part four: May 20 - Boston 9:00 am - The Crash

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Valtech Corporation now sold more cerebral implants than any other tech company in the world, and Briant Coleman was Valtech Corporation. His company’s tentacles reached out to every country on the planet, and now he was the top producer of internal cerebral receivers and transmitters worldwide. Sales of his CIRs—Catheter Implant Receivers—had just surpassed the sales of all his competitors combined. He prided himself on always being on the cutting edge of technology. He had recognized the importance of this technology early and quietly began securing companies that manufactured the individual components required to produce the implants. When the market opened up to the public, his company was poised to jump in front of the competition. His biotech facilities could produce the basic CIR devices with price tags that the majority of the public could afford. His products met all the medical specifications and performed as advertised. He was not the first CEO to find ways to cut corners to keep production costs down. That’s just how you played the game.

For Coleman, it was all about the game, and he made sure he was always in the winner’s circle. He leaned back in his chair and admired his office. This was not just his central corporate office in Boston—this was his personal trophy room. The furniture and art often clashed; there seemed to be no coordination of color, style, or theme. But Coleman saw the theme he desired; he had handpicked each item himself as a trophy of each of his conquests. He made a point of getting to know the owners of each business he set out to procure. They often had some personal item they owned that marked their own rise to success. When the final hammer blow was delivered and he took possession of that company, he would collect that prized personal item as his own.

He stretched in his chair upholstered with the hide of a rare 25-foot-long Nile crocodile—another corporate seizure trophy. He smirked as he looked around his office and admired each of his prizes. Most of the victories had been the results of vicious corporate takeovers, and he loved to flaunt his conquests to the world. Each trophy was the equivalent of some vanquished corporation’s CEO’s head. The antique credenza was a bit of a joke inspired by a stand-up comic from decades ago. The rare oriental rugs were from antiquated, oil-rich countries from around the world. He lounged in his very expensive custom-made suit and waited for the signal from his 3D holo-phone on his desk to notify him that his latest project to expand his vast empire was ready to begin.

Coleman looked up to the holo-vision tuned into the daily news report. He glowered at the newscaster focusing on the growing crowd of protesters outside his office building in the streets below. What were they protesting this week—higher wages, better healthcare? Last week it was some environmental bullshit. He had his PR department give out a couple more grants to some tree-hugging bio-scientists to document their study of this week’s latest endangered species. Every time the hordes caught wind of his corporation’s profit margin, one of these charity mobs came banging on his front door. He would find his inbox full of charitable requests for their latest brain farts to save something that was endangered. Shit, it’s my company and my money, how is it that these civic lame-brain bandits can legally rob me?

He stood up and walked over to stand at the window. As he glared down toward the streets below, he accessed his personal DCIR. His personal CIR came from his top-of-the-line models with safer, dedicated backups and firewalls. He also had his DCIR modified to his own specifications. He had the best firewalls produced to protect him from any outside signals with the mere flicker of a thought. He scanned through his favorites for the latest updates on the International stock reviews.

His 3D holo-phone buzzed—finally, the call he had been waiting for came through.

“Everything is ready to go, sir. You will have full access to the target in five minutes.” The message was relayed in the ever-so-polite, sing-song Indian-accented voice of Dr. Veer Gupta.

Coleman walked back and sat down at his desk, rechecking that his personal DCIR was activated. He wanted to have direct access when the link opened, but he did not want to be a victim to his own greedy manipulations. All his plans were about to come together—years of planning, the best Internet hackers money could buy or blackmail. He would be able to directly control the world markets and manipulate investments, making and breaking companies without detection.

“So, are you finally ready?” he growled at the image projection of Dr. Veer Gupta on his 3D phone. “We have a lot at stake here.” He worked to maintain his patience with the researcher. Coleman was eager to tap into the network. He would have the power to manipulate the populace and influence sales. Mass mind manipulation like this had not been tried since the infantile attempts to influence people at the movie theaters. Then, the subliminal messages were spliced into old movie film reels suggesting to the viewers that they needed or wanted to purchase something: Buy popcorn; Get a drink; You’re hungry; You’re thirsty.

“Alright then, here we go, Gup—everything we have worked for is about to become reality,” Coleman prompted Dr. Gupta.

Dr. Veer Gupta hated it when Coleman called him “Gup.” There was no limit to the depths of this man’s apathy for anyone else’s feelings. Dr. Veer shook his head at the irony. He had sent his grant applications out to so many reputable research organizations, and the only reply he got back came from one of the most callous people in the world. Valtech Corporation was the only organization that had offered him a grant to complete his studies of implanting empathy through CIR receivers into the psyche of the young.

Coleman leaned forward expectantly. He was so close to controlling international sales, and if his people had done their jobs, the hacking would go on completely undetected. He could tip the commercial scales not only to improve sales of his products, but if this worked, he would also be able to decrease the sales of competitive companies. He’d have to be careful; he couldn’t completely squash the competition. He had to make things look as normal as possible. He planned to let his Bangladesh production line go under at a point when things started to look too good for his company. This would not look too suspicious since that product line was not selling that well anyway, and it would make a great tax write-off. But then he’d put on a good show of trying to save the only production plant that offered employment to the destitute population of the district.

Dr. Veer tossed a glare at the 3D phone image in his lab in the sub-basement of Coleman Towers. What had Coleman said—“everything we have worked for”? Veer reflected on the hours, days, and nights he had put into this project and how Coleman’s contribution had been a lab and the money to make his work possible. Veer had endured months of this man’s belittling, arrogance, and foul-mouthed tantrums.

Veer had arrived at Valtech with his idea three years ago, but his goal was to help humanity, to stem the rising hostility among teens. For some unknown reason, teenagers were becoming increasingly hostile and brutally inhumane. The ferocious attacks by gangs and individuals were becoming a worldwide concern. No matter what the educational community, psychologists, civic groups, or law enforcement tried, the number of teens sinking into vicious depravity continued to increase. Some groups were proposing that the abhorrent behavior seemed to start when children reached the age of implantation—approximately 14 to 15 years. At this age, their bodies and brains had reached a point when the cerebral catheter implantation procedure could begin. The preadolescent brain needed to reach the near-adult physical stage before full implantation could be administered.

Toddlers could receive the very basic implants, which were no more than simple location monitors to connect to parents with a GPS app to keep track of small children. This process could be started at about one to two years and was no more traumatic than receiving their vaccinations. These were extremely simple procedures, often followed up with the first parental monitoring apps. As the child grew, more elaborate systems could be implanted. Parents would then have their own systems upgraded to monitor their child’s web activities as they matured toward adulthood. But once the full implantation was achieved, anyone with even the cheapest CIR had instant internet access just a thought away.

Veer looked over the readouts again; the signal was ready to be embedded into today’s news about the latest Chicago movie star to drop into has-been status. The starlet’s photo was followed by the headline:

Here today and gone tomorrow: Will this one-time beauty be floating in the lake tomorrow?

All Veer had to do was connect the link to that headline, and tomorrow’s sales of Coleman’s company line of tampons would increase by 20%. The plan was to increase sales enough to make a profit but not enough to attract anyone’s attention. The sales increase was planned to take place the same week that the new and improved product line was released. In truth, the product was basically the same, but just in case, a whole ounce of cheap synthetic cotton had been added.

Coleman watched from his holo-desk monitor. “Well, what are you waiting for?” he snarled.

Veer shook his head. The man was always an arrogant ass. No concern for safety—he just didn’t care. But it was Coleman who provided the grant that made it possible for Veer to continue to work toward his own goal. The continuation of that grant was contingent on Veer’s program demonstrating some practical application, such as improving Coleman’s profit margin. Coleman constantly complained about the many redundant safety procedures Veer installed. The funds that Coleman had granted to Veer had him working on a tissue-thin budget. Coleman’s only interest was in the monetary success the project could bring, whereas Veer wanted to perfect his program to save the children who had fallen into depravity.

Check, check, check—Veer’s favorite physics professor had told him, “You can never be too careful. The minute you think nothing will go wrong, it will. Remember, if you walk in a lab and it doesn’t work, you’ve entered a physics class.” He loved that old worn-out joke. Veer smiled as he remembered his days in that lab—he had found his calling with that lovable old man. But now, here he was working for the greediest mogul in the world. Coleman had promised that a percentage of the profits would go to funding Veer’s empathy project to help the children.

Veer’s own nephew was in prison now for assault with a deadly weapon. Jimmy, his namesake, had been a gentle, sweet little boy and a violin prodigy. Veer could not believe that the angry, violent boy in prison was his nephew. All Veer could do was plod on. It might be too late for Jimmy, but not for the rest of the children out there. He might be able to save them from his nephew’s fate.

Veer finished his final check—calculations correct, amperage correct. The signal wavelength would ride just below the newscast signal and be completely undetectable. Sales for tampons would increase, and the children would get help soon. Please work so I can turn this project toward helping the children soon.

“Alright, Mr. Coleman, the system is ready,” Veer spoke loud enough for the interoffice holovid to pick up his voice clearly. “I’m initiating the first bi-directional data stream transmission . . . now.”

Coleman looked at the monitor readout at his desk and demanded, “Well, is it working?”

Veer examined his system of monitors, and the signal was indeed piggybacking onto the newscast signal with no sign that it was there. He smiled and answered, “Yes, Mr. Coleman, it is working. I will open the link and inject the programmed signal. By tomorrow you should see the sales of your targeted product line rise by 20%.” Veer paused. “Full injection in . . . 3, 2, 1—now. The signal wrapped around the carrier wave,” he paused, “just a few more seconds . . .”

Coleman chuckled greedily. Veer had guaranteed that they would be able to track the effects of this first experiment through the sales of the product. Women around the world would have their monthly cycles, but now they would purchase his product 20% more than their previous choices.

Coleman listened to Dr. Veer on his desk holo-phone as the scientist continued his system’s checklist. “Everything is a go, sir; you will have access to the target in 10 seconds,” Veer announced.

Coleman stared at his chrono—9:29 a.m. He sat poised over his keypad in preparation to make the connection; he wanted to have direct access when the link opened. All his plans were about to come together—months of planning, and now he’d be linked directly into the International Exchange. He would be able to manipulate investments, making and breaking companies without detection. As soon as Veer deployed his damned program, Coleman would set him up in his own secure lab, where he could work on his little humanitarian project to his heart’s content. Then his handpicked people would put this program to real work.

He waited, listening as Veer did that stupid countdown from ten to zero—then his computer screen went blank. The embedded signal wave would lock on and fuse onto the newscast, riding along undetected. But instead of an insignificant ripple, Veer’s empathy wave fused with a second undetected signal already riding the newscast, and the two waves joined, creating a constructive tsunami sine wave. The combined signals continued to build, overwhelming more waves and continuing to build into an overload that surged throughout the worldwide network.

Dr. Veer had not considered the existence of another signal. A signal similar to his in design had already been covertly injected into the WWN. The two illegal signals were programmed to connect to another signal, and the result was that these two waves fused and blocked the rest of the WWN. One safety protocol after another in the system was overwhelmed and crashed. Then, system by system, the worldwide net rapidly shut down as the massive viral wave continued to build—linking, then fusing into more and more of the systems.

Dr. Veer Gupta had not known of the second illegal signal already embedded in the WWN. When the two waves encountered each other, they joined and evolved, then all basic services shut down instantaneously. The WWN went dark except for one signal. That signal fused with Veer’s signal to increase empathy prompted the other signal to increase impulsive actions.

Briant Coleman waited. He glanced up at his desk chronometer—Veer said ten seconds. Then he did a double take; the chronometer was stuck, and the seconds readout was not ticking off time. What the hell! Did it work or what? Veer had finished the countdown, and now all Briant Coleman could hear was complete silence. Coleman jabbed the communications button. “Gup! Did it work?” Silence was all the response he received. “What the hell is that idiot doing?” Coleman snarled into the empty room.

Coleman stood up and crossed to his private elevator and punched his thumb on the keypad. When it didn’t respond in a few seconds, he punched it repeatedly. His private elevator failed to respond. He stormed back to his desk and viciously jabbed the communications key to Veer’s lab and shouted, “Gup! I have a blank screen up here!” Still, no response.

Briant Coleman clenched his jaws, clamping his teeth together so hard that it hurt. His breath was starting to come in harsh, deep pants as he started building up to one of his infamous raging tantrums. He scowled around the room, then stormed over to the hidden panel where the contractors had installed an emergency stairway. He jammed his thumb to the keypad on that panel, but this device also failed to respond to his command. He grasped the edge of the frame and pulled, trying to force the panel to slide open.

Coleman kept himself in physical shape with his own personal trainer, and he was a well-muscled man. Despite his well-toned muscles, he could not budge the sliding panel. He began to panic at the thought of being trapped in his ultra-safe office. As he scanned around the room, his gaze lingered on the antique suit of armor complete with mace and broadsword. He stormed over to the desk again, violently stabbing the communications key.

“Veer!” he screamed. “Answer me, you son of a bitch, what the hell is going on?” His fury was met with more of that infuriating silence.

Coleman’s rage exploded, and he stormed across the room to the suit of armor, ripped the mace from the stand, and attacked the elevator door, smashing the surface repeatedly with the weapon.