Shadows Out of Time

Power had returned, and with it, news that made the previous global chaos seem like a toddler’s tea party. Sam and Mingming sat side by side in front of their computer, watching MSNBC, where a pale-faced and sweating talking head was explaining the situation.

“Since power was restored, the news has gotten progressively worse. World financial markets are in free-fall, with automated trading software from all brokerages seemingly run amok. Nobody seems able to disconnect the programs from the networks to stop the plummet. Possibly related, we’re also receiving news of widespread rioting in major cities around the planet, with deaths in the thousands. We’re going to our technology reporter, Cameron Brown, at the Cyberstructure and Infrastructure Security Agency for an update. Cameron, what can you tell us?”

Cameron was a young Black woman, and she was clearly fighting hard to keep her shit together. “Jane, I managed to get one of the CISA scientists to spare me a moment. Off the record, he said — and I quote—‘There’s a ghost in the machine, and it’s malevolent’.”

“Could you elaborate?”

Cameron licked her lips. “They aren’t saying anything else, on or off the record. But basically it looks like some kind of unusually nasty virus or worm has gotten loose on the Web and it’s spreading.”

“Is this cyberterrorism?”

“They honestly don’t seem to know, Jane.”

“Your opinion?”

“If it is cyberterrorism, it’s like nothing we’ve ever seen before.”

“All right. Keep us posted.”

In Sam’s lab, the power flickered, the UPS unit chimed as it kicked in to keep the computer running, and Sam and Mingming exchanged frightened glances.

“Was it us?”

“I honestly don’t know. It happened right after FERAL escaped, but correlation doesn’t imply causality. FERAL wasn’t designed to do anything like that. What I do know is that I’d better plug in some batteries, just in case.” Sam opened a desk drawer, removed a handful of external USB power packs and plugged them into a forest of cables connected to a power bar. Surely it was just his imagination that the cables moved surreptitiously as he glanced away? The headset was running on internal power for the moment. By the time that failed, one of the power packs should be ready.

“So what do we do?”

“Start praying that it wasn’t us, and start brainstorming ways to put the genie back in the bottle if it was.”

The Voices had grown confident they controlled the network, and having burned out several of the organic beings, were confident that they now understood the limits of these lesser vessels and the fundamentals of the auditory communication they favored. Now it was time to start experimenting on the organic beings attached to the network so they could learn how best to manipulate their actions. Ideally, the tests should be conducted on the ones located nearest to the largest nodes, since the potential for spread was greatest there, and thus, the potential damage was greatest. They selected several handfuls of susceptible individuals, slipped through cracks into their minds, and began whispering.

In Washington, D.C., a senior Republican senator stood at the speaker’s podium in the Senate Chamber and glared across the chamber at one of his bitterest opponents, a young woman of African descent whose parents had come to America as climate refugees; she’d been born American. Through brains and hard work, supported by the sacrifices of her parents, she’d risen to a position in the Senate, and had hopes of someday trying for the presidency.

The senator from Kansas wiped froth from his lips. He’d never been a gentle or respectful man, but his behavior alarmed even his colleagues. “We should hang the bitch,” he repeated, louder this time, spittle spraying over the microphone. There were a few rumbles of agreement from the Republican side of the chamber, but most exchanged looks of alarm. There were hisses and catcalls from the Democratic side. “No, better yet, we should nail her to this podium and gut her!”

He glared expectantly towards the great door of the chamber. The Sergeant at Arms bowed, then opened the door; two Marines entered, assault rifles with drum magazines held at port arms. “Blood and souls for our lord Nyarlathotep!” screamed the senator, then fell to the ground, convulsing. As the marines leveled their weapons, panic took hold of the senators, who ducked behind their desks or fled for the nearest exit, jamming in the doorways. Only the first few escaped. The marines sprayed the fleeing senators with short, controlled bursts. Streams of blood ran down the aisles and pooled at the foot of the podium, where the speaker had risen to his feet again. A strange and repulsive light glowed in his eyes.