Hacker: The Outlaw Chronicles (6 page)

“It’s fundamental quantum physics. Werner Heisenberg’s theories in 1925 laid the groundwork for the observer principle. The universe is comprised of energy that is everywhere and nowhere at the same time, existing only as pure and infinite potential until it’s observed. It’s the act of observation that instantly organizes the potentiality into a specific, measurable actuality. Into matter.”

“Mind over matter?”

“Not mind
over
matter, mind
as
matter. Science has proven that matter is nothing more than organized energy. The solidity of matter is an illusion, a universal sleight of hand. The universe is mostly empty space and dark matter. We simply perceive it a certain way. And, if we know how, we can go beyond the firewall that nature gave us. What if you could strip reality down to its source code?”

“That’s ridiculous.”

“People used to say the same about Einstein’s ideas and Galileo’s and Friedrich Miescher’s—the scientist who figured out DNA. We don’t know why the universe works in unsuspected ways, but it does, all the way down to the quantum level, to the level of thought and observation. All I’m doing is hacking the software that keeps me from seeing it. And it’s working.”

I stood silent.

“I’m just scratching the surface,” he said. “I’m convinced my theory explains the case studies I’ve read. The neurologist, the Indian woman with cancer, and the others I’ve researched—they all accessed a layer of human consciousness that’s just beyond our awareness. Likely the same one I caught a glimpse of during my stroke. That’s what my subconscious was telling me.”

“Outlaw.”

“Yes.”

I spoke slowly, trying to get a grip on this. “You’re hacking into consciousness, and you think this Outlaw guy—whoever or whatever he is—is like a muse in your subconscious that can help you. And by hacking your brain, you can see past
this
reality”—I swept my hands wide, indicating everything around us—“to an underlying, more real layer of reality.”

“Not just see past it, but
change
it.”

“Change reality?”

“At the cellular—at the
atomic
—level. I think so, yes.” He paused for a moment and I could practically hear his thoughts buzzing in his skull like a hive of bees. Then he looked at me and a smile formed.

“It’s hard to swallow,” I said, but he acted as if he didn’t hear me.

“You should help me,” he said, voicing what was obviously a new thought, a revelation. “If you saw it—”

“I’m not sure I want to.”

What I didn’t know is whether I believed everything, or anything, he’d told me. And if it were all just the delusional fantasy of a dying man, did I want to go into that fantasy myself? Did I want to follow him down that path of madness?

“I could use an extra hand, and you’re the best programmer I know,” he said. “You can start by just observing. Everything is automated with a program I developed so I could self-experiment. If you like what you see, then you can be more hands-on. You could optimize the software as I compile more data. It’ll save me days, maybe weeks.”

“I don’t know . . .”

“Wait,” he said, patting the air between us with his hand. “Before you say no, let me show you.” He disappeared into another room.

“Show me what?” I stood staring at the door through which he’d disappeared. “Austin?”

After a minute, he returned, shirtless and wearing black shorts. He gestured with his head. “Follow me.” He went through a large white door into what I had assumed was a sound booth.

“Uh, okay.”

I followed him inside. The room was small, maybe twelve feet square, dimly lit and much warmer than the rest of the apartment. In the middle of the floor sat two white pods the size of queen beds. They looked like misshapen eggs with thick black cables snaking out of the sides. The faint odor of saltwater and incense hung on the air.

“This is where you work?” I said.

“Every day. I’ve conducted hundreds of hacks,” he said, “all focused on replicating the experience I had during my stroke. I’ve worked with dozens of variables that induce altered states of consciousness. It wasn’t until I began integrating specific catalysts into coordinated procedures that I began seeing results that I could replicate. Now it’s a matter of optimizing the catalysts.”

Austin reached down and gripped the edge of one pod. He hinged open the top portion like a clamshell, revealing water inside, illuminated by ethereal blue light.

“My first breakthrough came with this tank,” he said. “Over time I discovered that transcending the mind requires three integrated elements: sensory deprivation, neural wave optimization, and a synchronicity ‘kick’ at the peak moment.”

“What is this thing?” I asked, circling the tank.

“A sensory deprivation tank. Modified, of course. It’s filled with saltwater, which has a higher density than fresh, allowing the human body to float effortlessly. I keep the water temperature at precisely ninety-three point five degrees Fahrenheit so that it’s skin-receptor neutral. It substantially minimizes body awareness and sensory stimuli. It feels like floating in space, and you literally forget your body because nothing is touching it or giving you a spatial point of reference.”

He walked to a nearby table. On top of it sat a dozen clear mannequin heads, each fitted with a web of white cords that were tipped with round nodes of some kind—sensors?—that attached the cord to the head.

“I prototyped this design several months ago. It’s iteration twenty. I call the entire system the TAP—Theta Access Protocol.”

From one of the glass heads, Austin carefully lifted the collection of cords and, one by one, with practiced ease, began attaching them to the metal ports in his skull. He adjusted the wires and opened a drawer in the table. He pulled out a pair of hearing aid type devices and put one in each ear.

“The headgear integrates multiple functions. Once I’m inside the tank and have attached a breathing tube everything runs automatically. The system first activates the sensors and fiber optic implants.”

The skin on my forearms and the back of my neck tingled.

He continued: “When I’ve reached optimized brain-wave frequency, the system releases the ‘Kick,’ a vaporized neurocompound, which is delivered through the breathing mask, a simple nasal cannula. Then—”

“Wait, wait, wait,” I said. “It’s a drug?”

“A synthesized catalyst.”

“Austin, you're not going beyond consciousness, you’re getting high.”

He looked at me as though I’d just insulted his mother. “These are naturally occurring compounds that are in our bodies right now. I’ve simply tweaked the combination. It’s the Kick that initiates the metaexperience The hack.”

I nodded, but if he kept talking like this he was going to lose me.

“The system monitors the electrical activity of my brain during the first seconds and delivers laser pulses via the fiber optics to mimic my own neuron activity, thus prolonging the experience.”

“How long does it last?” I asked.

“I’ll show you. Once the Kick occurs, the entire experience will last fifteen seconds,” he said and began climbing into the pod.

“Fifteen seconds? What could possibly happen in fifteen seconds?”

He smiled and said, “When space and time mean nothing, quite a lot. You can watch from the control panel. Just don’t touch anything.”

I stepped toward the door and watched as Austin climbed into the tank. He maneuvered himself into a seated position and connected the sensors on his head to a black insulated cord. He pushed a button and the lid began to lower.

I went to the control panel and focused on the array of displays above it. A green image of Austin’s head filled one screen. He was adjusting the breathing tube, a cannula like the kind used to administer oxygen to hospital patients, in his nostrils. The video feed was from a night-vision camera mounted inside the pod. Altogether, there were six cameras, four inside the tank at various angles, and two outside the tank. Austin recorded everything.

“Computer,” he said and eased back until he was floating, “initiate alpha protocol.”

An electronic voice responded: “Alpha protocol initiated. Recording confirmed.”

“Trial 324. Mark. Subject: Austin Hartt observed by Nyah Parks. Commence hack protocol.”

“Hack protocol commenced.”

With that the low droning noise I’d heard earlier started, slowly growing louder. It filtered into the room through two small speakers mounted at the corners of the control panel. This was the sound feeding into Austin’s headset.

Screens on the control panel streamed his biometric data. His heart rate was already beginning to slow noticeably. A digital image of his brain from multiple angles lit up with flashes of red, orange, and yellow, indicating electrical activity as the neurons fired. Next to it, an EEG measured his brain-wave activity. At first, the monitor showed short staccato lines. Over the course of ten minutes, the waves grew longer, slowing as his mind calmed and transitioned to a different state of consciousness. Then, like an aerial view of forest fires flickering out, the flashes on the digital brain image disappeared.

I stared at the image of Austin on-screen, his lips parted slightly. His eyes were closed and he floated motionless for five more minutes.

An electronic chime, like a tiny bell, sounded and a message appeared on a screen.
Kick protocol initiated.
A timer appeared on the screen and began counting up like a stopwatch.

As soon as the first digit appeared—1—I heard Austin exhale loudly through the speakers. I leaned closer to the screen monitoring his face as his eyelids parted. He stared straight into the camera. His pupils were bottomless and consumed his irises. His breathing came in thick, deep draws, yet his heart rate and vital signs continued to slow. His eyes began to twitch rapidly left to right, faster than anyone could consciously do.

A buzzing in my pocket startled me. I jerked upright and my attention broke from Austin’s stare.

I shoved my hand in my pocket and pulled out my iPhone. The screen read “Jill Corbis.” For a brief moment I considered answering it, but hesitated. She’d have to wait.

Not now, Jill.
Not now.
I thumbed the END button, sending her to voicemail.

The stopwatch on the screen now read 15.5 seconds. On the other screen, Austin was blinking, fully awake. He exhaled loudly. The long, slow brain waves on the EEG monitor began to shorten and speed up, turning into a mountain range of brain activity.

“Jill Corbis,” he said softly, looking into the camera, seemingly right at me.

A chill seized my spine. I stared at the screen in disbelief.

What did he say?

“Not now, Jill,” he said. “Not now.”

“
H
OW COULD
you have known about the phone call?” I asked.

Austin watched me from where he sat on a couch, dry and dressed in fresh clothes. He showed no adverse effects from the hack. If anything, he seemed better, more lucid and calm.

He took a long draw of water from a clear bottle then set it down. “I saw it,” he said. “I heard it.”

“But I saw you on the monitor. You were inside the tank.”

“My body was, yes, but not my awareness, my consciousness.”

It sounded like madness, but as much as I didn’t want to buy into it, I couldn’t think of another explanation. “What’s it feel like, being outside of your body?”

He thought for a second. “Like being upgraded. Everything’s sharper, clearer, as if your awareness shifts from standard to high definition.”

“But you were still in the tank.” I couldn’t get over that fact.

“We think of our physical bodies as who we are, all we are, but that’s wrong. Once the Kick hit my system, I was immediately outside of the physical constraints of my body just like I was during my stroke. I had a vantage point on everything in the apartment and witnessed your cell phone screen the same instant you did.”

I replayed that moment in my mind. “You said ‘Not now’ when you became conscious. I never said that out loud. I only thought it. But you knew. Like a psychic.”

“There’s nothing supernatural about what happened here today. It’s all explainable science.”

“How can you say that?”

“Is it so hard to believe?”

“Uh . . .
yeah
.” I didn’t add “duh,” but I’m sure my face expressed it.

“Think of it this way.” He shifted on the couch and said, “EEGs and MRIs map brain activity because thoughts, at the base level, are nothing more than electromagnetic pulses emanating from us like radio waves. We perceive our thoughts as being trapped in our skulls, available only to us, but they aren’t. They’re electrical impulses, which is why we can measure them. A galaxy of thoughts and data is swirling around us right now; we simply don’t pick up on them because, like a receiver tuned to the wrong frequency, we can’t. It’s simply a matter of being on the right frequency. But tuning in requires hacking the firewall that prevents us from doing so.”

“The brain.”

“Yes.”

I shook my head. “It’s too bizarre.”

“Until you’ve experienced it. And it’s not just thoughts. I have a theory that all data—all material—is accessible. Imagine if you could tap into the data flow that’s streaming past us right now—the Internet, cell calls, everything? It’s all right here, closer than the air we’re breathing, including every thought anyone has ever had throughout all of history.”

“Thoughts . . .” I said. The concept was powerful, overwhelming. What if he was right? If TV signals and light waves could travel light-years through space, then why couldn’t the electrical impulses we know as thoughts also last forever . . . somewhere?

He picked up the water again, took a swig. When he set it down, he gave me a long, intense look. “Nyah,” he said, “help me. There’s no one else I trust more or believe could handle the mental pressures of this. Say you will.”

“You’re playing with things that should be left alone. You’re . . . you’re . . . drilling holes in your head so you can insert wires into your brain. That alone is . . . I don’t know,
insane.
”

“Not insane, bold. There’s a difference. Think about it before you say no. Between us we could break new ground that no one has ever even considered. Think of all the people this could help. The world would be a different place, a
better
place. We’re talking about the next step toward transcendence.”

“You think this could really help other people?”

“Of course.”

“People like my mom?” I said. “I mean, assuming you’re right, this could
heal
her?”

His brow furrowed slightly. “With time and enough research, maybe. But I wouldn’t put your mother’s life at risk, at least not until I know much more. I’m still only learning to walk in darkness and, at the moment, there are simply too many unknowns. What I’m doing is very dangerous, you understand.”

“But you said it yourself. This is the kind of risk that’s worth taking.”

“Yes, because I have nothing to lose anymore.”

“Neither do I,” I said. “Or Mom.”

His attention drifted to the glass-topped coffee table between us. He pointed to my cell phone resting on it. The screen was glowing. A call was coming in, but I didn’t hear it because I’d silenced the ringer.

I picked it up and glanced at the screen.
Jill.
It was the third call in the past five minutes. I answered.

“Where are you?” Her voice was urgent, strained.

“Out. What’s wrong?”

“We found Pixel.”

Relief washed through me. “Where? Is he okay?”

She was quiet for a moment.

“Jill?
Tell me
.”

“I’m so sorry, but he’s dead. Local police identified his body an hour ago.”

I felt ice crystals form in my blood. Panic began to gather at the edge of my mind. “Dead? How?”

The easy smile on Austin’s face faded. I turned away and walked across the room.

“We’re still trying to determine exactly what happened. All we know right now is that a jogger found him this morning under a bridge. It looks like he jumped. I’m so sorry.”

“Suicide?” I felt shell-shocked and my legs were unsteady beneath me. “No. No, they did this to him. They killed him. I told you they—”

“There’s something else. We found a significant amount of heroin in his system.”

“What? Pixel wasn’t on drugs. He’d never even touched a cigarette. He was as clean as anyone I’d ever met. He’s
fourteen
, a good kid.” The truth snapped into focus. “Don’t you see what’s going on? They’re covering their tracks.”

“I need you to listen to me. At the moment, this appears to be an accident.”

“They must’ve forced him to take it or something,” I said, grief making my voice high. “He would never kill himself.”

“We found more drugs.”

I stopped. “What do you mean?”

“Heroin. We searched his room this morning. There was a shoebox in his closet—it was filled with the stuff.”

“They must’ve planted it. Can’t you see that?”

“Everyone has secrets.”

“No, not Pixel. I
knew
him. Bell had him killed because of what he knew.”

“Right now nothing implicates Bell or BlakBox.”

“It wasn’t an accident,” I said, as sure as I was numb.

“I don’t know if that’s true or not, but the circumstances are suspect,” Jill said. “I’ll give you that much. That has me worried. Whatever you think you stumbled onto at BlakBox may have spooked Bell. If so, assuming you’re right, you may be in danger too.” She breathed a few times. “Wherever you are right now I need you to stay put so I can come get you. Understand?”

“No.” I wasn’t about to let anyone know about Austin, not even Jill. I couldn’t drag him into this. I felt trapped in a dream in which I was running from something terrible, but I wasn’t getting anywhere, just running in place. “Meet me at my place.”

“I would prefer to come get you.”

“I’ll be careful. I promise. Meet me there. I’m going there now.” I pressed the END button then stood motionless for a long time, stunned.

“You okay?” Austin said.

“I have to go.” I started toward the door. Everything felt surreal, as if the world were moving at half speed.

Austin stood and followed me through the loft. “You’re white as a sheet. What’s going on? Talk to me.”

“He’s dead. I just have to go.” I pulled open the door and slammed it on his words: “Who’s dead?” He didn’t follow me. He knew me well enough not to.

On the way to my apartment, I felt anxiety tighten around me like clothes too small. My mind was numb and panic was sinking deep into me. I felt the weight of eyes on me, watching. Waiting.

They’d killed Pixel. That goon who’d interrogated me, Jon Stone. And Walter Bell, that monster. No doubt they’d do the same to me if they had the chance.

Pixel
. Fresh tears coated my cheeks.

As I turned onto Del Norte Avenue, I caught a glimpse of a black SUV sliding into traffic behind me, four cars back. It had been behind me the entire time on the freeway and I’d seen it after exiting too.

Don’t panic. You’re just imagining things.

The entrance to my apartment complex approached, but instead of turning into it I shot past. I’d go down a few streets and turn. I had to be sure I wasn’t being followed.

The SUV changed lanes, passing another car and came into view again. It was still edging closer. I looked up at the intersection ahead and the traffic light burned yellow. A long line of traffic was already slowing to a stop.

No
.

Red light. I eased to a stop, glancing in my mirror, then at the narrow gap between the cars. If I had to, I could zip through it. The SUV would be too big to follow.

I had to assume that Bell’s people were after me, but
why
? Why had they killed Pixel and why were they after me? Why not just let it go?

There was only one explanation that made sense. Whatever was in the files I exported to Pixel was dangerous enough to kill for. What if Pixel had ditched the information before they got to him? Not finding it, they would’ve silenced him, then turned their attention to me. But I’d checked the server and nothing was there. He hadn’t uploaded it. Unless . . . he must’ve saved it somewhere else.

Hands trembling, I glanced back again. The SUV was pulling alongside me in the left lane, rolling to a stop.

I looked over, expecting to see Stone or someone who looked just like him. I gunned my engine, ready to pop the clutch and peel away, into the gap between the cars and through the red light. I looked over and relaxed. A woman sat behind the wheel, three kids yelling at each other in the back seat.

Just being paranoid.

The light changed and I turned right at the intersection, then circled back to my apartment and parked my bike in an alleyway so it was out of sight. Maybe I was being paranoid, but I had to be careful. Something was wrong, deadly wrong. And I felt like someone was watching me.

I made my way to the apartment, gripping my helmet. It wasn’t a gun—I wished I had one—but it’d do some damage in a pinch. No one was in sight as I climbed the stairs to the second floor and dug a key from my pocket.

Then I reached for the door, and the knob turned easily in my hand.
Unlocked.

My heart hammered and I froze. Was someone inside? I gripped my helmet tighter and lifted it, ready to strike. Turned the knob all the way and stopped. What was I doing? I had no idea how many people where in there, how big they were, or how well armed. I had to get away. Fast.

Easing the door handle back into position, I backed away from the door, spun around and took a fast step—right into a thick man who had come up behind me. He wore a black suit like Jon Stone’s. Without a word, he reached for me.

My palms pressed into his chest. I shoved and spun away, but a second man appeared from my apartment and lunged toward me.

I swung my helmet as they converged on me. It glanced off the second man’s arm with no discernable reaction from him.

“We have her,” one of the men said into a walkie-talkie.

I reeled my helmet back to take another swipe, and the first man grabbed my wrist and twisted. I yelped and the helmet clattered across the floor. In one smooth motion, the man wrenched my arm behind me and pushed me toward my apartment door.

“Get her inside,” the other man said, stepping out of the way.

I went in, certain they would shove me to my knees and put a bullet in my head or inject me with an overdose of heroin, as they had done to poor Pixel. Forced from behind, I stumbled into the small entryway and saw Jill standing in my living room. The man released his grip.

“Thank God,” Jill said.

“What’s going on?” I asked. More men were moving through my apartment, their arms full of computer equipment and boxes. “You called me from here, didn’t you?”

“We’re collecting your computers for analysis. I’ve been cleared to conduct a full field investigation on Bell. Things just aren’t adding up, and I’m going to find out why.”

“You can’t take my stuff,” I said.

“I can.” She held up a stapled sheaf of papers. “I’ve got a court order. It’s for your own good.”

One of the agents approached, holding something in his hand. Whatever it was, it was meant for me.

“Is it ready?” Jill asked the man.

“Yes, ma’am.”

“What’s that?” I asked.

“Electronic ankle monitor.”

I spun toward her. “What? You’re putting me under house arrest?”

“I’m sorry we have to do it this way, but you’re our best chance to crack this case,” she said. “Besides, I care about you. If you’re in danger, the best place for you is right here. At least until we figure this out. From this moment on, you’re under round-the-clock protection. So is your family, your mom and Lettie.”

“Mom? Why?”

“Just as a precaution,” she said. “It’s just a gut feeling right now, but I think you might be right about Bell.”

“You putting ankle monitors on my family too?”

She gave me a look. “I’ve posted a surveillance unit at Cedar Ridge. I think that’ll be enough.”

“But—” I said, eyeing the ankle bracelet, which might as well have been a dog collar on a chain. “You’re making me a prisoner in my own home.”

“I’m making you
safe
. Considering what happened to your friend, I want to know where you are at every moment. At least until we figure this out.” She leaned closer. “You need to stay put.”

“Like a fish in a barrel,” I said under my breath. Then an idea struck me: “Let me help with your investigation!”

Jill threw back a look that said I was talking nonsense.

“I hacked Bell’s company before,” I said. “I can do it again. I’ll get the information you need.” I stared into her eyes. “We
need
to nail this guy. Leave my gear here. I can do it.”

“Not this time.” She gave the agent a nod. “Go ahead.”