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The next day, far far away in the state of Maryland, Thomas Courtlandt Spofford of the CIA, code name SNAIL, sat behind his desk watching rain swirl and surge across his window panes as he waited for SQUED, SOWBOY, and PLUKE, also cryptonyms. Acronyms, too, he mused, for nothing is what it seems. Thomas Cortlandt Spofford, the project chief of MKMOSCA, knew the true names of the others, and they his, because they were prime ancillaries in his part of the deadly game CIA plays worldwide with immense supplies of money, but no accountability. As he watched the waters sluicing over the glass, it occurred to him in defending America's beliefs, CIA has double-crossed everything America believes in. Not me. I always keep an ethical spin on what I do.
Mosca's escape had caused Spofford to summon his aides, once his department heads in MJSIMSOR, now his confreres in cremating its odiferous body before the putrefaction attracted still yet more attention in Congress and the media.
MOSCA, the Military Option System Controlled Androgyne project, the first serious attempt anywhere to create artificial life around specific missions, was proceeding under a new parasol---- MKMOSCA----and the other MJSIMSOR programs, also spawn of MKULTRA, were being aborted because of the Director of Central Intelligence's apprehension that the blundered AIDS project, or the destabilization of Canada by MKBUZZ, or possibly even the recent assassination of the President might be traced and exposed with evidence substantial enough to lead to indictments and convictions and subsequent damage suits. The Company, so thought the DCI, had managed to stay on top of it all. And so it had. A phoenix indeed! Again and again it had risen resurrected from its own ashes. It had even transcended the Aldrich Ames scandal and the infamy of wholesaling drugs. And now, alive and aloft, it hovered in full security. Save for the fact---- unknown to him---- that Mosca had escaped and, ergo, like MJSIMSOR's AIDS project, MKMOSCA was headed for meltdown.
Hence, Thomas' call for this meeting of the former chief administrators of MJSIMSOR, now serving their country as executive overseers of MKMOSCA.
At nine am they were announced on the intercom. "Send them in, Karen." Always demanding, Thomas maintained tight discipline among his subordinates in an atmosphere of bruderschaft informality, a paradox, he realized, reflective of his own nature: permissive yet self-controlled to the extreme. He fancied himself an embodiment of disciplined spontaneity, the prerequisite of planning and supervising the kind of work for which he was responsible----- art taking effect through the best technology, a medley played by chording the organizational, biological, and electronic.
His compatriots placed their umbrellas on the floor to dry, hung up their wet coats, helped themselves to coffee or drink at the bar, and sat down. Smiling at these instruments of his will, he came around his desk and perched on it.
"You have the memo. You know why we're here. Succinctly, we have to solve the Mosca problem before the Chief finds out we have one. First, I want to hear your thoughts."
"Well, Tom, we could capture and rebuild him," said Fred, the financial manager.
Glancing from face to face, Thomas thought these men were as interchangeable as their raincoats.
"No," said Dave, the overseer of operations, "We have to find him and kill him and build a new prototype."
"I can go with that," said Chet, the supervisor of public (and political) relations. "And, as an inaugural mission, let's assign the new one, whom we'll also call Mosca, to the duty of killing him."
"A good thought, but we have to find him first." He turned to Dave. "Give us a rundown on what we know about where Mosca is and what he's doing." Do these guys really think like that? Idiots all! Obviously, we have to catch him alive and study his defects. We don't want to build a new one until we know what's wrong with this one. "I know you like exhibits, Tom, so I brought some." Dave set up the easel and unrolled papers. The torrent flushing across the window panes made Thomas wonder where flies go in the rain. How can they survive a Niagara like that?
Dave displayed a map of the base. "We know flies can travel long distances, but nobody knows how long. There's not nearly as much scientific data as you might think." Thus speaks an aging varsity fullback going to fat. "We're all in the same boat, so I can be frank. If we sink, we drown. All of us. Right?"
"That sounds like a reasonable hypothesis."
That sounds like you weren't at the head of the line when they passed out the cunning, or for that matter, the brains.
"Yeah, Tom. I think s0 too. The problem is, we had a tracker inserted in Mosca, so his location always registers as a light on a map of the base we have at MKM Central. In deeper software his location, eventually anywhere on earth, moves about on a computer screen showing a large-scale local map with a regional map in the corner. Well, to make a long story short, the insert is malfunctioning."
"Meaning what?"
"Meaning it's busted."
"Do you think he knows that?"
"It was discussed in his presence."
"And you are keeping the map and computer active, so if the tracker starts working again, we'll know?"
"I'm having it monitored day and night."
"So where do you think he is?"
"I imagined being him. Put my mind in his head. And decided I'd fly to the airport, sneak into a plane, and go as far as I could. Flies are at the top of insect evolution, like rats are number-one among rodents, or men among mammals. All of them are extremely adaptable, and can eat almost anything, so wherever he went, if it's warm there, he's getting along okay. He doesn't even have to know where he is." "I trust you made a thorough investigation at the airport."
"Well, sort of. You see the problem. You go around the airfield with your investigatory team, questioning mechanics, and guards, and dispatchers, and fuel tenders, and maintenance men, and the rest of them fuckheads about suspicious flies. You really going to do that?"
"Did you?"
"No. But I did look at all the flight plans and departures from the moment he was last seen, and found one big commercial plane that went to LAX."
"So how you going to proceed in LA?"
"Let's go for the Chinese solution. Kill all the flies, every fucking one. Mao Zedong claimed to have managed it."
"Yes. But we don't have a billion people who'll kill flies when they're told to."
"I've got another idea."
"Something other than handsmacks and fly swatters?"
"I'm keen on disinformation. Announce an extreme medfly hazard. Then spray all of Southern California with fly-killing poison."
"Might kill a few people, too."
"Yeah, but s0 what. They spray poison on farmworkers all the time."
"What have you really done?"
"Not much."
"Meaning nothing."
"Yeah, boss, nothing."
"You will etch into your mind, Dave, that . . . our . . . fly . . . is the first sophisticated unit of artificial life ever produced."
Dave displayed a map of Los Angeles County, then of LAX and environs.
"I'm stumped, Tom. Where do we go from here?"
Thomas looked from Dave to the others, and back. Can objects be objective? Dave rolled up his papers, and the others said they had nothing to add. "All right. I get the picture. Fred, you give these guys all the money they request. Don't even ask why. Dave has to move fast. He has to follow imagination through swiftly changing circumstances. Chet has to be free to do whatever's necessary to cover up, or, failing that, to control the spin, so, at best, the public doesn't know what we're doing, or, at worst, knows but doesn't care. You send them all the funds they want, and do it fast."
"Count on me, Tom."
"I can always tickle the cornucopia and get more." Amazing, he thought as he dismissed them and they said their good-byes, truly amazing the way the federal cornucopia creates money out of nothing, just as the classical cornucopia made food out of nothing, made energy out of nothing, poured creative power out into the world. Well, we created intelligent life out of nothing. He touched the intercom. "Karen, send in the Flymaster."
The door opened admitting Dr Donovan Tesla Bruhn. This man, this tall gray-haired gent, is the actor one would select from all those auditioning to play the man-of-distinction in a movie. Only Dr Bruhn's no actor. "Good morning, Dr Bruhn." Never will I achieve intimacy, my phony bruderschaft intimacy, with this guy.
"Good morning, Mr Spofford."
CIA always found it easy to attract stable, reliable workers and technicians. But imaginative scientists? That's another story. Dr Gottlieb, the clubfoot square-dancing creator of ingenious assassination systems, like botulism cigarettes to kill Nassar, or Dr Cameron, who, by way of scientific experiment, lobotomized hundreds of helpless patients, are all too common. Something about this work appeals to the egotist, the neurotic, the sociopath. That pattern holds true throughout the Company. Its nexus? Its node? BLUEBIRD, ARTICHOKE, and their successors, MK's ULTRA and SEARCH, MJ's SIMSOR and DODO, they all attracted some real lulus. Ironically, it's much easier to keep them in harness than a brilliant, thoroughly sane Renaissance man like Dr Bruhn. Though basically a molecular biologist well versed in computers, he seems to feel at home in all the sciences, hard and soft, from biology, physics, mathematics, to psychology and anthropology. Mosca's designers notwithstanding, no one in the Company's database is better qualified to conduct the indoctrination of the world's first specimen of artificial life than is Dr Donovan Tesla Bruhn.
These thoughts passed through Thomas' mind as he briefed Dr Bruhn on the Mosca dilemma.
"I'm sure you concur, Doctor; we must find Mosca and bring him back here to study. But how? Search a whole city for a single fly?" "The three-score and ten of the normal fly is thirty-eight days. Were we dealing with a natural fly, a natural death would soon moot the problem. But Mosca is not a natural fly. In truth, he's not a fly at all. He's a new species, created from the sum total of human knowledge we call science. We don't know what his capacities and
capabilities are; we only partially understand his mind-set and we haven't a clue as to his potential lifespan. For all we know, he may be immortal."
"All the more reason to find him and bring him back."
"Yes."
"I called you in, Doctor, to get your thoughts on the why of it. Why did Mosca decide to go away? Why? I put myself in his mind, and strive for insight as to why he was so dissatisfied here. After all, he had everything a fly could want, and more. Is it an urge to freedom? Is he questing for some grail?"
"Don't judge the bread by the baker."
"Yes, I shouldn't."
"He neither eats nor defecates. Perhaps we can factor in the difference, and simulate his mentality. He's never hungry or bloated. Except when he becomes aware of a diminution of his energies, he hungers, in a metaphorical sense, for sunlight. He takes moisture through his proboscis to cleanse and preserve his system. Does he piss as we do? No. He slowly exudes waste-carrying fluids which dry on his shell. From time to time he washes the crud away."
"So the endoskeletal baker must imagine the exoskeletal bread."
"I'm not a baker. I'm a trainer-observer. As you know, I have to file a weekly Fly Report. Its leitmotif forms a double helix. I note significant manifestations of psychology and behavior, and, in reference to them, I recommend improvements in his design.
Dr Bruhn, still thinking out loud, rose from his chair and walked to the cataracting windows.
"As for those systems which convey data about environment, I mean his senses, well he has a different constellation of them than we do. With him as with us, when not activating response, the combined effect of what his senses convey may in most circumstances be called sensual pleasure. He does not experience dense orgasmic sensuality as we do. His sensuality has no focus I'm aware of, nor does anticipation of orgasm drive his behavior. He purrs, but never lusts. This quality served as a basic premise for his designers. I insisted on it."
"Yes, I know."
"He can sense into the electromagnetic spectrum with more than eyesight, and even there he can see shorter waves than we can, meaning he may be able to see colors we cannot imagine. He can receive radio and TV and intercept telephonic pulses. He and I were just beginning to explore these powers when he left. I really have no idea how extensive they are, nor does he, although he knows he has them. I think eventually he'll be able to image television pictures and broadcast radio waves. He will also feel his way into computers and telephones. That means he can eavesdrop or make phone calls. That means he can consult computers, spread computer viruses, or alter databases. Look at it this way. Yes. Most of the information stored in the world's computers will be, in a manner of speaking, part of his mind. Meaning he'll be more human than we are. I stand in awe before the potential represented by Mosca. If he slips loose from our control he could, conceivably, rule the world."
"Do you think we should kill him?"
"No. Left to ourselves, the game is over. Mankind is killing himself. We need something new in our equation, something more substantial than flooding the world with automatic weapons and bad myths. Mosca could be our Nemesis . . . or our Savior."
"Can you make me a rough simulation of his mental pattern from which we can deduce hypothetical attitudes and actions?"
"I can try."
"Start working on it now and come see me as soon as you have something."
Dr. Bruhn sat down again, this time close to the desk. He glanced at Thomas Spofford's family picture, then looked him in the eye. "Mosca was engineered to be free of emotion in order to make him more amenable to outside control. I indoctrinated him intensely with
the required information, and, on my own volition, tried to educate him too. I found him to be a fast learner, and, with my encouragement, able to think---- which is to say capable of building patterns to organize the data he absorbs, and of changing or even replacing the patterns when he takes in more. Analogous to the recent career of our culture, he can progress from Newtonian physics to quantum mechanics. And wouldn't you know? He has one gross defect. As time went by I came to realize he experiences emotion." Dr. Bruhn smiled. "But s0 what? No prototype is ever perfect."
"Why did he run away?"
"Fly away."
"Why did he fly away?"
"I have no idea. All I know is when I learned he'd done it I felt hurt, and still do. A wonderful student. Simply wonderful." Dr. Bruhn stood. "Is that all you need from me? I have work to do."
"Yes, Doctor, all for now. Thank you."
Thomas watched Dr. Bruhn leave, then gazed at rain surging over the panes. Learn everything we can about Mosca, both as to his character and his whereabouts. That aspect of policy is obvious. The dilemma? Shall we try to catch him or try to kill him? He looked at the photo on his desk, his wife and their two sons. As a matter of principle he always said our, not my, sons. They peered out of the picture, shaggy blond and smiling. Their thin legs emerged from loose shorts, and Janet's hands rested on their shoulders. Behind them, blue sky and ocean. William and Clint, twins, just entering their second decade of life. Before their birth he'd made a list of names that would not cause them grief in school, then asked Janet to select from it. If we have girls, Janet, you pick the names. What the hell do I know about girls?
Kill him would be easier than find him.
The Chinese solution might work.
Well . . . ?
"Kill him or hunt him?" he asked the picture, as he always did when making difficult policy decisions. He would ignore the potential effects on his career and decide to do whatever promised to give those boys, representing the world's children, the best chance for the future.
Kill him?
When he had to order a murder, or place an agent or a target in harm's way, a fragment of a lecture by his old professor of American history at Yale often came to mind. The subject was American Indians. The substance: "I have never heard of Indians killing---- and from this I exclude humans---- anything they did not mean to eat, and, even then, it was done with respect. They never killed eagles. So an eagle feather, fallen from Sky, awed and signified. You wear it like a medal, for the eagle has chosen you alone from among the many as the recipient or his rare and symbolic gift."
For their tenth birthday, Thomas had given William and Clint one eagle feather each.
Kill Mosca now or chance finding him.
In the interests of future generations, we killed the presidents of Guatemala and Chile. We botched the murder of Castro, even with Mafia help. We killed our presidents, Kennedy and Smith, and, except for Clinton, they were the smartest since Harry Truman. Harry Truman said the greatest mistake he made during his presidency was creating CIA. We killed Bobby Kennedy, too, because he would have beaten Nixon. When Martin Luther King began talking about the high crime of the Viet Nam War, and about the haves and the have-nots, we killed him. We distributed the Promis computer system, with Israeli help, making it possible for a number of despots to find and murder their opposition. Promis earned big money for us, as did routing arms to both Iran and Iraq during their war, and s0 did our heroin and cocaine traffic. We thought sophisticated knowledge of molecular biology cautiously applied could kill America's enemies at home and abroad. We killed half a million pigs and most of their sheep when we infected the Cubans' livestock with African swine fever---- ASF, from the Plum Island labs on Long Island, and with Nairobi sheep pox from the Veterinary Research Organization in Kikuyu, Kenya. We further refined the ASF virus with its ability to attack the immune systems of both pigs and people, and that's spinning way out of control, and could get us in big trouble.
And now we're working on Mosca.
So here I sit in a sweat about killing a fly.
He leaned back in his chair and looked at the framed quotation from Dwight Eisenhower displayed between two splashing flowing windows:
Every gun that is made, every warship launched, every rocket fired signifies, in the final sense, a theft from those who hunger and are not fed, those who are cold and are not clothed. We pay for a single fighter plane with a half-billion bushels of wheat. We pay for a single destroyer with homes that could have housed more than 8,ooo people. This world in arms is not spending money alone. It is spending the sweat of its laborers, the genius of its scientists, the hopes of its children. This is not a way of life at all in any true sense. Under the cloud of
threatening war, it is humanity hanging from a cross of iron.
To kill or not to kill---- a fly?
But Mosca is not a fly.
Nor is he merely a winged hypodermic needle.
Once again Thomas Cortlandt Spofford consulted the picture and the quotation and came to a decision.
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