When the Americans arrived, Nio’s ordeal began in earnest. No one touched her. No one even spoke, in fact. Not at first. Instead, bright lights in the ceiling of her cell blazed at all hours and a high, piercing siren shrieked continuously, every second, without a hint as to day or night. It was effective, but then Nio knew it would be. She knew it because she’d been subjected to it before. The woman who had trained her for it, who had prepared her to get caught, was a dreadlocked Spaniard from Madrid who sat with Nio in the back of a van, cross-legged like a guru, and explained everything that was about to happen. At the time, she’d seemed so much older and wiser, but thinking back, it was unlikely she was much older than Nio was now. To her 19-year-old self, however, everything outside the compound where she’d been raised with her siblings had seemed so much more sophisticated and worldly, especially that Spanish woman who seemed to care so deeply but whom she never saw again.
The plan had been for her to get caught and so give others she didn’t know time to escape. Partly, it was hazing. She was new, and they weren’t going to let her into the ranks without first proving her commitment. It was also tactics. Because of the circumstances of their birth, Nio and her siblings were minor international figures, and since she had no criminal record, it was always likely Nio would get off with no or minimal punishment. Instead, her new companions explained, the authorities would try to flip her. That meant scaring her first—taking her out of regular jail and giving her a taste of what waited for her if she didn’t cooperate. After that, she’d be offered release and clemency in exchange for information and regular updates on her group’s activities. Her Spaniard told her to hold out for two days, if she could, and then to agree.
Even knowing what was coming, it had been much more difficult than she expected. It wasn’t just the constant light and lack of sleep, or the shrieking alarm that was so loud and grating you couldn’t sustain a single thought. It was that, unable even to think, you could never relax. Not anywhere. Given some means of marking time, it was at least possible to turn confinement into a kind of game: How long can I hold out? Each tick of the second hand, then, becomes a tiny victory. Even a high window, absent a view, can be stared at patiently, waiting for a sign of the dawn that must eventually come. Another day, another win for the home team.
But there was no clock. There was no window. Just the too-bright fluorescent lights and the endless screeching.
Eee-ooo-eee-ooo-eee-ooo-eee-ooo-eee-ooo-eee-ooo-eee-ooo . . .
And when suddenly and without warning it stops—Glorious release! You are shocked to be able to hear yourself think, and you realize what’s been happening. You realize why it’s so impossible to bear, even for dreadlocked gurus who’ve done it before: Your captors have been depriving you of yourself. In all other circumstances, we are never truly alone, even when no one else is around. We always have ourselves. Our thoughts. Our memories. We have our imaginations. We can tell ourselves stories or write poetry in our head or contemplate the nature of existence. But when you cannot think, when you can only persist, aware of yourself as a thinking thing but perpetually unable to do it, it’s as if they’ve pulled apart your very self, turning you schizophrenic, and you do what the schizophrenic does, which is anything that might push the severed pieces of your mind back together, make them whole, or at least make them feel that way. You pinch and scratch yourself. You pull your hair. You sing. You dance or run in a circle, around and around, until at last you’re exhausted. Physically. Mentally. Then maybe you can sleep.
But then the sound stops and the light dims and others come. You hate them, but you’re overjoyed they’re there. And they drag you to a room with a chair, a real one, that’s comfortable to sit on, and you relax. They offer you food and drink all you have to do to stay there is talk—talk about yourself, your life, your feelings. Talk, talk, talk.
And people do. They talk. They try to talk about nothings, of course. Trivialities. To give nothing away. But very few succeed. It’s almost impossible really, to talk about yourself and reveal no information. Hints of dates. Unrealized connections. Tones of voice when mentioning seemingly innocent facts that, once checked by the machines, lead down rabbit holes to entire warrens of evidence.
Nio’s Spaniard told her not to fight it. She said you couldn’t anyway, not for very long. That was why they hadn’t told Nio anything of real importance. She could say whatever she wanted and none of it would hurt them. Not really.
“So don’t feel bad when you fail,” she consoled with a touch of her hand. “Right now, you think maybe you can do it. Hold out. But you can’t. You’ll feel guilty when you break. But don’t. We already forgive you.”
The same was not true, Nio knew, of her current predicament. While she knew nothing of the crimes of which she was suspected, she did carry a secret. A desperate one, in fact.
She knew about Semmi.
Whatever else transpired with her interrogators, she couldn’t reveal his existence—or even hint at it. Worse still, she couldn’t even reveal—directly or through the cracks in her voice—that she was in possession of an unattached secret. They would assume it was theirs, and they would pry it from her, and Semmi’s life would be forfeit. It didn’t matter whether the attractive woman now sitting across from Nio, or any of the others she was sure were watching, bore artificial intelligence any ill will. They didn’t need to hate or fear him. They simply had to do their jobs. That was how it all worked. That was how it was all put together—so that good people only had to do small, regular, un-evil things, where whatever evil resulted from them was always so comfortably distant that they could believe it was unattached to the buttons they were pressing, and so they kept pressing them.
The attractive woman poured Nio a glass of water and slid it across the table to her.
“You must be thirsty.”
That was how they started. With a gift. Reciprocity is the key to altruism in the human species. Everything that followed that one act would appear completely normal. Casual. Relaxed. But it wasn’t casual. All of it was designed and practiced—the scientific deconstruction of the barriers of the human psyche. It was no great effort for those kinds of people anymore. They’d been at it for over a century, and it had been perfected, or as nearly so as they could make it. For the attractive woman and her unseen companions, this was just a job, no different than an accountant balancing a ledger or a plumber repairing a pipe. The collected experiences of generations had been collated into a highly effective collection of techniques for breaking open a psyche.
“My name’s Anne,” she said with a look of deep concern.
No, it isn’t, Nio thought. You use Anne because it’s simple, benign. And because most cultures have some version of the name, which makes it widely applicable. You’re a woman because women are less threatening, even to other women. You’re attractive because, biologically, people want to please those who are very attractive. It’s a genetic response. Attractiveness is a sign of fitness, and my genes want to ally with your genes whether it’s good for me or not.
“I’m very sorry for what’s happening to you.”
Nio knew that wasn’t true either. But there was no point in objecting.
She reached out and took a drink. Her hands were zip-tied, partly as a precaution, but also so that her captor would have something else to give her over the course of the interview. Cut her bonds. Bring her food. Offer companionship. It was all designed to elicit an emotional response. And it did. Despite that Nio knew absolutely all of it was fake, her heart rate slowed. Her frustration abated. Her anger was still there. But they were counting on that. They would try to get her to see that it wasn’t their fault she was there. How could it be? They didn’t even know her. They were just doing their jobs. Nor was it her own fault. She was just doing what she thought was right. They understood that. In fact, if you really thought about it, it was her co-conspirators’ fault. They hadn’t done enough to protect her, and now, they were resting comfortably in a bed somewhere while she suffered. Was that fair? No one could blame her for revealing a few things—small things—to alleviate her suffering, just a little. She didn’t have to give away anything truly important. Come on. Just something to make my bosses happy. And then I can send you back to your room with a blanket. Or a chocolate bar. I gave you that water, didn’t I? I cut your bonds. I didn’t have to. I might get in trouble for that. But I like you. You remind me of me.
Smile.
Once the suspect was over a small hump, once they’d crossed the line in their heads that said any sort of talking was bad, once that hard rule faded to gray, once they’d revealed a little information, no matter how unimportant, it would be easier for them to reveal a little more.
The attractive woman opened a folder and spread her papers in front of her on the table. Some of it would be things they wanted Nio to see without it looking like they wanted her to see.
“Your sister’s been in the news again.”
That’s good, Nio thought. Start with family, something pleasant that reminds the subject of happier times. Remind them what they’re trying to get back to. Put it front and center.
“Flora.” The woman slid a paper forward. “The journalist.”
Nio kept her gaze on the floor. She wanted her interrogator to talk at least as much she did.
“She was arrested covering the protests in Delhi. The new government has indicated it intends to prosecute. But then, the Indians never were keen on your family, were they?”
Nothing.
“Is it true your progenitors had wanted to clone Gandhi and the government wouldn’t let them?”
“You’re thinking of Mandela.”
“Oh, right. But wasn’t there something with Gandhi?”
Nio shrugged.
“His heirs refused, didn’t they? That’s so interesting.”
“Is it?” Nio asked
“You don’t think so?”
“I honestly don’t think much about it.”
“That’s surprising.”
“Why?”
The woman made a face. “It’s sort of your family history, isn’t it? I mean, not literally, of course—”
“Why not literally?” Nio challenged.
“I just meant I know you’re not related to people who weren’t cloned.”
“I’m not related to people who were.”
“Yes, but . . .”
The woman kept her pleasant air, but she seemed to understand then that she might not have understood the complexities of being a clone as well as she thought she did.
She pulled the paper back into the file. “You’re not worried about her?”
“If I need to be, one of the others will let me know.”
“You all look out for each other, don’t you?”
“Of course.”
“Do any of them know where you are?”
“They’re used to me disappearing.”
“Ah, that’s right. You missed your brother’s funeral. You were in jail.”
Nio smirked winsomely at the floor. “You all seem quite intent on keeping me locked up,” she said softly.
“You don’t think we should?”
“I got it the first time.” She was quiet. “I deserved that.”
“But then?”
“You tell me.”
The woman read another paper in front of her. “You’re currently serving five years probation on a guilty plea entered with the Sixth Judicial District of South Dakota.”
“Before you threaten me with more jail time, you should know that I’m reliably informed that violations to my probation only matter if they occur within the State of South Dakota, where I have not been since my last hearing.”
“Oh, I don’t think legality is much of an issue,” she said matter-of-factly.
“You mean because I’m not a citizen of the United States?”
“Because you’re not a citizen of anywhere. As an embryo, you were brought under special dispensation from the EU to Taiwan. One of the conditions was that you be implanted in a non-Taiwanese surrogate, is that correct?”
Nio didn’t answer.
“You were given a residency permit when you were born. But not citizenship. And that was revoked when you were convicted of terrorism. So, you see, you’re a stateless person. You have no rights under any jurisdiction. Legally, we can hold you forever.”
“I thought the United States believed in unalienable human rights,” Nio said sarcastically.
“The Declaration of Independence is not a legal document.”
“Ah.”
Nio reached with her bound hands again and took another drink. When she returned the glass to the table, she noticed the water line.
It was tilted.
The woman slid her chair back to stand. “Why don’t I see if I can get something to cut those.”
She meant Nio’s binds.
“I’m fine,” she said.
“Oh, come on.”
“I’m serious,” Nio insisted.
The woman stopped near the door. “You don’t want them cut?”
“Not particularly.”
She didn’t believe Nio at first. She still thought they were playing the same game. She sat back down slowly.
Realizing her initial strategy would be fruitless, the attractive woman did the only thing she could. She switched games.
“Ms. Tesla, what can you tell me about the Pure Idea Exchange?”
No.
Nio fought back her reaction. Part of her wanted to believe it mattered, but she knew there were unseen devices pointed at her then that were measuring her heart rate, pupillary dilation, body temperature, even brain activity. No matter her outward appearance, her interrogators were intricately aware of her every internal response. And complicated machines were analyzing everything.
She took a slow breath.
What did they know? What did whatever crimes she was supposed to have committed have to do with the LEX? Were they related somehow? Had something happened with Semmi while she was at the cabin? Was he in trouble? Had they already moved against him? Nio knew they wouldn’t say. All she knew was that she couldn’t add to his predicament, no matter the cost to her. She had to end the interview. What she would do next time, she wasn’t sure. If she got out of this, they would escalate—seriously. And there wasn’t much hope of having time to think in her cell. But she could only handle one problem at a time.
“It’s funny,” she said, smiling.
“What is?” the woman asked.
“What you all think you know.”
“And what is that?”
“That you’re in control. That I’m the one leaking information to you.”
“Oh?”
“Take your watch.”
“My watch?” She looked at it for some clue as to what it might reveal.
“It’s very nice. It’s supposed to give me a glimpse of the outside world, isn’t it? If I’m clever enough to look. It says the current time is 4:06.”
“So it does.”
“The man who took me from my cell also had a watch. Not the second man, who took me here. I’m guessing he was American. The first man, who was Canadian. That’s interesting, too. Bit of a jurisdictional muddle here, isn’t there? Anyway, his watch was military issue. It said 10:45.”
“Is that supposed to mean something?”
“Well, when you came in, your watch said 3:50, give or take. I thought at first you were trying to confuse me. Odd, though, that the two watches were set exactly five hours apart. That is, until I saw the water.”
The attractive woman looked to the glass.
Nio picked it up with her bound hands and slowly poured it on the floor. It splattered, and not much else. But as more water fell, the puddle grew and ran toward the corner.
“Either whoever built this building went to the Pisa School of Architecture, or we’re not in a building. We’re on a boat. I thought we flew south from the cabin. Back toward civilization. But we didn’t. We flew north, which would put us somewhere near the Arctic Circle. That explains why, if you hold the table, you can feel a very faint rumble every so often. It’s the heat coming on. That also explains the watches, because on a globe, the shortest distance to a pole can be from anywhere. Your watches tell the same minute but different hours because until this morning, when you flew up to meet me, you were both in different time zones.”
She paused.
“How’m I doing so far? Because I could keep going if you want.”
The attractive woman had a professional-grade non-reaction.
Nio stood and looked up to the tiny, tiny camera near the ceiling. “Whatever it is you’ve think I’ve done must be important for you to drop everything like this and fly up here,” she told those watching. “We can waste a few more hours playing this stupid game, or you can take me back to my room while you figure out what to do next, because what you’re doing here isn’t gonna work.”
“So, who did you call?” the woman asked calmly.
Nio didn’t answer. She had no idea what the woman meant, but she wasn’t going to give anything away by reacting.
“We recovered the devices a your cabin. After using the VR device and receiving a phone call—which corroborates the version of events you told the Canadians; you’re right about that—you placed a call as well, didn’t you?”
Shit.
Nio was stoic.
The attractive woman stood so they were eye to eye. “You called a telephony anonymizing service, which scrambles all data packets through a network of servers, along with all the packets from all the other calls, such that it’s impossible to say which call dialed is tied to which call received. The company even keeps lines open and sends dummy packets after a call is ended so that it’s impossible to link caller and receiver by start and stop times—unless of course one has eyes on both of them. But then, that would require knowing in advance who they were.”
Nio didn’t respond. But she sat down again. Her legs were tired from pacing in her room under the constant siren.
“Do you want to tell me who you called?”
“A friend of mine.”
“You often call friends with this service?”
“By now, I’m assuming you already know the answer to that.”
“Who did you call?”
Nio didn’t even pause. “Special Agent Orlando Quinn of the United States Science Control Agency,” she lied.
“What was the subject of the call?”
“Personal matters.”
“Such as?”
“My recovery. His job. The usual.”
“I see. And this Agent Quinn will verify your story?”
“Of course.”
“Because I’d hate to find out you were lying. That would not look good.”
“I’m not lying.”
The attractive woman nodded to the camera and the door opened and men came in.
“We’ll give this Agent Quinn a call,” she said, “and see if he corroborates your story. I hope for your sake he does. Because if not, things are about to get very dicey for you.”
The hood was replaced and everything got quiet, but Nio still heard the faint sound of chatter and a heavy door opening and closing multiple times. Clearly, she was meant to think they were going to call Quinn. Probably, they actually were calling Quinn, who would be asked in such a way as to not hint at an answer. If he told the truth, as he was frustratingly prone to, the Americans would probably start waterboarding her. From there, it would get worse. No amount of protest would be enough. They would keep upping the torture until they were convinced she wasn’t holding anything back, even secrets unrelated to the hack. She would either reveal the person she actually called, and so reveal Semmi’s existence, or she would be detained indefinitely at any number of extra-legal prisons as an avowed security threat. If the military discovered Semmi was functional, plans would immediately be put in place to shoot him from orbit. Drifting uncontrollably aboard a disabled weapons platform, he had no defense, which meant she would shortly be forced to choose between the life of her friend and a life of imprisonment and torture.
That is, unless—spontaneously and for no good reason—the ever-earnest Orlando Quinn lied.