jean Trauffaut sipped a cola with an
unpronounceable Nordic name and watched the logs slide by on
Frank's primary screen.

Pierre-Jean's theory was playing out before him in real-time.
Algorithmic efficiency, the mathematical precursor to cognition.
It was here, right here, and it was working. He wasn't sure
exactly how the change would come about, but his proof was certain
it was going to happen. He felt it in his heart as well. Frank
would live, but it wouldn't be like the world expected. This was
no plaything imitating the human mind with its inconsistencies and
vagaries. Frank would emerge from pure mathematics itself. He
would be different. Better.

Pressing a button, he toggled the display from the general overlay
and selected one of the proofs Frank had marked as optimal. The
screen transformed into a white matte of mathematical symbols.
Pierre-Jean looked at the formulae spread out before him. The
display suggested that this proof was only 31 screens long. The
work that they'd gathered was collectively over a trillion paper
pages in length already and it pained him to know he'd never be
able to read it all. That was his limitation, and that of all
humans. Something new was needed to truly comprehend everything.

Math like this was Frank's language. One day this is how they
would communicate with him. For now, though, he felt like he were
looking over Frank's shoulder and reading a diary. It brought
a little naughty grin to his lips.

Somewhere nearby the squeaking wheel of a soap bucket announced
a janitor's presence. An air vent overhead kicked on, adjusting to
the small change in pressure and heat that the extra body created.
Inside a chamber cooled to nearly absolute zero a microwave
pulse triggered a coupling resonator and the array of qubits was
primed for a new calculation. The processes chained across 612
individual qubits and in an instant the result passed out of
the quantum core and back into Frank's traditional systems for
interpretation. The microwaves continued their dance with the
coupling resonators, repeating, learning.

There were only a handful of people in the world who had
sufficient training to understand what was happening inside those
boxes in the hazy mists. Every day that list grew shorter as Frank
increased in complexity. When the time eventually came that
Frank's work was completely unintelligible then a new science
would emerge for humans. Children being born today would grow up
in a world where there were answers to questions we had never
thought to ask. Instead of testing the mysteries of existence
through experimentation we would study the arcane scripture of
a new god.

But this bit on screen was still within his grasp, if barely. His
eyes flitted around from diagram to diagram stitching together
a mental picture. Whatever this was that Frank was solving, it
wasn't immediately familiar. It took nearly an hour for the
mathematician to decipher the subject of the proof. Magnetism. It
was a small bit on the side of page 14 that tipped him off, where
power was being converted through magnetic induction. A grin
passed over him and he sat back in minor triumph. Sherlock
Trauffaut!

Nearby, the squeaking wheel had ceased its movement. No mops
splashed or footsteps fell, and even if they had the scientist at
his work wouldn't have noticed. His attention was fully engaged
upon a different mystery than the intrigue playing out around him.

At one point in time it was thought that if information were made
available to everyone in the world that it would surely usher in
a new utopia. Access to perfect information at your fingertips
would make of every person a scholar. He thought about the riots
in Buenos Aires right now, and about the human trafficking ring
that was caught just last month here in Sweden of all places. What
had information brought to the world in the end? Certainly not
peace.

Frank would be different, he knew. The selfishness of people, the
short sightedness, the lust for power, machines had none of that.
Films loved to demonize the machines and turn them into bad guys.
They would kill us all and take over the Earth. Sometimes he
wondered if that really would be such a bad thing, really.

The world would meet Frank soon and understand how wrong their
fears were. His work was going to save lives, maybe even the
species itself. More than that would come, eventually. He had the
proof of it. For now, even these stepping stones were a treasure.

Pierre-Jean didn't register any of the activity going on around
him in the cave. He was entirely focused on page 25 of the proof.
Something struck a memory, nearly understood but not quite
connecting. Magnetism, electricity, and other aspects of the
electromagnetic spectrum were all here. This was not just math,
this was physics. This was observable reality. That sly grin
slipped back onto his face once again. It was really happening.

                             #

Upstairs in a corner booth of a Pakistani restaurant in Lisbon,
Portugal, Darla Moss dipped the buttery garlic naan and scooped
a green dish into her mouth. She had ordered it by picture and
didn't know the name, but it was good, if a bit spicy. It only had
one chili pepper next to the picture on the menu, so she thought
it safe to her untrained Midwestern palette. Across from her in
the booth sat a middle aged, dark-skinned man of uncertain
heritage. To look at him he could be a native of any country from
Portugal to India. Heavy black eyebrows gave him a serious look
that she knew to be all too accurate. He ate his food with
movements that looked practiced and at-ease. He knew what he was
doing. He belonged here. She, on the other hand…

Darla checked her phone for the hundredth time in twenty minutes.
Once the message came this would all be over. She'd be on a plane
back home and Portugal would be a distant memory. The man's dark
eyes danced up toward her and his spoon paused for the briefest of
moments before continuing. She felt his judgement and felt the
color flush her cheeks and neck before she could stop herself from
reacting.

Screw him, she thought. Her lips pressed into a line and she
purposefully held her phone out longer than necessary. Darla
considered flipping open a photo gallery or chat app to rub it in
his face, but she knew that was against protocol. This wasn't her
job. Of course she was nervous. It was natural. That didn't make
her an idiot, though. She could keep a low profile. Just a little
while longer.

A skinny waitress came by with a pot of Turkish coffee that she
didn't remember ordering, but was thankful for. The caffeine
wouldn't help anything, but it gave her something new to focus on
instead of the interminable waiting. Sipping slowly, she appraised
the man before her, not for the first time.

He was from the middle-east, surely. His accent had been Spanish
to her untrained ear, but there was something of the desert to
him. Maybe it was just some latent racism in her, who knows.
Profiling wasn't her strong suit, if that's even what it's called.
He had connections back to the Saudis, she was sure of that much.
Does that mean he's from there? No. Nothing in this line of work
was ever that simple. He was probably Swiss or something
ridiculous like that and she missed an obvious tell. It didn't
matter, really. No names, no backgrounds, keep it simple. That's
the rule anyway.

"Have you been in Lisbon long?" she asked. Fuck the rules. Darla
the rebel.

He just stared. Of course. The silence weighed on her tongue,
dragging words free. "First time for me," she added with a mutter
and dropped her eyes to the coffee to escape the awkwardness.

Some people had that power of silence. It was uncanny how it could
get inside your head and shake things loose. She had a boss like
that, years before. Every time she met with him she felt like an
idiot or child being brought to task for something. It was a skill
she could never use herself. Silence was gross and needed to be
filled. That's why she loved phones. She could just pull it up and
swipe around and the silence went away, filled with the inane. Her
hand twitched again toward her phone, but the eyebrows were still
on her. She forced herself still, to take a breath.

"Turkish, right?" she gestured toward the coffee pot with her head
and took a sip. Maybe if she avoided the personal stuff… He nodded
in reply. Success! Sort of. "It's thick," she added. This time the
silence returned. So much for small talk.

Darla mentally prepared herself for this to stretch on for another
hour. It was only just past sundown here, so they could be waiting
a long time. The chief had suggested this place for the meeting
because it was so natural to spend a long time at the table,
eating small plates all evening. They could wait here out of eye
sight, secure in their anonymity. The food wasn't too bad either,
she had to admit. She thought about asking what it was called so
she could get some back in Ohio--Columbus must have Pakistani food
somewhere, after all--but the way the conversation was going it
didn't seem likely to amount to much.

Just then her phone buzzed on the table. She'd set it down beside
her plate directly on the wood and the vibration was far louder
than she expected. It shocked her and she let out a tiny yelp
before grabbing it. She purposefully avoided looking at eyebrows,
but felt the flush on her cheeks anyway.

The notification was there, a short message on an encrypted chat
program that simply said, "go." About time. She looked at the dark
man across from her and nodded. He shifted his weight to the side
and slid out of the booth, a hand unconsciously patting the slight
bulge under his left arm. Darla didn't need fancy training to know
what was hidden there. She made her way out from the table as
well, stopping briefly to grab her purse and drop a handful of
bills on the table. She had no idea how much the bill was or how
that measured in euro, so she just left all the cash the chief
had given her. Someone was going to have a good night of it, she
suspected. She followed her companion down a narrow spiral
staircase and out the front door onto the street.

The evening was cool this close to the sea, and she was thankful
for her light jacket. She moved herself alongside the dark man,
and reached for his hand. He jerked it away for a moment until she
reached again more slowly, gesturing with expressive eyes and
brows of her own. Come on, eyebrows, she thought. Act the part.

He understood and let their hands clasp as they moved south down
the street. Left shoulder holster, she thought, means he draws
with his right. She clasped the fingers of her left hand into his
right in a spider of digits and smiled at him. That's it, she
thought. Just go along with it.

They were a block away from restaurant when the scooter turned
down the street. The rider wore the serious leathers belonging to
a motorcycle tearing down a highway. On the knock-off Vespa it
seemed comical and out of place. The little engine whirred as it
approached up the hill and slid to a stop beside them. Darla felt
fingers tighten around hers for a moment, sensing the reaction
from the dark man beside her. The tension relaxed when he
recognized the rider. For the first time of the night he smiled.

The rider, whom Darla now noticed was a woman, reached into
a black leather messenger bag at her hip and drew out a thick
envelope. The hand off imminent, Darla stepped forward, moving her
body between the two others and offering her hand to receive the
package. She was careful not to let go of eyebrows as she moved.
She didn't think he'd make a move this soon, before she'd done her
job, but it was better to be safe than sorry.

"Thanks," she said aloud taking the papers. The reflection of the
helmet shifted as the rider looked to eyebrows. In that mirrored
surface Darla could see him shrug behind her. In another moment
the scooter was off again, puttering up the hill. They watched it
turn the corner and the sound vanished into the background of the
city. Lisbon wasn't loud, per se, but it had all the typical tenor
you might find in a European city by the sea. There were cars
moving in the distance, a truck beeping nearby, music coming from
the blue building across the street. Somewhere overhead a seabird
croaked out a nasty call repeatedly. She assumed it was a seabird,
anyway. She didn't know the first thing about birds.

Smiling back at the dark man, she moved on down the street with
him, holding the package securely in her hand and away from him.
They walked around the corner turning East and heading for a row
of taxis. Just before the vehicles they stopped in the alcove
entrance to a dentist's office. The building was closed at this
time but the light from the street lamps reached into the recess
enough for her to read away from prying eyes. The envelope was
sealed with a string in a style she hadn't seen since her
undergraduate days. She let go of eyebrows for a moment while she
opened the seal and looked inside. She ruffled the edges of
a stack of papers filled with advanced mathematics. Behind it was
another set of paper in a different size. The math was all
printouts in A4. European. This other collection was older and in
US Letter size. This was it.

She pulled out the first sheet and looked it over, reading the
diagrams and notations quickly. Engrossed for the moment, she
didn't notice her companion step out into the street and look both
ways, or check the rooftops along their route. He dismissed the
scene as safe and moved back toward her as she nodded along with
an unseen rhythm.

"Two, three, yes yes. It's all here. We have the plans and your
little spy got some extras. It looks like this bit is some of the
machine's results."

"Verified?" the man asked.

"Yeah, that's what I just said. Look, do you even know what you
can do with this? This isn't just a computer--" she said.

"Let's go," he interrupted. His hand reached out for the papers,
but Darla pulled them back and slid everything carefully into the
envelop again, sealing it. Reaching out she used her left hand
again to hold his right. He let her and she sent a silent prayer
of thanks to whoever was listening. The exited the alcove toward
the taxis. A line of four cars idled nearby waiting for
passengers. She shivered despite herself. The chief better be
watching. They approached the nearest vehicle and the man glanced
inside briefly at the driver before moving forward again.

It's like they suspected, then. He had planned the driver ahead of
time. A hallow pit emptied in her stomach at what was coming next.
In a moment they'd get into a car and that would be the last
anyone ever saw of Darla Moss. How would he do it, she wondered.
They'd probably drive her somewhere remote and he'd use that gun
under his arm to shut her up forever. No wonder he didn't want to
chat over coffee. She supposed he was just a professional at this,
serious all the way through. Maybe it made it easier to sleep at
night.

The next car held whatever or whoever he was looking for. He
reached for the back door handle with his left hand, bridging the
gap between her and car. As his fingers touched the door handle
a shudder ran through her body as if lightning had travelled all
along his length to shock her. The tremor pulled her forward
a step and she gasped in surprise, then immediately coughed and
spit and wretched at the blood and brain matter that had splashed
into her open mouth. Fuck.

She let go of the dark man's hand and let his lifeless body flop
to the sidewalk. It was already smeared in blood and the pool grew
rapidly from the gaping hole in his head. Darla continued to
wretch, screwing up her eyes and gagging and trying not to vomit.
Distantly she heard another firecracker echo and the shattering of
a window as the driver was also eliminated. Squealing tires
followed as the other taxis sped away from the scene, all except
one.

A door opened and a square-jawed man with a military haircut came
around the front of the car to take the package from her hands.
With the important documents secure he looked back at Darla to
offer help. She was still bent over, breathing hard and muttering
curses. She spared a glance up at him with hate filled eyes.

"Fucking fuck. Tell Langley I'm done! This is the last time,
I swear," she shouted.

"Chief says you are needed--"

"Fuck the chief too. Who shot him? Ramirez?" she gestured toward
the dead body and looked up at the rooftops searching, but knowing
the sniper would already have been packed and exited the scene.
"I'm gonna kill him. Look at my clothes!" She appraised herself as
she said it. "Fuck!"

"The chief says--"

"Yeah, yeah, I know. I'm coming. But the Agency better pay for
this shit. I'm so over field work, you hear me? I didn't agree to
this." She spat again and looked down at eyebrows. "Jesus."

She gingerly stepped around the body and growing pool of blood and
moved toward the car flinging her arms up and down to try and
clean off the splatter. The Saudis were going to be pissed
their deal went sideways, but they could clean up their own
messes. Who knows, maybe they made copies of this before they
brought it her way. That'd be the smart thing to do, anyway.

"Any more?" the driver asked.

"Woman on a bike, scooter. She was--"

"--got that one," he said.

"Then lets get out of here. I need a shower before we head back,"
she gingerly got into the taxi, then remembered something. "Did we
find their connection inside the project? I had my money on the
Italian."

"Sounds like it was service staff. Swedish crew lost him though.
He had more help than just the Saudis. Probably playing many
sides."

"Wow, unexpected. Will he be a problem?" she asked.

"Nah, chief says he's low value. We got the data and those are
originals. Anything else he has is hearsay." Darla nodded. This
whole business was disgusting, but she knew it needed to be done.
This sort of processing power wasn't safe outside the control of
government. Too many things could go wrong. Too many secrets could
be let out. She didn't like the mess of it all--she thought,
picking bits from her hair--but she was a professional. She'd do
the job and keep the world safe from egos like David Simms.


                             #

Thousands of miles away in a secure bunker, a man in a light gray
suit closed down his secure voice connection. The data was gone,
but he wasn't without backup plans. This could be set right. There
was one man who knew more about this machine than anyone else.
With the right leverage, he could get what he needed from Dr. Sahu
himself.

He clicked a button on the screen to start a new call, this time
to a more reliable operative. There would be no mistakes this
time, and the Americans would not interfere. A pretty face popped
up in the window on his screen and she smiled broadly.

"Baba, how are you?" she said sweetly in a polished, British
English.

The power in that infernal machine would upset governments and
restore balance to the world. There could be no secrets from it,
no hidden agendas. With that in his grasp a renaissance would
return to these lands, just like in the old days. All he needed
was a bit of information.

This toy of David Simms would recreate the world. It's too bad
Simms wouldn't be around to see it.