few who can.”
ˆSimon actually believed that. “They don’t call you ‘The Invisible Man’ for nothing, Andrew.”
“I really rather hate that nickname,” he said…then grinned. “But I rather love it, too. Still—let me show you what you’re asking for.”
He dug into his coat pocket and came up with a flat translucent box. Half a dozen glowing panels decorated the sides; one edge was trimmed in shining metal. “Stand up,” he said, squinting at the device.
“What?”
“On your feet.”
Simon stood up slowly and faced the student. Andrew pointed the device at him, metal edge first and swept it up and down from toe to head and back again. The device said, “Thank you,” in a polite AI voice.
“You know what thread recorders are, I assume.”
Simon sighed. “Yes.” Of course he did. They were one of the first real breakthroughs of nanotechnology: strings of protein-machines, thin as sewing thread that could digitally record bits of sound—from a few seconds to hours, depending on the length and complexity of the construct. They could be woven into clothing or jewelry, even into hair extensions, and then accessed by AIs and the cell network. It ended the need for microphones and ear buds and changed communications technology forever. “What about—”
“They can be a lot thinner than you think,” Andrew said. “Too thin to be seen by the human eye, actually. And they can be blown about by the breeze, cling to your clothes or hair or even skin, and then be queried by wireless interrogators that you’ll find…well, pretty much everywhere. Every time you pass a microwave transponder, or an ell link, or even a wireless cam, a third party can read what’s on any given thread. Then another AI can fit all the little pieces together in no time at all. So anybody who really wants to can hear any conversation you’ve had—indoors or out, in private or public, pretty much all the time.”
Simon was appalled. “That’s insane.”
Andrew held up the glowing device. It said, “Professor Fitzpatrick has nine unauthorized threads on his person.”
“What?”
“Playback?” the AI asked politely.
“Please,” Andrew said, not taking his eyes from Simon.
Rough-edged but perfectly understandable versions of his own voice and Max’s sarcastic tones filled the room:
“Are you actually suggesting I drop everything I’m doing and fly halfway around the world because you want to have a chat?”
“Yeah, Max, that’s exactly what I want you to do: come skipping on home for a fucking chat.” There was a brief pause, and then he heard himself say, “Okay, I get it. Forget we even discussed this.”
“All right,” Simon said harshly. “You’ve made your point.”
Andrew dropped his hand and thumbed a panel on the device. “Permanent erase, please,” he said.
“Erasure complete,” the device responded.
He dropped it casually on the couch. Simon shook his head, thoroughly chilled. “I had no idea it was that…extensive. That intrusive.”
Andrew shrugged. “Only a matter of time, really. It started almost fifty years ago with CCTV and Google Earth. I’m sure the government types would have liked to keep it to themselves, but that’s simply not possible. The tech is too common, too cheap, too easy to decrypt.”
Simon found himself a bit weak in the knees, despite all his training and discipline.
He felt like he had to sit down. “Good god,” he said.
“It’s not so much that someone is listening to every word you say,” Andrew told him, trying to be comforting in his own awkward way. “It’s that they can, if they have a reason to.”
“And you can stop that?”
Andrew nodded, and for the first time Simon saw the serious, even haunted man underneath the easygoing grad-student exterior. This man was a genius who had taken on a huge burden, who knew a secret that few others knew, and he took it very seriously. “Yes. I can keep the surveillance systems—all of
ˆSimon actually believed that. “They don’t call you ‘The Invisible Man’ for nothing, Andrew.”
“I really rather hate that nickname,” he said…then grinned. “But I rather love it, too. Still—let me show you what you’re asking for.”
He dug into his coat pocket and came up with a flat translucent box. Half a dozen glowing panels decorated the sides; one edge was trimmed in shining metal. “Stand up,” he said, squinting at the device.
“What?”
“On your feet.”
Simon stood up slowly and faced the student. Andrew pointed the device at him, metal edge first and swept it up and down from toe to head and back again. The device said, “Thank you,” in a polite AI voice.
“You know what thread recorders are, I assume.”
Simon sighed. “Yes.” Of course he did. They were one of the first real breakthroughs of nanotechnology: strings of protein-machines, thin as sewing thread that could digitally record bits of sound—from a few seconds to hours, depending on the length and complexity of the construct. They could be woven into clothing or jewelry, even into hair extensions, and then accessed by AIs and the cell network. It ended the need for microphones and ear buds and changed communications technology forever. “What about—”
“They can be a lot thinner than you think,” Andrew said. “Too thin to be seen by the human eye, actually. And they can be blown about by the breeze, cling to your clothes or hair or even skin, and then be queried by wireless interrogators that you’ll find…well, pretty much everywhere. Every time you pass a microwave transponder, or an ell link, or even a wireless cam, a third party can read what’s on any given thread. Then another AI can fit all the little pieces together in no time at all. So anybody who really wants to can hear any conversation you’ve had—indoors or out, in private or public, pretty much all the time.”
Simon was appalled. “That’s insane.”
Andrew held up the glowing device. It said, “Professor Fitzpatrick has nine unauthorized threads on his person.”
“What?”
“Playback?” the AI asked politely.
“Please,” Andrew said, not taking his eyes from Simon.
Rough-edged but perfectly understandable versions of his own voice and Max’s sarcastic tones filled the room:
“Are you actually suggesting I drop everything I’m doing and fly halfway around the world because you want to have a chat?”
“Yeah, Max, that’s exactly what I want you to do: come skipping on home for a fucking chat.” There was a brief pause, and then he heard himself say, “Okay, I get it. Forget we even discussed this.”
“All right,” Simon said harshly. “You’ve made your point.”
Andrew dropped his hand and thumbed a panel on the device. “Permanent erase, please,” he said.
“Erasure complete,” the device responded.
He dropped it casually on the couch. Simon shook his head, thoroughly chilled. “I had no idea it was that…extensive. That intrusive.”
Andrew shrugged. “Only a matter of time, really. It started almost fifty years ago with CCTV and Google Earth. I’m sure the government types would have liked to keep it to themselves, but that’s simply not possible. The tech is too common, too cheap, too easy to decrypt.”
Simon found himself a bit weak in the knees, despite all his training and discipline.
He felt like he had to sit down. “Good god,” he said.
“It’s not so much that someone is listening to every word you say,” Andrew told him, trying to be comforting in his own awkward way. “It’s that they can, if they have a reason to.”
“And you can stop that?”
Andrew nodded, and for the first time Simon saw the serious, even haunted man underneath the easygoing grad-student exterior. This man was a genius who had taken on a huge burden, who knew a secret that few others knew, and he took it very seriously. “Yes. I can keep the surveillance systems—all of
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