[Taylor514ce]

A darkened room. One must acclimate. First, sound… the white noise of a powerful air filtration system. Vacuum-sealed doors softly whoosh and whump. The whirr of computer fans, and staccato typing. Next, vision adapts, along with the realization that the room isn’t dark at all, as the glow of dozens of monitors and hundreds of LEDs bathe the faces of the room’s two occupants.

They are a study in contrasts. The seated figure is spare, scarecrow thin, with thick round glasses. His are the fingers (long, skeletal, tobacco-stained) that are rapidly typing, as if they have a life of their own: two pale arachnids hunting the keys with rapid stabs. He sits hunched, as if trying to surround the monitor, prevent its secrets from getting past him.

Standing ramrod straight, arms crossed over a deep chest, is the other occupant. The immaculate but non-descript suit cannot disguise the military stamp of the man. G.I. Joe incarnate, but older, the full black head of hair touched with gray at the temples, the once firm jaw line going to jowl. The square shoulders are starting to stoop, as if tired of carrying the weight of the world.

He speaks. We’d expect to hear a drill sergeant’s bark, but the deep voice is smooth, finely modulated, and weary. “Tell me about QUILTS, Gus.”

“Call me Thin Man, everyone does. I don’t mind. I want to remind you I warned the Directorate. You were there when they decided to do this. Quantum Intelligent Life, Tracking and Surveillance. Too clever by half. We don’t understand string theory, or Quantum mechanics. So let’s just create something that does, and hope to control it? To use it? I warned them, Colonel. I did.”

“No one blames you, Thin Man”, says Colonel Biggles. He rests a hand on Gustavo’s shoulder, turning him slightly to face him, and continues softly, “just tell me what you’ve found. What’s happened?”

“Socks”.

“Socks? Please, elaborate.”

“Yes. Not blankets, like we thought. Or turbans, very useful for espionage. Socks. And they are in fact intelligent, and totally out of our control. Smart Wool Socks, Colonel.”

“Socks. Show me the proof.”

“NSA has picked up snatches of dialogue, on a website. Take a look.”

“Hmmm. This isn’t so bad. Almost comic. No one could take this seriously.”

“Sir, you don’t know the half of it. Remember the Advanced Primate Espionage System, Hidden Infantry Tactics?”

“Sweet baby Jesus on a cracker!”

“Yes sir. Adrian.”

They both glance wildly around the room, into the dark corners. “What’s that unholy Gibbon got to do with this?”

“He’s here too. Each of them seems to be operating under the protection, or, or, companionship, of a human member of this site.”

“Why? How?”

“It’s an e-book site, Sir.”

“So?”

“Just think. Language, Colonel. All intelligence uses language. Imagine what would happen to a site that began to accumulate massive amounts of electronic literature.”

“I don’t see the danger.”

“Well, sir… I bought an electronic reader, and it had the blueprints for M.A.R.V.I.N. on it, and I plugged it into my system while browsing the site… something happened.”

“Do you mean…?”

“Yes. Sir, MobileRead is gathering our creations to itself. It has become self-aware.”

“Saint Peter on a pogo-stick!”