Extinction Machine Read Online Free PDF Page A

my Explorer into the oncoming lanes.
    “What?”
    “The report stopped short of accusing us of criminal activity, but there is language in there suggesting criminal negligence in—and I’m quoting from a report I am not supposed to have—‘mishandling security for the MindReader system resulting in person or persons unknown to use it for the purposes of cyber-terrorism.’”
    I looked at Top, who closed his eyes and lightly banged his head on the side window. In the backseat, Bunny very quietly said, “Jesus fucking Christ.”
    “Whose name is on that report?”
    “Ah,” said Church, “that’s the other new development. The vice president has personally taken charge of the Cyber Crimes Task Force.”
    “Well isn’t that just peachy,” I said sourly.
    “I thought you’d find it amusing.”
    Vice President Bill Collins was no friend to me, the DMS, or Mr. Church. A while back, when the president was having bypass surgery, Collins—in his role as acting president—tried to use the NSA to dismantle the DMS. We could never prove that he was doing so in order to help some crooked colleagues. Collins is a master at keeping shit off his shoes, but ever since that incident we’ve kept a wary eye on him. This task force nonsense was exactly his sort of thing.
    “Are they going to file charges?” I asked.
    Church gave us one more pause. “They are welcome to try,” he said.
    “So—what’s the game plan?” I asked.
    “No game plan,” he said. “Go back to the Warehouse, send those guns up to Dr. Hu at the Hangar, write your reports, and try to enjoy the rest of your vacation.”
    I thought about what I’d seen at the lab. The red walls. The destroyed people.
    “Yeah,” I said. “Sure.”
    I disconnected the call. The three of us lapsed into individual brooding silences all the way back to Baltimore.
    We thought it was over.
    We thought we’d seen the worst of it.
    We were out of it.
    Sometimes you can be so totally wrong about something.

 
    Chapter Seven
    VanMeer Castle
Near Pittsburgh, Pennsylvania
Thursday, October 17, 7:22 p.m.
    Howard Shelton loved to blow things up.
    Everyone needs a hobby, a passion, and that was his.
    When he was eight he did it the wrong way. Firecrackers duct-taped to the butler’s cat earns you a beating. A rather savage beating, in point of fact. When his mother was not in diamonds and a ten-thousand-dollar Dior gown she was a heavy-handed witch who knew where to hit and how to make it last without leaving visible bruises. And, thereafter, Howard was fairly sure that the cook—who rather fancied the butler—spit in his food.
    So, Howard did not blow up any more cats.
    Not unless he was traveling. Then, for recreation, to let off a little steam, sure. Fuck it, it’s a cat.
    In high school they gave him awards for blowing things up. Science fair judges loved that sort of thing. People stood and applauded, they gave him trophies. Mom kept her hands to herself.
    In college it was hit or miss. A lot of it depended on what he blew up, how controlled the explosion was, and who was in the lab when it happened. If it was Bryce Crandall—the math stud who was putting it to Howard’s girlfriend, then that was bad. That was a police report, black armbands around campus, and a bad breakup with Mindy who, Howard guessed, never quite believed that it was all an accident.
    On the other hand, if the explosion was in the firing vault and the people in the lab were those cold-eyed men from the Department of Defense … well that was a whole different picture. That was pats on the back, job offers, and grant money. That was egregia cum laude, a level of graduation honors rarely seen even at MIT.
    Mom actually hugged him that day.
    The people from the DoD brought along a couple of stiffs from DARPA—the Defense Advanced Research Projects Agency. Lots of handshakes, more serious job offers, and doors blown completely open.
    Not that Howard Shelton needed to work. Dad was two years