"Breach"

The cave was empty save the janitorial staff and the overnight
monitor. Pierre-Jean Trauffaut sipped a cola with an
unpronounceable Nordic name and watched the logs slide by on
Frank's primary screen.

Pierre-Jean's theory was playing out before him in real-time.
Algorithmic efficiency, the mathematical precursor to cognition.
It was here, right here, and it was working. He wasn't sure
exactly how the change would come about, but his proof was certain
it was going to happen. He felt it in his heart as well. Frank
would live, but it wouldn't be like the world expected. This was
no plaything imitating the human mind with its inconsistencies and
vagaries. Frank would emerge from pure mathematics itself. He
would be different. Better.

Pressing a button, he toggled the display from the general overlay
and selected one of the proofs Frank had marked as optimal. The
screen transformed into a white matte of mathematical symbols.
Pierre-Jean looked at the formulae spread out before him. The
display suggested that this proof was only 31 screens long. The
work that they'd gathered was collectively over a trillion paper
pages in length already and it pained him to know he'd never be
able to read it all. That was his limitation, and that of all
humans. Something new was needed to truly comprehend everything.

Math like this was Frank's language. One day this is how they
would communicate with him. For now, though, he felt like he were
looking over Frank's shoulder and reading a diary. It brought
a little naughty grin to his lips.

Somewhere nearby the squeaking wheel of a soap bucket announced
a janitor's presence. An air vent overhead kicked on, adjusting to
the small change in pressure and heat that the extra body created.
Inside a chamber cooled to nearly absolute zero a microwave
pulse triggered a coupling resonator and the array of qubits was
primed for a new calculation. The processes chained across 612
individual qubits and in an instant the result passed out of
the quantum core and back into Frank's traditional systems for
interpretation. The microwaves continued their dance with the
coupling resonators, repeating, learning.

There were only a handful of people in the world who had
sufficient training to understand what was happening inside those
boxes in the hazy argon mists. Every day that list grew shorter
as Frank increased in complexity. When the time eventually came
that Frank's work was completely unintelligible then a new science
would emerge for humans. Children being born today would grow up
in a world where there were answers to questions we had never
thought to ask. Instead of testing the mysteries of existence
through experimentation we would study the arcane scripture of
a new god.

Trauffaut's hand twitched in unconscious memory of the sign of the
cross.

This bit on the screen was still within his grasp, if barely. His
eyes flitted around from diagram to diagram stitching together
a mental picture. Whatever this was that Frank was solving, it
wasn't immediately familiar. It took nearly an hour for the
mathematician to decipher the subject of the proof. Magnetism. It
was a small bit on the side of page 14 that tipped him off, where
power was being converted through magnetic induction. A grin
passed over him and he sat back in minor triumph. Sherlock
Trauffaut!

Nearby, the squeaking wheel had ceased its movement. No mops
splashed or footsteps fell, and even if they had the scientist at
his work wouldn't have noticed. His attention was fully engaged
upon a different mystery than the intrigue playing out around him.

Once upon a time it was thought that if information were made
available to everyone in the world that it would surely usher in
a new utopia. Access to perfect information at your fingertips
would make of every person a scholar. He thought about the riots
in Buenos Aires right now, and about the human trafficking ring
that was caught just last month here in Sweden of all places. What
had information brought to the world in the end? Certainly not
peace.

Frank would be different, he knew. The selfishness of people, the
short sightedness, the lust for power, machines had none of that.
Films loved to demonize the machines and turn them into bad guys.
The robot uprising would kill us all and take over the Earth!
Sometimes he wondered if that really would be such a bad thing,
really.

The world would meet Frank soon and understand how wrong their
fears were. His work was going to save lives, maybe even the
humanity itself. More than that. He had the proof of it. For now,
even these stepping stones were a treasure.

Pierre-Jean didn't register any of the activity going on around
him in the cave. He was entirely focused on page 25 of the proof.
Something struck a memory, nearly understood but not quite
connecting. Magnetism, electricity, and other aspects of the
electromagnetic spectrum were all here. This was not just math,
this was physics. This was observable reality. That sly grin
slipped back onto his face once again. It was really happening.

It was easy to jump to conclusions. Frank was describing the
outside world for the first time. What sort of awareness was this?
But no, he schooled himself with a short rebuke. Mathematics. Pure
mathematics was at work here. The inputs fed in described reality
in forces and geometry. Frank was just putting those together into
a model that worked. That it was a model that looked eerily like
the real world was natural. It was to be expected. How many ways
could you model a pyramid or tower with all the natural forced
described upon it? This was normal, yes. But so exciting!

                             #

Upstairs in a corner booth of a Pakistani restaurant in Lisbon,
Portugal, Darla Moss dipped the buttery garlic naan and scooped
a green dish into her mouth. She had ordered it by picture and
didn't know the name but it was good--if a bit spicy--to her
tastes. It only had one chili pepper stamp on the menu so she
thought it safe to her untrained Midwestern palette. She eyed her
empty water glass.

Across from her in the booth sat a middle aged, dark-skinned man
of uncertain heritage. To look at him he could be a native of any
country from Portugal to India. Heavy black eyebrows gave him
a serious look that she knew to be all too accurate. He ate his
food with movements that looked practiced and at-ease. He knew
what he was doing. He belonged here. She, on the other hand…

Darla checked her phone for the hundredth time in twenty minutes.
Once the message came this would all be over. She'd be on a plane
back home and Portugal would be a distant memory. The man's dark
eyes danced up toward her and his spoon paused for the briefest of
moments before continuing. She felt his judgement and felt the
color flush her cheeks and neck before she could stop herself from
reacting.

Screw him, she thought. Her lips pressed into a line and she
purposefully held her phone out longer than necessary. Darla
considered flipping open a photo gallery or chat app to rub it in
his face, but she knew that was against protocol.

This wasn't her job. Of course she was nervous. It was natural.
That didn't make her an idiot, though. She could keep a low
profile. Just a little while longer. Where was that text?

A skinny waitress came by with a pot of Turkish coffee that she
didn't remember ordering, but was thankful for. The caffeine
wouldn't help anything, but it gave her something new to focus on
instead of the interminable waiting. Sipping slowly, she appraised
the man before her, not for the first time.

He was from the middle-east, surely. His accent had been Spanish
to her untrained ear, but there was something of the desert to
him. Maybe it was just some latent racism in her, who knows.
Profiling wasn't her strong suit, if that's even what it's called.
He had connections back to the Saudis, she was sure of that much.
Does that mean he's from there? No. Nothing in this line of work
was ever that simple. He was probably Swiss or something
ridiculous like that and she missed an obvious tell. It didn't
matter, really. No names, no backgrounds, keep it simple. That's
the rule anyway. Don't ask questions.

"Have you been in Lisbon long?" she asked. Fuck the rules. Darla
the rebel.

He just stared. Of course. The silence weighed on her tongue,
dragging words free. "First time for me," she added with a mutter
and dropped her eyes to the coffee to escape the awkwardness.
Thick and bitter. That's what Matt had called her back
when--Darla's eyes reflexively turned to the waitress across the
room. Too skinny. She probably starved herself. Unhealthy. A snear
pulled at the corner of her mouth before she noticed. Relax,
that's where wrinkles come from.

Across from her the heavy brows hadn't moved. Black currents fixed
on her below them, perfectly still. Some people had that power of
silence. It was uncanny how it could get inside your head and
shake things loose. She had a boss like that, years before. Every
time she met with him she felt like an idiot or child being
brought to task for something. It was a skill she could never use
herself. Silence was gross and needed to be filled. That's why she
loved phones. She could just pull it up and swipe around and the
silence went away, filled with the inane. Her hand twitched again
toward her phone, but the eyebrows were still on her. She forced
herself still, to take a breath.

"Turkish, right?" she gestured toward the coffee pot with her head
and took a sip. Maybe if she avoided the personal stuff… He nodded
in reply. Success! Sort of. "It's thick," she added. She kept her
eyes off the waitress in a small victory of self control. The
silence returned. So much for small talk.

Darla mentally prepared herself for this to stretch on for another
hour. It was only just past sundown here, so they could be waiting
a long time. The chief had suggested this place for the meeting
because it was so natural to spend a long time at the table,
eating small plates all evening. They could wait here out of eye
sight, secure in their anonymity. The food wasn't too bad either,
she had to admit. She thought about asking what it was called so
she could get some back in Ohio--Columbus must have Pakistani food
somewhere, after all--but the way the conversation was going it
didn't seem likely to amount to much.

Just then her phone buzzed on the table. She'd set it down beside
her plate directly on the wood and the vibration was far louder
than she expected. It shocked her and she let out a tiny yelp
before grabbing it. She purposefully avoided looking at eyebrows,
but felt the flush on her cheeks anyway.

The notification was there, a short message on an encrypted chat
program that simply said, "go." About time. She looked at the man
and nodded. He shifted his weight to the side and slid out of the
booth, a hand unconsciously patting the slight bulge under his
left arm. Darla didn't need fancy training to know what was hidden
there. She made her way out from the table as well, stopping
briefly to grab her purse and drop a handful of bills on the
table. She had no idea how much the bill was or how that measured
in euro, so she just left all the cash the chief had given her.
Someone was going to have a good night of it, she suspected. She
followed her companion down a narrow spiral staircase and out the
front door onto the street.

The evening was cool this close to the sea, and she was thankful
for her light jacket. Boredom and anxiety were strange bedfellows,
and she was glad to leave them behind in the restaurant. Now that
things were in motion there was no time for anxiety. Do the job.
Get out. Go home.

Darla didn't belong in the field, damnit. She did her foreign
service long ago and earned her restful desk back home. She was
out of practice, out of shape, and so over this clandestine BS.
She hated it as a grad student and she hated it now. At least last
time she'd been in London. Safe, English-speaking, London. And
they didn't even have ranch dressing. This whole affair was
ridiculous. She should be back in Ohio where she belonged.

She moved herself alongside the dark man and reached for his hand.
He jerked it away for a moment until she reached again more
slowly, gesturing with expressive eyes and brows of her own. Come
on, eyebrows, she thought. Act the part.

Clandestine operations on TV were the domain of the beautiful,
sophisticated spy. There were gadgets and high speed chases. She'd
wished for some of that in the beginning, while she was still
young. Very quickly she realized the truth. Spycraft was the
domain of the ordinary. The boring even. At least for the most
part. A field operation was a matter of staying calm and being
normal. The more normal and boring you were the better.

She prayed silently to a God she'd long stopped believing in. Take
the hand, act boring, be a pro. Because if he wasn't that type of
professional, he was the other type. The type that knew how to use
that thing in his jacket. The type that knew how to walk away and
live with what it did, what he did. How did they find him, anyway?
The chief didn't say. "Local operative," they'd called him. He
knew the area, the threats.

After a moment he let their hands clasp and they moved south down
the street. Left shoulder holster, she thought, means he draws
with his right. She clasped the fingers of her left hand into his
right in a spider of digits and smiled at him. That's it, she
thought. Just go along with it. Be a pro, and I'll cover my ass
just in case. I don't need you drawing on my back, asshole.

They were three blocks away from restaurant when the scooter
turned down the street. The putter of the engine struggled with
a cartoonish whirring as it climbed uphill towards them. The rider
wore the serious leathers and helmet better suited to
a crotch-rocket tearing down a highway. On the knock-off Vespa it
seemed comical and out of place. Some self-destructive instinct in
Darla wanted to roll her eyes as the rider pulled up before them.
Their contact, apparently.

Darla felt fingers tighten around hers for a moment, sensing the
reaction from the dark man beside her. The tension relaxed when he
recognized the rider. For the first time of the night he smiled.
Wait, what?

The rider, whom Darla now noticed was a woman, reached into
a black leather messenger bag at her hip. The mirrored face of the
helmet reflected back at her, skewed and stretched across the
surface. Her own eyes stared back at her, threatening.

Darla's heart was in her throat but she forced herself to breath.
Slow in, slow out. Use your nose, she thought. The package was
here and with it came danger, at least for the next few minutes.
Her goals were simple, but critical. Get the documents, validate,
and get clear. This operation was a mess and God knew there were
leaks. She didn't think they'd make a move this soon, before she'd
done her job, but it was better to be safe than sorry. Whoever
"they" was.

The hand in hers felt hot in that moment. He knew her, but how?
She was just a courier. The package had made its way south a long
way. Couriers, normal stuff.

Darla's eyes went to the scooter again. She didn't come the whole
way on that. A series of handoffs, maybe? Local delivery? That
damned helmet hid her face and the leathers covered every inch of
skin. No clues there. She could be anyone from anywhere. Which
begged the question. How did he recognize her?

Darla stepped forward, moving her body between the two others and
offering to receive the package. She was careful not to let go of
eyebrows's hand as she moved. His fingers cramped on hers, torn in
between a desire to hold her back and a wish to free himself for
action. A moment of hesitation from the rider as her gloved hand
pulled a manila envelope free then handed it to her. It was
a tightrope she walked now. The mantra repeated in her head: keep
it natural, Darla.

"Thanks," she said aloud taking the papers. The reflection of the
helmet shifted as the rider looked to eyebrows. In that mirrored
surface Darla could see him shrug behind her. She knew him too.
Was this a setup?

But why? They already had the documents. Why would they risk
passing them over to the Agency? Why pull her all the way here to
verify…

In another moment the scooter was off again, puttering up the
hill. They watched it turn the corner and the sound vanished into
the background of the city. Lisbon wasn't loud, per se, but it had
all the typical tenor you might find in a European city by the
sea. There were cars moving in the distance, a truck beeping
nearby, music coming from the blue building across the street. (A
crowd there, easy to get lost in, could slip away if needed.)
Somewhere overhead a seabird croaked out a nasty call repeatedly.
She assumed it was a seabird, anyway. She didn't know the first
thing about birds.

Smiling back at the dark man, she moved on down the street with
him, holding the package securely in her hand and away from him.
They walked around the corner turning East and heading for a row
of taxis a few blocks away at the bottom of a long sloap toward
the sea. As they walked her mind raced. The shrug. His reaction to
her appearance, even in the helmet. They knew each other, but how
well? This wasn't part of the plan. Her hand felt sticky, filthy,
poisonous, but she knew better than to let go and give him access
to the gun. Something was off already and she needed to figure out
the puzzle now, this minute.

The knew each other. What did it mean? Tick off the facts, Darla
told herself. They have the documents already. If they know each
other that means the handoff didn't need to happen. So why do it?
What does it buy them?

Me, she realized with a bitter shiver. They needed to know the
documents were legit? Maybe. Possibly. But only if they weren't
the same group that lifted them in the first place. And if they
were? Why would you need Darla Moss to tell you they were the real
thing? Anyone that knew how to operate quantum computing AI
systems and had the education to--

Darla nearly tripped, catching herself by leaning on eyebrow's
hand. They didn't just need the documents verified, they wanted
a scientist who could use the data. What better way to get one
than to dangle the carrot and see who got sent to check it out. Oh
chief, you glorious dumbass. You served me up with a pretty bow,
didn't you.

They stopped in the alcove entrance to a dentist's office half
a block away from the line of taxis. The building was closed for
the night but the light from the street lamps reached into the
recess enough for her to read away from prying eyes. She was out
of time. They expected her to review the papers now, here, in this
shadow of the street. Fine, that's why she was here for the Agency
anyway. Do the job. If her suspicions were right they didn't want
to kill her at all. They wanted to keep her. Maybe, just maybe,
she could weasel out of this if she kept her head.

The envelope was sealed with a string in a style she hadn't seen
since her undergraduate days. Two hands to open. She let out
a small sigh and let go of eyebrows' hand for a moment while she
opened the seal and looked inside.

He's not going to shoot you. He's not going to shoot you; she
repeated the mantra in her mind.

She ruffled the edges of a stack of papers filled with advanced
mathematics. Behind it was another set of paper in a different
size.  The math was all printouts in A4. European. This other
collection was older and in US Letter size. Engineering specs?
microwave resonators, cryostat, data plane, this was it.

She pulled out the first sheet and looked it over, reading the
diagrams and notations quickly. Engrossed for the moment, she
didn't notice her companion step out into the street and look both
ways, or check the rooftops along their route. He dismissed the
scene as safe and moved back toward her as she nodded along with
an unseen rhythm. This was incredible. Over 300 qubits and that
only in the primary quantum data plane. Each qubit was entangled
to those in the secondary planes? How? For stabalization?

Her mind spun with implications. There were true engineering
marvels here, but the brilliance happened conceptually. She didn't
even have a name for some of this. She needed to spread these
sheets out at home with a team and and a week's worth of coffee.
This was the heart of the machine. And these A4 papers were some
of its output. Incredibly valuable on their own.

"Two, three, yes yes. It's all here. We have the plans and your
little spy got some extras. It looks like this bit is some of the
machine's results," she explained. The thrill of the information
filled her chest with heat. What incredible power! Three hundred
qubits could calculate more data points then there were atoms in
the universe. And stablized, it was unfathomable.

"Verified?" the man asked.

"Yeah, that's what I just said. Look, do you even know what you
can do with this? This isn't just a computer--" she said, annoyed.

"Let's go," he interrupted, his hand reaching out for the papers.
Darla pulled them back instinctively and slid everything carefully
into the envelop again, sealing it. Not so fast, buddy.

Shit. Reality crashed back upon her. It was real and the power to
duplicate it sat in her hands. Had they copied it? How many people
in the world could use the information? How many could actually
build it? No wonder they'd arranged this. The power to change the
world was useless to them without one of, what, fifteen people on
the planet? People who were already doing the work on their own
powerful systems. People who were out of reach, who would never
stoop to collaborate with criminals, whose ethics would have them
give up their lives rather than put this power into the hands of
some shadowy cabal. Except her.

Reaching out she used her left hand again to hold his right. He
let her and she sent a silent prayer of thanks to whoever was
listening. They exited the alcove toward the taxis. A line of four
cars idled nearby waiting for passengers. She shivered despite
herself. The chief better be watching. They approached the nearest
vehicle and the man glanced inside briefly at the driver before
moving forward again.

It's she they suspected, then. He had planned the driver ahead of
time. Local operative, my ass. A hallow pit emptied in her stomach
at what was coming next. In a moment they'd get into a car and
that would be the last anyone ever saw of Darla Moss. No wonder he
didn't want to chat over coffee. She supposed he was just
a professional at this, serious all the way through. Maybe it made
it easier to sleep at night.

The moment she stepped into the car it was over. She had to get
away. He wouldn't shoot her. She was too valuable to him. She
could use that. Get it together, Darla. Get a plan before it's too
late.

The next car held whatever or whoever he was looking for. He
reached for the back door handle with his left hand, bridging the
gap between her and car. Too late. The lights of headlights and
taillights blurred and stretched, sounds echoing in her skull with
rushing blood. Let go, Darla! Run, Darla! The hand she gripped for
safety was tightening, beginning to pull her forward. Out of time.

In that instant, filled by the onrushing panic, a nonsensical
thought jumped to the fore of her mind. I should have used the
exercise bike more. Maybe then.

As the man's fingers touched the door handle a jolt and shudder
ran through his body and into hers as if lightning had
travelled all along his length to shock her. The tremor pulled her
forward another step and she gasped in surprise. The next moment
she coughed and spit at the blood and brain matter that had
splashed into her open mouth. Fuck.

She let go of the dark man's hand and let his lifeless body flop
to the sidewalk. It was already smeared in blood and the pool grew
rapidly from the gaping hole in his head. Darla continued to
retch, screwing up her eyes and gagging and trying not to vomit.
Distantly she heard another firecracker echo and the shattering of
a window as the driver was also eliminated. Squealing tires
followed as the other taxis sped away from the scene, all except
one.

A door opened and a square-jawed man with a military haircut came
around the front of the car to take the package from her hands.
With the important documents secure he looked back at Darla to
offer help. She was still bent over, breathing hard and muttering
curses. She spared a glance up at him with hate filled eyes.

"Fucking fuck. Tell Langley I'm done! This is the last time,
I swear," she shouted.

"Chief says you are needed--"

"Fuck the chief too. Who shot him? Ramirez?" she gestured toward
the dead body and looked up at the rooftops searching, but knowing
the sniper would already have been packed and exited the scene.
"I'm gonna kill him. Look at my clothes!" She appraised herself as
she said it. "Fuck!"

"The chief says--"

"Yeah, yeah, I know. I'm coming. But the Agency better pay for
this shit. I'm so over field work, you hear me? I didn't agree to
this." She spat again and looked down at eyebrows. "Jesus."

She gingerly stepped around the body and growing pool of blood and
moved toward the car flinging her arms up and down to try and
clean off the splatter. The Saudis were going to be pissed
their deal went sideways, but they could clean up their own
messes. Who knows, maybe they made copies of this before they
brought it her way. That'd be the smart thing to do, anyway.

"Any more?" the driver asked.

"Woman on a bike, scooter. She was--"

"--got that one," he said.

"Then lets get out of here. I need a shower before we head back,"
she gingerly got into the taxi, then remembered something. "Did we
find their connection inside the project? I had my money on the
Italian."

"Sounds like it was service staff. Swedish crew lost him though.
He had more help than just the Saudis. Probably playing many
sides."

"Wow, unexpected. Will he be a problem?" she asked.

"Nah, chief says he's low value. We got the data and those are
originals. Anything else he has is hearsay." Darla nodded. This
whole business was disgusting, but she knew it needed to be done.
This sort of processing power wasn't safe outside the control of
government. Too many things could go wrong. Too many secrets could
be let out. She didn't like the mess of it all--she thought,
picking bits from her hair--but she was a professional. She'd do
the job and keep the world safe from egos like David Simms.


                             #

Thousands of miles away in a secure bunker, a man in a light gray
suit closed down his secure voice connection. The data was gone,
but he wasn't without backup plans. This could be set right. There
was one man who knew more about this machine than anyone else.
With the right leverage, he could get what he needed from Dr. Sahu
himself.

He clicked a button on the screen to start a new call, this time
to a more reliable operative. There would be no mistakes this
time, and the Americans would not interfere. A pretty face popped
up in the window on his screen and she smiled broadly.

"Baba, how are you?" she said sweetly in a polished, British
English.

The power in that infernal machine would upset governments and
restore balance to the world. There could be no secrets from it,
no hidden agendas. With that in his grasp a renaissance would
return to these lands, just like in the old days. All he needed
was a bit of information.

This toy of David Simms would recreate the world. It's too bad
Simms wouldn't be around to see it.
.