“I must leave you,” Dresner said. “I think we have every reason to be proud of the Merge’s success and to continue to expect great things.”
He shut down his feed and replaced it with a set of projections from the marketing department. Graphs rose more than three meters high in front of him and he leaned back in the soft leather chair to study them.
Sales projections had been increased to thirty-three million units worldwide by the end of the first twelve months and eighty-four million at the end of the two-year window he was interested in.
Dresner switched views to a set of bar graphs showing Merge units broken down by country. The United States had the best penetration, followed by Western Europe. Sales were also substantial in China, primarily due to the sheer size of the market. Russia was lagging, though the technology was being adopted by its politicians, soldiers, and industrialists — the most important people to him. The Muslim world was one of their weakest markets due to poverty and Islamic prohibitions. His people continued to create Koran apps, court imams, and refine their Arabic-language offerings, though, and the effort appeared to be showing some reward.
He switched views again, reconfiguring the charts in a way that could only be done from his personal Merge. A block of red began rising from the bottom of the bar graphs, representing the people LayerCake’s core processors deemed destructive to society: corrupt politicians, the swelling ranks of financial industry robber barons, criminals, warmongers, and twisted religious leaders, to name only a few of the categories.
It was an ugly view of humanity, with the red portion of the charts rising to almost twenty-four percent — just shy of one and a half million people. Of course, it was also a skewed view. The method of his product’s rollout, which confused so many, had been designed to target those who victimized society.
With every passing year, technology magnified the destructive forces available to the ruling class and brought humanity closer to causing its own end. It was only a matter of time before greed combined with waning resources and ideological fanaticism to wipe out billions of innocents while those responsible profited.
He couldn’t let that happen. Not now. Not when humanity was so close to perfecting itself.
Dresner switched to another view, projecting the growth of deleterious individuals using his system. When it reached six million — the tipping point he’d calculated would bring the world back from the brink — he would activate the subsystem that killed Craig Bailer. In an instant, the world’s militaries would be decimated. Politics and the financial industry would be cleansed of corruption and all-consuming greed. Religious leaders whipping their followers into violent frenzies would finally get an opportunity to discover that their gods existed only in their own minds. For the first time in millennia, the human race would be free.
It would be devastating, of course. All power vacuums — particularly ones of unprecedented size and suddenness — were. But society would quickly knit itself back together and recognize the opportunity offered by the eradication of its parasites and sociopaths.
Not that he was entirely naive. The destructive role vacated by the dead would be soon filled — it was the nature of the smart apes they were so closely related to. But those malignant players wouldn’t be capable of re-imposing their stranglehold on the planet. No, the advanced technologies that had proved so dangerous would finally fulfill their promise of transforming the human race. The destroyers would return, but they would be too late.
36
Jon Smith twisted around and scooped a handful of CDs from the filthy backseat. “How long are you keeping the car?” he said flipping through them and recognizing precisely none. The dull whistle of wind coming through the gaps in the windows was probably preferable to whoever Psycho Charger was.
“The owner gets back on Thursday,” Randi said.
She didn’t much care for technology, but there was no questioning her grudging mastery of it. She’d undoubtedly strolled through the Dulles long-term parking lot running plates against TSA and airline databases to determine the travel plans of each vehicle’s owner.
“Marty’s house is probably only another fifteen minutes unless we hit traffic,” she added. “Don’t you think you should call him?”
Smith sighed quietly. He had been a friend with Martin Zellerbach since high school, but it was an incredibly exhausting relationship. While Marty was a stunning genius when it came to all things digital, he was the victim of a long list of mental illnesses that combined to make him about as easy to deal with as a bored toddler on a sugar high.
Eighty percent of the fistfights Smith had been in as a kid — and one hundred percent of the high school suspensions — were the result of either protecting Marty from someone he’d insulted or trying to cover up some bizarre prank he’d pulled. His old friend never intended to harm anyone, but it was impossible not to sympathize with the anger he could inspire in others.
Smith grudgingly retrieved his phone and dialed, taking a deep breath and trying to reach the necessary Zen-like state of patience.
“What do you want?”
Marty’s greeting wasn’t intended to be impolite — it was simply the obvious question in light of the fact that Smith didn’t make a lot of purely social calls to him.
“For you to take a look at something.”
“What?” he said, the curiosity audible in his voice. The problems that Smith brought him in the past had nearly gotten him killed on a few occasions, but there was no denying that they were interesting.
“Maybe we could talk in person? We’re on our way.”
“We?”
“Randi’s with me.”
“Randi? She’s with you right now? And you’re coming to my house?”
“She insisted. Been dying to see you.”
Randi took her eyes off the road long enough to give him the same withering stare her sister used to, but he ignored it.
“She said that?” There was a pause that seemed long even for him. “How long until you’re here?”
“Less than fifteen.”
Another silence.
“So Jon. Are you wearing old clothes by any chance?”
It was an odd question, but Smith was used to odd questions from his old friend. “Muddy running clothes. She’s in jeans and a sweatshirt.”
“Are the jeans tight?”
“Focus, Marty.”
“Do you have guns?”
“What?”
“It’s a simple question.”
“Are you taking your meds?”
“Yes.”
Smith looked over at Randi. “Do we have guns? Mine’s still in the glove box of the Triumph.”
The roll of her eyes suggested it was a stupid question.
“Yes.”
“Extra clips?”
“I have no doubt.”
“Bring them.”
“You’re sure you’re okay?”
“Fine. I just need your help with something. Call it the cost of my inestimable services.”
“Can’t I just pay your fee?”
“No.”
The line went dead.
“Park here,” Smith said. “Let’s not get too close.”
Randi pulled to the curb of the quiet street and they continued on foot, quickly covering the remaining two hundred meters to a gate protecting Zellerbach’s driveway. Out of habit, neither stood in front of it, instead ducking behind a sign that read, “Private property — keep out. No trespassing. No soliciting. No collectors. Go Away.”
“Marty, it’s us,” Smith said, holding down the intercom button. “Open the gate.”
No response.