Turing's Delirium (37 page)

Your last thought is that you have ceased to think, that in reality you never thought, you were always delirious, that the stranger was right, we're all delirious, you are a delirium, thought is a form of delirium, it's just that some deliriums are less offensive than others.

You wish that your delirium had been inoffensive. You know that it was not, and accept that. You are at peace, and close your eyes.

T
HERE IS A KNOCK
at the door. Kandinsky does not know whether to open it. He has not been out of his apartment for several days. The police wouldn't knock so politely, he tells himself, and he asks who it is.

"Baez."

The response surprises him. Is this some kind of a trick?

"I don't know anyone by that name."

"You know who I am. Trust me. I've got nothing to do with the police."

Kandinsky timidly opens the door to discover a young man with a nervous gaze wearing a brown shirt hanging over the top of his jeans. He lets him in. Baez stops in the middle of the empty room.

"So you're..."

"So you're..."

They embrace cautiously. Despite the fact that they are the only survivors of the Resistance, Kandinsky finds the physical contact strange. It's new—he is used to talking with Baez's avatar in chatrooms or Playground. He doesn't know what to say, nor does he understand what is happening. He waits for Baez to speak.

"I didn't picture your apartment like this. I don't know. Just not so empty, so minimalist. Messier. The walls covered in posters."

"Of hackers I admire? There are none."

"Revolutionary emblems, something along those lines."

"The walls covered in graffiti? I don't need any of that here."

Baez walks over to the corner where the computer is. He touches the keyboard.

"I can't believe I'm in the presence of the great Kandinsky."

"How did you find me?"

"Easy. Anyone can, and someone else soon will. I knew the name of your avatar as head of the Restoration in Playground. Remember, I used to work for the company in charge of Playground before I went to the Black Chamber. I was responsible for the private files that contain the real identities of all the players. We were under strict orders not to reveal them, not even to our families. If we did, we'd be fired."

Kandinsky feels stabs of pain and clasps his hands.

"Do they hurt? You'd better take care of yourself—we need you. As I was saying, sometimes I would pass names to a friend of mine who's a Rat. I discovered a flaw in the system, a way that I could gain access from the outside without anyone's suspecting me. When I quit, I would still hack into the system to get a name or two and earn a few pesos when the Rat sold them. I went in to find out who was behind BoVe a long time ago. I found out where you lived but decided to keep it a mystery. I would come see you only when I had to. It was easy for me because I knew what I was looking for, but I guess someone in the police will think of it and put two and two together at some point."

Kandinsky gives a hint of a smile. He had been right to see Baez's potential as a meticulous hacker. The corporation in charge of Playground, a favorite target of hackers, has a nearly impenetrable security system that has managed to stop the majority of those who try to get past it.

"So why did you want to talk to me, if I might ask?"

"Because Ramírez-Graham, my boss at the Black Chamber, is after the Resistance, and he's getting closer and closer to finding you. He's being helped by that girl from AllHacker."

"She's just a stupid little girl. We shouldn't be afraid of her."

"I have a lot of respect for her. She knows all about us. And she's lethally efficient. Thanks to her, hackers have fallen in the past. Well-known hackers."

"You're talking about a woman."

"Indeed. They say there are no good women hackers. But there are exceptions to the rule, and she's one of them."

"Was it thanks to her that your boss had the other members of the Resistance killed?"

"No. I took care of that."

Kandinsky waits for some indication from Baez that he is joking, but is surprised by his seriousness.

"My boss ... Ramírez-Graham was going to get to them sooner or later," Baez says. "He has excellent people around him. And they, under pressure, would have wound up talking. So I hired someone through my friend the Rat to take care of them. The last one, Rafael Corso, was eliminated just minutes after he met with Flavia. I don't know if he told her everything or not—I have no idea how much she knows. But extreme situations require extreme measures on our part. They had to be sacrificed for the greater good. And I'm willing to sacrifice myself for the cause—ours, the Restoration's, the Resistance's."

There is a fanaticism in Baez's voice that Kandinsky never expected to hear. Yes, he knew that Baez was one of the most dedicated activists, dating back to the anarchist neighborhood in Playground; he had been right to include him in the Resistance. But something about Baez scares him: his decision, perhaps, to see people as expendable cogs in the wheel. Baez said he was responsible for the deaths of three fellow hackers. There was no remorse; it was as if he were just another of those disturbed kids who spend hours in front of a monitor, so absorbed in Playground that in the end they can't distinguish between virtual deaths inside and real deaths outside it. That had never happened to Kandinsky; he was very clear about the separation between the two worlds. That one was more absurd and mundane than the other was another matter. With all of its defects and injustices, the real world was the objective of Kandinsky's struggle.

"You had them killed? Our comrades? Just like that?"

"It wasn't an easy decision to make. But I have a plan, and once you hear it, you'll agree that it was the best way to save the group. Are you OK?"

Kandinsky lets his arms fall limply by his sides. He can no longer feel his hands; it is as if they are asleep. Just his left hand used to be affected, so he had started typing only with his right. Now it is also in pain.

"Go on, go on. Don't worry about me."

"I was no one before I met you. I wasted my days going to and from work, with no direction. Working for the company in charge of Playground was a revelation. There I felt like I was using my talent for the enemy. I realized that a good job wasn't enough—I had to find a cause I could believe in passionately, one I could live for. And die for."

Baez paces as he talks, waving his arms, looking at Kandinsky with fervor in his eyes. Kandinsky is used to dominating situations and does not know how to take back the initiative.

"Then I found you and I found direction," Baez continues. "It all made sense all of a sudden. You taught me so much. With so many followers, you chose me. Even now, I can't believe I'm standing in front of you. You chose me, and I want to pay you back for what you did for me. I want you to let me be Kandinsky."

"You want to be me?"

"I'll assume your identity in Playground in order to confuse Flavia. My boss ... Ramírez-Graham will set his people on my trail. They'll find me and believe they've found Kandinsky. They'll send me to jail, congratulate one another on their victory, and think they've solved the problem. Kandinsky will remain a hero, an icon of the rebellion against neoliberalism and globalization. You'll disappear for a few months and then reappear on the Net under another identity. Maybe you'll be a disciple of Kandinsky's, someone willing to continue the struggle. You'll recruit people, and the Resistance will rise up out of the ashes. With me in jail as Kandinsky, we'll keep the myth alive, and with you free, your technological prowess will still be at the service of the great cause..."

Baez pauses and clears his throat.

"You're looking at me as if I'm crazy. I'm not. Do you think I'm confusing the real world with the virtual world? Not at all. That's why I want to sacrifice myself. That's why I want you to stay alive."

Once Baez has finished talking, Kandinsky is convinced that the plan, as risky as it is improbable, is worthy of his admiration. For the first time ever, he finds himself in front of someone who he feels is more intelligent and passionate than himself. And the ironic thing is that this person admires
him
and has just used his intelligence and passion to offer
him
an escape route. Kandinsky should really tell him that
he
is the one who should sacrifice himself to let Baez escape.

He does not. He approaches and embraces Baez.

"I hope you'll visit me in jail one day," Baez says. "Using a different identity, of course."

Kandinsky watches Baez's face. A shadow has fallen over it, and there is something tragic that does not match his joking tone of voice.

 

Two days later, Kandinsky learns of Baez's death during a shootout at the Black Chamber. The media splash color photos of an adolescent Baez and speak of the end of Kandinsky and the dismantling of the Resistance. Montenegro's only victory amid so many recent failures, they say.

Upon seeing the photos, Kandinsky understands what led an anonymous person to choose such a glorious death. He understands better why Baez did everything that he did. There had been a strange mix of arrogance and generosity in his plan. Baez had decided to leave the world by playing God, and while he was at it to create a heroic past, a mythology that would save him from obscurity. Kandinsky is alive, but he feels that his identity has been usurped. He hadn't thought of it like that when he accepted Baez's plan. Perhaps he should have just continued to be Kandinsky—whoever he was—until the end.

There is no time for lamentations. Kandinsky has to think about what to do next. His fingers drum painfully in the air. The first step: go see a specialist.

 

When he is discharged from a clinic in Santa Cruz with his hands bandaged, he at last feels free to go home to his parents' house. His brother watches him get out of a taxi and come inside with the taxi driver, who is carrying his suitcase. Esteban doesn't stop him; perhaps he has been caught off guard by the determination in Kandinsky's gestures, his decisive steps, his conviction at reclaiming a space that never entirely ceased being his.

Kandinsky will hug his parents and tell them that he has missed them. They will ask about his hands, and he will tell them that he fractured a couple of fingers during a fight. He will set himself up in what was once his room, asking his brother to forgive the intrusion, promising not to bother him. He will roll out his sleeping bag on the floor and take a long nap. When he awakes, he will prepare for more questions during dinner. He had better tell them the truth about his hands; after all, it isn't anything compromising. He will invent an identity like Baez's: he had been certified as a programmer, started to work for the company in charge of Playground, then quit because he felt he was working for the enemy. Poetic justice, after all.

He hopes to stay at his parents' for a few months, at least until he turns twenty-one. He will spend that entire time away from computers, letting his fingers rest. Then he will return to the attack. He has already thought of the name for his new group: KandinskyLives.

This novel is a corrected and improved version of the original in Spanish, thanks to the excellent suggestions made by Anton Mueller, my editor at Houghton Mifflin. The entire editorial team is first-rate and I am glad to be part of this publishing house. Lisa Carter worked so hard to achieve an impeccable translation that I will forever be indebted to her. My wife, Tammy, revised the manuscript with me and is my greatest support. Willie Schavelzon, my agent, has always believed in me and gently pushed me when necessary; I thank him and everyone who works with him at the agency for their constant efforts to spread my work.

Every novel needs many books behind it in order to provide texture. I will mention three about cryptanalysis that helped me when writing
Turing's Delirium: The Code Book: The Science of Secrecy from Ancient Egypt to Quantum Cryptography
by Simon Singh;
The Codebreakers: The Comprehensive History of Secret Communication from Ancient Times to the Internet
by David Kahn; and
Code Breaking by
Rudolf Kippenhahn.

Ithaca, January 2006