The Oracle Year(60)
The room fell silent, except for the rattling of the keys.
“Will that work?” the Coach asked.
“Does it sound like it will work?” Staffman snapped. “I’ll keep it going for as long as I can. We’ll lose parts of the grid for sure, but hopefully I can maintain enough processing power to crack the Oracle’s security before we lose too many machines.”
The Coach rested a hand on Staffman’s shoulder, its psychological weight all out of proportion to its physical weight.
“Listen, son, if there’s anyone who can do this, it’s you. I wouldn’t have put you on my team if you couldn’t do ten impossible, sorry, ten improbable things before breakfast, as Lewis Carroll put it. I’ll let you work, but just know I’ve got all the faith in the world in you.”
Despite his personal distaste for the woman, despite knowing that the Coach had threatened his life not ten minutes ago, Staffman felt a blush of motivation flow through him. The lady had a gift, that’s all there was to it.
“Wait and see, Coach,” he said. “We’ll have him.”
Chapter 23
“It’s a bad idea, Will,” Hamza said. “That’s all I’m saying.”
“It’s all you’ve been saying for three days,” Will answered. “How about you just let it go?”
The light changed, and they crossed Lafayette. Hamza watched, frustrated, as Will stopped and peered along the street.
“Was it on Great Jones?” Will asked.
“I don’t know,” Hamza said. “Look it up.”
“I’ve been to this place before. I know it’s around here. Let’s go this way, and if we don’t see it in a block or two I’ll check it on my phone.”
“Or you could just look it up now.”
Will shot him a glance.
“What’s your problem tonight, Hamza?” he said.
“My problem is not tonight. My problem is long-standing and eternal. My problem is this: it makes no sense to give our whole goddamn game away to some stupid website. I mean, Christ, Will, if we had to do this, at least we could have gotten it on TV. Or the New York Times or something.”
Will rounded on Hamza.
“TV? Every stupid talking head on every news show takes potshots at me. And all those televangelists preaching that I’m the devil—that fucker Branson and all his cronies, with their Detectives for Christ bullshit.”
“Easy,” Hamza said.
“Branson’s almost mellow compared to some of the stuff coming from people overseas,” Will went on, his eyes tight. “They’re talking about declaring a . . . shit, what the hell is it? The Salman Rushdie thing.”
“A fatwa,” Hamza said. “I did notice that, actually. You’ve got both Sunni and Shiite leaders united on that point. That’s impressive. Get a rabbi on board and the Oracle might just get peace going in the Middle East.”
“Hilarious,” Will said, a sharp edge to his tone.
Hamza held up a hand, palm out.
“Peace. Listen, I’m just saying—you don’t have to do an interview,” he said. “You could post something about the Oracle’s intentions up on the Site.”
“The Site’s the problem!” Will answered. “The only real contact anyone has with the Oracle is a bunch of words on a computer screen. When I was down in Florida, talking to the Ladies about the Oracle, they were terrified. And they work for us!
“We kept the Site up once we figured out that the predictions were connecting so we could speak to the world if we needed to, use its influence in a positive direction. But if everyone’s just getting more and more frightened, how’s that going to work? We need to turn that around. I want a chance for people to see that I’m nothing to be scared of, that I’m a person, not some freak.
“That’s not even the main part, either. We need to tell people about what the Site’s doing. Having more brains on it just makes sense. I almost think we have to do that. This is bigger than us. It always was.”
“Will, if you tell the world about all the terrible things that are happening because of the Site, hell, even if you do it anonymously . . . they’ll blame the guy who put it up. You and I know you didn’t create the predictions—they aren’t yours—but the world won’t make that distinction. They’ll blame the Oracle. They’ll blame you.”
“Maybe that doesn’t matter,” Will said. “Maybe telling people about all this is more important.”
Hamza shoved his hands in his pockets and gave Will a direct look. They stared at each other, standing on the cold, East Village sidewalk.
“What?” Will shouted, finally.
“I’m just trying to protect you,” Hamza said. “And I’m trying to protect myself, and Miko, and our kid. Just . . .”
He trailed off, watching Will’s face, hoping to see some sign of agreement. Understanding, even. He’d take what he could get.
“Okay,” Will said, finally. “I’m sorry. I mean it. You’re right. I wasn’t thinking straight. All of this . . . it’s just so heavy. The idea of setting it down, letting someone else handle it . . . it sounded really good, for a while.”