Brownian Emotion

     The details change, but the scam remains the same. I find my marks on-line, about a thousand suckers at a time. Political donation lists are a good bet for finding the most gullible types. But all I really need is your name and a contact or two. For $40 I can get everything else: phone logs, credit reports, bank statements, even grocery receipts.

     Next comes the bait. I’ll send you an official-looking note: a fake credit card statement, a new phone bill. And I’ll make sure to use all that real data to make it legit, plus an extra line or two: a $1000 charge for porn, a $600 call to Peru.

     Concerned? Then call us at the number below and we’ll correct it right away. But of course, I’ll need to confirm your identity first. Tell me your secrets, and I’ll tell you you’re right: password or PIN, mom’s maiden name, even your home town zip… Biometrics are even better for me. I’ll record your digital statistics and play them back for the bank. As long as you’re stupid, there is no escape—every security scheme known to Man relies on you knowing where to use it and when to shut up. The weakest of them rely on secrecy and the law—as if you could lock your home by suing thieves or disguising the door…

     I just leave it to the Brain—Google Brain—my unconscious search engine, straight to the cerebral cortex.

     Case in point: I woke up this morning, alone, in a swanky hotel suite, somewhere in Canada. I didn’t know where, and I didn’t much care, as long as I was clear of those random US wiretaps. I thought about the day’s news, and I instantly knew: politics, sports, weather, and more. I briefly thought about my location: its history, escape routes and such. And I knew the map of Quebec, in fine detail, all fresh in my memory, as if I’d lived there for years. The Brain even cataloged my own memories, just for me, with near-instant recall.

     Fortunately, I could turn that part off when, say, I needed to avoid leaving evidence of my adventures…

     That seemed to be the case last night. I must have had the memory mode off, and perhaps a bit too much to drink, because, frankly, I didn’t remember shit. The bed sheets were tossed and a bit damp in spots. And the pillows had been amply abused. An empty bottle of rum lay on the ottoman—the good stuff, too.

     Wow. I must have had some fun. I just hoped she was cute. Maybe Indonesian—I always had a soft spot for them. I did have a bit of a hangover, now that I tried to move.

     I sat up, but the pain forced my face back into the depths of my pillow. And just my luck, someone was fucking hard against the headboard in the next room.

     I started the coffee brewing with a mental command. Even the faintest smell of java did wonders for my head.

     Now, some people might say the Brain is a dangerous thing, and I’d have to agree. In the old days, I’d just take out a credit card in your name. But, as with anything else, once I have your identity, I can fake my way to the rest. So why don’t I just peek into your Google Brain account and see what’s what? A new memory added, another one removed… You know, stealing is so much simpler when you wire me $1000 and forget I exist.

     A little cash here, a little there, it all adds up to a way of life. And there’s nothing in this world I can’t touch.

     Okay. There is one form of protection even I can’t crack. It’s called the "One Time Pad" and I use it for my own accounts (because, well, one can never be too careful with all these crooks around…). Before computers, I’d heard, it was an actual pad of paper with some randomized text. Nowadays, I carry a small digital card with a virtual pad inside. Each "page" or "key" is totally random and known only to the sender and receiver of our secret message. Each key is never transmitted, never computed, and never reused, not even in part. There are only two ways to crack such a scheme: be astoundingly lucky or literally steal the pad—and hope the owners don’t find out.

     Goddamn hangover. I forced myself up to get some coffee and maybe a glass of water. But out of the corner of my eye, I noticed something odd. In the closet, I saw a light.

     My hangover suddenly went from a dull throb to a full-on jackhammer. Inside that safe, I’d kept my one-time-pad, my passport, and just about everything else I had.

     Gudump, gudump, gudump, went the sound in my head.

     Yeah, she must have been something! A real knockout…

     But the upside was: she was a total amateur. I mean, if my little friend had been at all smart, she would have switched my pad with a fake, leaving everything else intact. She might have gotten halfway to China before I noticed my codes didn’t work.

     Clearly, she was an idiot. Her incompetence amused me.

     Still, nobody steals from me. That’s my golden rule. I was going to find this bitch and wring her pretty little neck. It wouldn’t be hard. I’d certainly done far worse than that.

     I called Google Trust Corp via the Brain. I heard dull, soothing music in the back of my head. My leg twitched nervously while I waited. It took forever for someone to come on the line.

     The Google agent soon ghosted into my hotel room, her image solidly planted in my mind. She wore the typical perky face of a Malaysian tech, or perhaps Singaporean, who knew?—dark skin and hair, modest bust, and a cute little black uniform, though I’m sure she earned only pennies per day. Poor kid. Outsourcing was such a rip. I just hoped she spoke English…

     "How can I help you?" she said with a smile. Her English was just fine, kind of British style, if a bit over-polite.

     "I think I lost my pad," I tried for starters. Keep it simple, my father once said. He was dead now, which was as simple as it got.

     "The card has a GPS locator," she said. "Once we verify you, I’m sure we’ll get it back. What’s your account number?"

     I tried to recall. "I… I don’t remember."

     She laughed. "That’s not your name, I hope."

     "It’s not funny. I… don’t remember. I don’t remember my own fucking name! Don’t you backup my memory or something?"

     "We perform constant backups, sir. But it may take a day to restore, once we verify your ID, of course."

     There was a hint of snarkiness to her voice, but I let it go. Perhaps she didn’t fully believe I was me?

     "There’s got to be some sort of session cookie in my head. That should have my ID, right?"

     "Sir, we do see the cookie," she said. "But I need you to verify your ID. We take identity protection very seriously at Google Trust. You wouldn’t want anyone impersonating you?"

     "No. Of course not," I said, biting my lip.

     "If your hippocampal interface was overloaded, say with a short, or an overdose of memory drugs, it might impair your long-term recall till your neurons rerouted. Actually, don’t quote me on that. I’m not a med-tech, but I can transfer you if you want. For now, assuming you are you, I suggest you disable the memory subsystem and let’s see if you can manage some natural recall. But don’t turn off the whole implant or we’ll be cut off. Believe it or not, that’s happened before… Do you need any help changing your operating preferences?"

     "No," I said. I’d done it many times. I visualized the wheel of options and shut off the memory subsystem.

     "I like cheese," I said. "I grew up in a beige house."

     "Sir, that’s not very helpful. Do you have a passport perhaps? A plane ticket? Maybe seeing your name will get the natural memories flowing again."

     I looked around. "The bitch stole that too!"

     "So your pad was stolen, not lost," she said with a frown. "That’s a different situation then. There. I’ve just initiated an automatic twelve-hour hold on your account. Your old codes are now invalid. Assuming you’re legit, you’ll still need to verify your identity to re-activate, of course."

     "Of course…" I said, rolling my eyes.

     "Sir, forgive me for being nosy," said the agent. "You seem to be in a hotel room."

     I checked the hotel infozine: "Hôtel Le Dauphin, Quebec… Brilliant." I quick dialed the front desk on the in-room phone.

     "Excuse me," I asked the clerk. "Can you tell me who this room is rented to?"

     "I am sorry sir," the man’s voice said, in his superior, if subservient, Quebecois. "We take identity protection very seriously. You wouldn’t want anyone pretending to be you?"

     "But I’m calling from the room…" I said. "It’s me. I hereby authorize you to waive my privacy in this case."

     "I am sorry, Sir," said the little phone weasel. "Someone calling from your room could be a thief, no?"

     "I’m not a thief! Jesus Christ! Your whole hotel security sucks toads and you think I’m the thief?"

     I collected myself. Time to turn on the con-man charm.

     "The problem is," I said more calmly, but still concerned, "I think I might have been charged for someone else’s mini-bar. Could they have somehow stolen my ID? Can you check it for me?"

     That should do the trick. He paused for a few clicks.

     "No," he said. "Everything seems correct."

     "Then what’s my name?" I asked. "Say my goddamn name."

     "Pardon, Misseur? Perhaps I should call the police?"

     "Idiot!" I screamed, slamming down the phone.

     I sat back on the bed, my shoulders slumping in despair. Even the smell of caffeine didn’t help perk me up now.

     "How could she have erased my real memories too?"

     "Sir?" asked the Google rep, standing idly by. "Are you going to yell at me too? I can get my supervisor if you prefer."

     "No, no," I said. "This is really embarrassing. Look, the bi—the woman who stole my pad—she’s obviously erased my memory. Parts of it anyway." I looked down at the bottle of rum in despair. An overdose of memory drugs? "Christ, How could I be so stupid? I’ve outsourced my whole fucking identity!"

     "It’s understandable, sir," she said. "One-time-pads are virtually uncrackable. But they’re only as good as your own physical security. I suggest you call the police."

     "Great," I lied. "Thanks for your time."

     I had to think fast. No police for me. Not unless I wanted to explain where I’d made all that money. It was up to my and my superior conning skills to figure out what she’d done to me.

     Okay. So I’d blocked the bitch for at least the next twelve hours. My money was safe… assuming she hadn’t already emptied the account…

     What did I know? She must have had access to the safe. That meant she must have known me, or saw me enter the PIN, which is unlikely. Or she worked at the hotel. Ah. That was something.

     And not only that, but if she was going to steal my stash, she’d also need a way to impersonate me to the bank, presumably on-line, unless she was six feet tall with broad shoulders and a goatee. I wasn’t stupid enough to leave my accounts to just one kind of security, no matter how good it was. I’d have biometrics and trick questions and other backup measures in place.

     I got dressed and headed downstairs to the front desk, my hangover all but consumed by my rage, thundering as it was.

     "Excuse me," I asked the clerk, the same man as before, a slight, slick-haired man with a nose like a penguin.

     "How may I help you?" he asked in his snooty way.

     Be creative. "I, ah, parked my car in the hotel lot. But it’s a rental and I guess I forgot the plates. Could you look it up for me? Room 513."

     "Let me see," said the desk wart, waving a few of his fingers at his computer screen. Clearly, he didn’t remember me from the phone call a moment ago. "Yes. A 2008 Chevrolet Suburban. That’s quite a rental."

     "Thanks for the commentary," I said. "The license plate?"

     "Don’t tell me. You take identity protection seriously."

     "But I can have it brought out front for you," he offered. "You’ll need to give the valet your parking ticket of course."

     "By the way," I asked, as if an afterthought, "did you see my woman friend leave? Kind of pretty, cute, in a devious way?"

     "Sir, this is Quebec. We do not notice such things."

     Well, I was in luck for a change. The car was a black Chevy Suburban, beat up, but with US plates. It was no goddamn rental. So all I had to do was run a search of the New York State vehicle registration database. That usually meant little more than thinking about it, as Google Brain did the rest. But I had a twelve hour hold on my account. And so I was blind as a bat. Blinder, even. Bats had sonar, I think… Fucking bitch.

     "Where’s the nearest internet café?" I asked the valet.

     "Maybe the old laundromat, two blocks down Rue Marais," he said, handing me the keys. "Do you have your ticket?"

     "Shit…" I said. I handed the keys back, like a well-meaning kid. "I must have forgotten it in my room… Can I catch you later?"

     "Sir, I can’t let you have the car. I’d get fired." He looked like he was ready to stand his ground. Turns out, I didn’t really need the car anyway.

     "Two blocks?" I said, smiling. "It’s such a nice day."

     I hustled over to the back of the old laundromat. Dozens of washers and dryers sat idle with only three people in the place: two Filipino attendants and one walking prune. The sign on the computer clearly said: "For Patrons Only." Like I gave a shit. I sat next to an old washing machine, running through its spin. There was something oddly comforting about its rickety din.

     I thought I still remembered how to use one of these keyboard/monitor combos. I was twelve when I got my first brain interface—a training account. I remembered that much at least. Actually, I remembered a bunch of stuff from way back then—images mostly. School. Mom. Dad. But not my name…

     I sighed. I was a happy kid, for the most part, always pretty smart, which didn’t earn me many friends. But those I had, were the kind I’d miss. I wondered where they were now.

     And how did I go from that kid to identity thief? Something must have happened to me. But this wasn’t the time to reflect. I’d worry about it when I got my memories back. Right now, I was determined. This bitch wouldn’t get the jump on me—or my loot.

     I started my search, typing one slow key at a time. Just one thing stood in my way: the search would cost me $45 bucks, paying full retail like this. I had enough cash in my pocket…

     "Excuse me," I asked the old woman nearby. She was grunting, bent over, folding her sheets in some pain. "I’d be happy to help you," I offered, "and I’ll give you $50 bucks (US) if you’d do something for me on-line here. I’ll give you the cash up front, and I’ll trust you to charge something for $45."

     "It’s not illegal, is it?" she asked, coming over to see.

     "No, not at all." I said. "It’s from a legitimate service, Verisign approved. See the certificate there in the corner?"

     "I don’t know," she said. "I’ve heard about identity theft on the internet. It’s all so scary."

     "That’s exactly my problem!" I complained. "I’m a victim, and my credit won’t work. They stole everything except my cash. I just need to look up an old friend so I can get home."

     Christ, I realized. This is the sort of woman I might have scammed just yesterday. I could still capture her credit codes if she bit. But somehow, I just didn’t have it in me today.

     "Well, you seem like a nice enough fellow," she said with a sigh. "You should save your cash. You can pay me when you get home, okay? You’ll really help me fold my sheets? That’s sweet."

     The Google agent stood across from me in a cramped bathroom stall. I’d called her back as soon as I got the good news. And I was rather glad she was a ghost, or it might have been a little awkward in here. Not that she wasn’t cute and all. But business was business.

     "Victor Bruce," I told her, as calmly as I could. "459 West 52nd Street, Suite 20H, New York, New York, 10021." I had my name, address, and even my age (32, though I might have lied), but I couldn’t find any pictures of me or anyone I knew.

     That’s not too surprising, given my line of work.

     "Mr. Bruce," she said. "Congratulations. I’ll validate your account. I just need the last six digits of your National ID."

     "I told you I don’t remember anything else!"

     "And you didn’t find your pad yet? You checked the trash?"

     "And the police didn’t help you at all? In a case like this, it’s usually a hustler, or the hotel staff."

     "No, no, Damn it! I tried everything I could."

     "I’m stuck, okay? Why can’t you help me?"

     "Look, if you’re not satisfied with my assistance," she said, "I can always transfer you to another agent…"

     "No, no." I apologized. "I’m sorry I barked. You’re being very helpful. Look, isn’t there always some sort of backup questionnaire for when someone loses their pad?"

     "Sure," she said. "But you said your memory was shot… Are you playing games with me, sir?"

     "No. It’s just worth a shot. What do I have to lose?"

     "Okay then. Question one: what’s the name of your dog?"

     "That would be my childhood dog," I assumed. If I had a current dog, that would be easy enough for anyone to dig up…

     "Georgina," I said, suddenly remembering. I loved that dog.

     "Good," said the rep. "Now the name of your fish?"

     "I… I don’t keep fish," I said. "I hate fish."

     "Correct," she said. "Almost word for word. Last question, Mr. Bruce: at what age did you lose your virginity?"

     "We don’t make these up. They’re customer-supplied."

     Shit. I’d better hope it was before age twelve. But I wouldn’t have hit puberty till thirteen or so… Shit again. I just didn’t remember. That meant I must have been older.

     "Thirteen," I guessed. A shot in the dark.

     "Correct," she said, with a frown. "A bit young, no?"

     "Oh, thank God," I said. I was just too relieved to worry about my moral decay. "Now that I have my money back, I’d offer to buy you a drink… I guess it might be a bit of a commute from Asia of wherever…"

     "Canada," she said, expressionless. "Google likes to keep the network latency low for the best customer service. But we’re simply not allowed to meet, Mr. Bruce. And I’m afraid I have to be a bit of a wet blanket on the money side as well. We can discuss your information now, but we’ll have to replace that pad before you can withdraw or make any changes. It’s an extra level of security for a very special account. Per your instructions."

     "I see," I said. "Um, since my memory is still weak, just how much is in my accounts?"

     "About $42 billion," she said, "in cash and securities."

     I was lucky I was sitting on a toilet. I almost shit.

     "But nothing has been withdrawn for over a month," she said. "You’re a very lucky man, Mr. Bruce."

     That I was, apparently. My God, $42 billion. US?

     "So how do I get the new pad, or find the ones she took?"

     "I’ll have a card with 100 new gigabit keys sent to your home address. The old ones are invalid now, so no worries."

     "Could the new ones be sent to my hotel instead? I have no idea how I’ll get through border security like this."

     "Mr. Bruce—and trust me, I really do sympathize—I could get fired over a stunt like that. I can’t authorize a change of address, not to a foreign country, not to a hotel, and not without substantial documentation, IRS paperwork, Visas, etc…"

     Her face found a frown. "I’m certainly not allowed—"

     "I’m not talking about your job," I said. "I’m talking about your retirement. Would two million dollars make it worth the risk? That would go a long way, even in the Canada."

     "Two million, US?" she whispered. "What would I do?"

     I nodded. "Whatever it takes to get my life back. And help me catch the crook. That’s my offer. You know I’m good for it."

     "It’s not dangerous is it? And how would I know you’d keep up your end?"

     "You’d have to trust me, just like I’m trusting you."

     She closed her eyes, breathing slowly in and out, as if in deep concentration, perhaps summing up the total of her life. She looked at me with a concerned, but affirmative smile.

     "I live in Toronto," she said. "It’s not too far. My name is Chelsea Applegate."

     "Chelsea," I said, with the warmth in my heart. "Call me Victor. I’m glad I met you. I have a good feeling about this."

     "Okay," she said. "I shouldn’t dally. I’ve got work to do. I’ll meet you in the lobby of… you said Le Dauphin? In, say, three hours? And I should have something for you."

     Chelsea Applegate arrived ten minutes late. I know because I’d been pacing under a large clock with a rather annoying tick. She was a little taller than I’d expected, at around five foot six, but as cute as I recalled. She dressed casually this time, just some tight jeans and a tee. But her hair was so perfect, her ears shone like jewels. In her hand, she carried a small purple purse, just big enough to hold the keys to my life.

     She smiled nervously. "Shall we find some privacy?"

     Fortunately, my room was paid up for several more nights—the desk wart could at least tell me that. Chelsea and I made it upstairs without much more talk—just a few passing glances and a few candid smiles. Was she into me? I hoped so, but I couldn’t quite tell. With $42 billion in the bank, did it matter?

     I locked us inside my room as she leapt for the bed.

     "I’m going to need a fake passport," I said, "at least for starts. And some plane tickets. Do you know anyone ‘connected?’"

     "Do I look like I associate with criminals?" she asked. She kicked off her shoes, wiggling her perfect little toes. "You have no idea how hard it was to get this out the door. Can we maybe get this over with so I can get my money and relax?"

     I sat beside her on the bed, putting my hand on her firm, toned shoulder. She smelled wonderfully fresh, but sexy too, musky, like she was already moist inside.

     "No," she said. "Why are you touching me?"

     "I thought for two million dollars…"

     She sat up, indignant. "Mr. Bruce," she said. "It’s one thing to bend the rules for you, get your pad without all the red tape. But you seem to think I’m some sort of prostitute!"

     "Two million dollars," she said, "for the keys to your life. That’s the deal."

     "How about another two million? Just for fun."

     "Pay me first," she said through her teeth.

     So she wasn’t a fool, but a sucker nonetheless. I held out my poor empty hand. "I’m a bit short, till you give me my pad."

     She let out an acquiescent sigh and opened her purse. From inside, she pulled out a plastic card with the golden Google Trust emblem. She also gave me a small black box. It had sixteen keys, arranged in a square, all black and finger-sized—with no symbols and no blinking lights.

     "I recognize the pad," I said. "But what’s with the box?"

     "It’s a muscle memory test," she said. "Your account indicated you’d need it, so I, um, ‘borrowed’ it from the compatibility lab. I guess your fingers must remember the pattern or something. The memory is so basic, it’s not in the cache. It can’t be copied and you can’t forget."

     "Brilliant," I said. "I must be smarter than I remember. Let me give it a try."

     "Wonderful," she said, rolling onto her stomach and propping her head up on her hands. "I’ll write down my Google Trust address for you to send me my money." She grabbed some paper and pen from a nearby night stand.

     I looked down at her as she scribbled, so perfect and tight—and not just her handwriting. I wasn’t sure which I wanted first, the money or a few minutes with that.

     But business was business. I clicked my pad twice and opened a secure connection via the Brain. My fingers caressed the muscle-memory box, just itching to type. Sixteen digits. They seemed to tap out the code on their own.

     And it was done. The box beeped affirmatively. And in my mind’s eye, my accounts appeared as bright as day, all forty-two billion dollars in cash, in bonds, and in fine Google stock.

     "My god, it’s real," I whispered, stunned beyond words. I leaned back on the bed, rolling over to give her a giant hug.

     "It’s real," she whispered. "That it is."

     "You did it, love," she said with a soft kiss on the cheek. "You’re quite the renaissance man. I am duly impressed."

     Renaissance man? Was that my cover? I checked the name on my account. Wait. It wasn’t me. It said something else entirely.

     "Roger Icor?" I said, confused. "Who the fuck is that?"

     Chelsea sat up too. She’d pulled something else from her purse: a small black stun gun, pointed right at me.

     "You," she said, smiling devilishly. "Don’t you remember?"

     "Oh, Vic?" she said. "He’s my boyfriend, sort of—strictly small-time, and a little too neurotic to keep around, but such a stud in bed. We just had several hours of wild unnatural sex, next door, in case you couldn’t tell." She wrinkled her nose. "I was a little worried about the smell. But, then again, men are such twits. I’m just glad I didn’t have to fuck you again. Forty-two billion goes only so far, my friend… So thank you for that. And for this."

     She took my pad and the little black box and put them back inside her purse. She removed one more thing before she zipped it up: an envelope, which she tossed on the bed.

     "Here’s your a passport and ID," she said, "as requested. Oh, and you can keep his piece of shit SUV. He won’t need it."

     Both IDs said Victor Bruce, though they showed my picture.

     "I did," she said. "And between us, you are."

     "Roger, did it ever occur to you why someone with $42 billion would even bother with petty identity theft? You’re a businessman, love, CEO of some security company you started and sold for a mint. Nowadays, they even call it Google Trust."

     What? My stomach lurched a few inches closer to my mouth.

     "But… I called you there?" I cried. "The pad?"

     She shook her head in disdain. "Well, I did work there once… for about a week. No, no one ever deactivated your pad, hon. I just needed the rest of your codes to get in. And by the way, you were not thirteen. Nice try, pinky. I guessed three times till I got it right… But you of all people—you wake up in a hotel room with a memory glitch—you’ve been robbed—and, duh!—you trust a hacked brain link after that? Thank God I had Vic to practice on. I never would have believed it myself."

     I felt the blood draining from my face, the sensation of my slim remaining spirit spiraling down the toilet drain. "But…"

     "I’m only sorry I can’t have you remembering this," she said. "I can’t have you changing your codes now, or wandering around clueless, getting picked up. But on the bright side, you’ll finally have your identity back—well, an identity… You’ll know all of Victor’s petty schemes, his passions, even his dreams—except for me. If you go to the police, you know they’ll arrest you. But you won’t, love. You won’t."

     I felt so faint, so transparent, as if I saw the world from inside out. I fell backwards, landing on a soft pillow, these last few memories spent; my life stolen, my mind no longer me.

     I don’t know how much time has passed since then. Limbo has no clock and no window. I’m my own identity now, just a memory, I guess, a hangover, lost in the great Google cache. Someday, I hope they’ll find me, reunite me, or at least let me go. And until that day, all I can do is remember, and sadly think of me.

     "You know," my thief said, pausing before she pulled the trigger. "I’m really glad we got to talk like this. There are so few people I can really trust. Night, night, Mr. Bruce…"

     I’ll admit I’m a con artist, at least just to you. But if you saw me on the street, you’d never know. I look like a business man. I can charm a rock smooth. And if you think you can trust me, I’ve got something for you.

     Well, the sad thing is, none of it matters much to me, not anymore—not the easy income, not the cleverness, not even the thrill. My girlfriend cheated me—she dumped me—and corrupted my brain. I didn’t realize at first, but I’m finding more clues.

     One of these days, I’ll find her, or someone who knows. And then we’ll see how resourceful I am. When I find her, I’ll catch her and trick her right back. I’ll take her identity, and lock it up tight. And she’ll kiss me, and love me, and wiggle her toes—for me and nobody else.

     # THE END #