Free Whiplash by Dale Brown Page A

clustered around a large cube at the center of the room. The cube that was a display unit for MY-PID. Breanna took one of the chairs and pulled it close to the cube. Danny did the same.
    “Ray Rubeo, 13–13-13,” said Rubeo.
    “Acknowledged,” said a disembodied voice.
    “I need the weather in Moscow. Display it please.”
    A graphic showing a sun covered by a cloud appeared on the center screen. The temperature, in Celsius and Fahrenheit, appeared under it.
    “The weather tomorrow, in Moscow,” said Rubeo.
    Rain.
    Rubeo made a number of other requests for data, all instantly answered by the computer. Danny was used to computers and their ability to quickly produce data from theirmemory banks. While the cube and its graphics appeared very slick, the system didn’t seem to be anything unusual. Even the voice command interface was familiar from Dreamland.
    Rubeo produced a small button from his pocket and placed it on top of the cube.
    “Locate Colonel Freah and project his image,” said the scientist.
    Danny’s image—captured by the tiny video bug—was displayed on the screen.
    “How does it know it’s me?” asked Danny.
    “Produce positive identification of subject,” said Rubeo. The computer complied, displaying a skeletal biometric image next to Danny’s face.
    Danny still wasn’t impressed.
    Rubeo took a set of earphones and a small, iPodlike device from his other pocket and handed it to him. Danny put on the device, and heard the computer’s voice ask him to identify himself.
    “Danny Freah.”
    “Identity confirmed. Please calibrate voice level.”
    “It wants to get a feel for how loud you’re going to talk to it,” explained Breanna. “There are microphones in the wire.”
    “How loud should I talk?”
    “Whatever level you’re comfortable with,” Breanna said.
    “Testing, testing,” said Danny.
    “Ask it any question you wish,” said Rubeo.
    “Who won the World Series?” asked Danny.
    “Which year?” asked the Voice.
    “Last year.”
    “The Boston Red Sox, four games to two, over the Chicago Cubs.”
    “Who’s going to win this year?”
    “Insufficient data.”
    Rubeo rolled his eyes. He glanced at Breanna, then left the room.
    “Locate Dr. Rubeo,” said Breanna after he was gone.
    The screen moved its schematic, showing Rubeo in the maze of rooms about fifty meters away. He was in a lounge area, making himself a cup of tea.
    “It’s tied into a satellite system that can be used to track individuals all over the world,” Breanna explained. “The system uses biomarkers that can be picked up by the satellites. There are some limitations, but as long as a subject is aboveground, the system can find him. Down here, a separate system is used. The rings. The Voice can plug into a number of different systems, not just its central core here. It’s like an automated assistant. The idea is that it will help CIA officers in the field. And Whiplash.”
    “How close to going operational is it?” asked Danny.
    “We’ve been using it for a little over two months on a special project. You’re going to hear about that project in about twenty minutes.”
    “Where is this MY-PID?”
    “It’s not in a specific place.” Breanna always had trouble explaining exactly how the system worked. “Think of it as a cloud, or even the Internet. The computers you just passed are part of it, but they’re not the sum total. The network is scattered around the world, and then there are the different sensors. Different video bugs can be plugged in, and the system can ask to be admitted to some databases and other intelligence systems.”
    “Who controls it?”
    “No one. The Voice is completely automated. It’s on its own—just like your laptop would be. Because, that’s what it is: a personal computer for field operators.”
    Danny wasn’t exactly sure what to make of that—a computer system that had no one running it? The parallel to personal computers didn’t reassure him.
    “All