The Digital Dream Read online

  Until recently, everything in her life followed a pattern. School, casual over-achievement, proud parents, her first job, the fairytale marriage to a man even her father approved of. A nice Catholic boy. Harvard graduate, lawyer, star quarterback. They got married in a park, under elm trees, on a warm Chicago summer’s day. Honeymooned in Hawaii. She thought she’d been happy. She thought she made him happy. Until one day she returned home and he wasn’t there. Not even a note. He rang her up, later, as if he was afraid to face her. It wasn’t that he never loved her, he said. He still loved her, in a way. But he’d been working late, night after night, with this woman in the office—she’d met her, at the Christmas function, if she remembered—and, well, they were thrown together and things just happened…

  She’d put the phone down gently. Hadn’t cried. Had never cried. Too much control. She’d closed up the apartment, unable to bear the photographs and ornaments they’d bought together, the bed… She allowed herself to wonder, just once, if some other woman had lain here with him, some nights when she was away on business. Knew it was true. Still didn’t cry.

  But it comes to her now, what this means. Her Catholicism has always been a part of her life, since she was a baby. She’d accepted and never thought about the knots its silken ropes could tie around a life. There could be no divorce. Her church would not stand it and neither would her parents. As long as she or her husband lived, he would be her husband. Unless he divorced her… She had wondered, at times, whether that would happen, but there had been no moves from his side. His family was Catholic, too. His father was a lawyer, like him, a partner in a central-Chicago law office, and she guessed that his parents would never accept divorce from their son, either.

  Her thoughts shift to Ross. He’s mentioned his ex-wife. A fellow sufferer. When she sees him, she’s conscious of a start like static in some hidden part of her being. Her upbringing had been strict, the family home a defense against the permissiveness of society. She had been a virgin when she married but, after the discomfort and embarrassment of the wedding night, she’d discovered a passionate nature that had taken her by surprise. She thinks of Ross’s thin face, the way he leans, slightly, towards her as he talks to her. The sinews in his wrists as his hands rest on a desk next to hers. If she was another woman… She stops herself. The fact that they are colleagues is the least of the problems. She is still married.

  16

  When I get home, the quiet apartment holds another answering machine message from Michelle. The recorded voice is carefully neutral. She wants to invite me for dinner at her house.

  I sit and think about her but the memory of Kathleen, close and disturbingly peaceful during the car ride to her parents’ house, intrudes. She’s so hard to read. I wonder if I have any effect on her as, I have to admit, at last, she has on me.

  I’ll never find out. The firm’s rules are clear on the subject of personal relationships between staff members. There aren’t to be any. I’d probably only make a fool of myself anyway. She must be ten years younger than me.

  I turn on the TV and tune to CNN, sitting in my recliner, remote on lap. Waiting. Eventually, it starts. Breaking news. It’s nothing direct from Adobe Flats, though. Instead, again, it’s the politician, Garner. Once again, he’s in the remote studio, being interviewed over a video link. Despite the lateness of the hour, he looks fresh and alert. Unbelievably clean-cut. Features perfectly regular. Wavy hair strand-perfect. Teeth blindingly white. I confirm earlier suspicions. I could easily hate the bastard.

  He’s good, though. He manages to communicate the impression of warmth and friendliness even while his impeccable features are arranged in a frown. He smiles every third sentence. I listen as he conveys the message that certain sources have given him information that a serious breach of security has occurred in a government research center. Electronic terrorists, a key phrase. The ease with which they have penetrated a supposedly top-secret establishment demonstrates that this administration has allowed itself to grow complacent. The world is changing fast and the old guard cannot adjust. The new technology is beyond them. They are unable to cope.

  Worse, they are now trying to cover up a disaster. Contamination from a germ warfare center, performing experiments in a new realm of horror. Opening a Pandora’s box. Too ignorant to control its contents. Reaping the whirlwind. His information is that a genetically engineered disease has got loose. Many are dead. The authorities are panicked. He challenges the government to come clean and admit their mistakes, for the good of the community.

  His sources? He smiles sadly as he considers. He must protect confidentiality, he says at last. Yet, somehow, he manages to imply that influential figures in the government’s service have no faith in their political masters. That they can only trust a new man, such as he, one who understands both the uses and dangers of the frightened new world and the need for vigilance and courage and strong leadership.

  The news reports start coming in before he even finishes talking. Reporters rushing to the Adobe Flats complex are halted by bright lights over cordons of troops. The nation is entertained by the live footage of ranks of grim-faced marines, rifles slung across chests. The wind-swept ranges sprawl behind them in the moonlight. In the distance, under more lights, the wire fences and squat buildings of Adobe Flats lurk in a thin mist, like the outskirts of a remote and sinister city.

  I sit and watch. Emotions on hold. The government moves quickly. A rapidly prepared statement admits that, yes, there has been an incident but that it is under control and there is no risk of infection spreading. In the farms and towns around Adobe Flats, terrified householders ignore calls for calm and throw belongings into cars before heading off into the distance. TV cameras pick up lines of headlights along country highways.

  After midnight. Another report, just in. The government frantically tries to restore credibility. The FBI, working with a local sheriff’s office, have moved quickly to detect and arrest the perpetrator of the previous day’s outrage.

  The media move just as quickly. All night long, commentators are able to indulge, on behalf of the nation, in an orgy of introspection on the use of technology and the implications on society arising from the fact that the Adobe Flats terrorist attack has been committed by a teenage boy. Under questioning, the boy refuses to name accomplices, claiming that he had been acting in isolation.

  When FBI computer experts examine the boy’s personal computer, no trace of any involvement by others is found. The government would be happy to find evidence of collusion but is forced to concede that the teenage hacker may, just, have had the amazing luck to find a gap in their defenses, a billion-to-one chance that will never be repeated.

  ***

  What else? That’s the extent of the media releases. We know more now, of course. Just a few of us. Those blessed or cursed with the preternatural knowledge of omniscient computer networks.

  See, Washington’s gradual admission that a small number of people have died in Adobe Flats owes more to damage limitation than accuracy. The press lines are moved back—for their own safety, of course, as the quarantine line is extended. No media helicopters are allowed overhead. F-16 jets and helicopter gunships from the nearby Johnstone Air Force Base patrol the skies.

  The authorities are careful to ensure that the fifty-seven caskets removed by space-suited figures from the research establishment are taken under conditions of the greatest secrecy and transported to an incinerator—normally used for animals—on the other side of the research campus. Contingency plans are activated for dealing with grieving relatives. Each of the bereaved will be advised that matters of national security are involved and that, if they are loyal to their country and to the memory of their loved ones, they will never talk to others about their loss.

  On the wide ranges, soldiers pour napalm down burrows and set them alight. Away from the eyes of the world’s press, escaping gophers are quietly machine-gunned. Understated overkill. Shotguns blast rats and birds. No living thing passe
s the plague line.

  In time, the contagion can be regarded as contained. Reassuring statements are issued to the local residents. Come home, all is secure.

  Cynics among the media commentators comment that the most serious consequence to the government is likely to be yet another drop in the polls. With weeks to go before the election, the President stands to lose what had been a healthy lead over his main opponent and the fragmented lost support is sure to give Stephen Garner, white knight champion of freedom of information, a welcome fillip.

  The cameras, indeed, return to Stephen Garner like virgin lovers to a seducer. He assures his audience that a gain in popularity against his more established opponents is the last thing on his mind and that now is a time for putting politics aside and grieving for those who have died, commiserating with those who have lost loved ones. The idea that his candidature could gain from the tragedy was, of course, furthest from his mind when he decided to do his duty to the people of this nation. He would never wish to prosper at the expense of the folks he only desired to serve.

  A snap poll of television viewers in the Washington area shows that many are touched by the sincerity of his words. His personal approval rating rises from low single figures to the mid teens.

  PART FOUR

  1

  Message board www.urban-destructor.com

  Cowboy U got the stuff U promised?

  Speck One better. Try home shopping home page on address below. Seedright fertilizer and sugar available in bulk supply from same merchant! For detonators, refer mine of 25/2.

  ***

  Maybe I slept. I can’t remember.

  Early morning news bulletins.

  I sit stunned as I try to comprehend the enormity of what has happened: and the fact that, despite all our efforts of the previous day, we have apparently failed to avert a tragedy. I sit at the kitchen table and try to think clearly. I wonder if we will now have to report our findings to the authorities. Maybe, with the alleged terrorist under arrest, it will be safe to do so. Better, though, that I talk to Kathleen first. If there is any risk involved, I could be placing her in potential danger as well as myself.

  I need to talk to her anyway. The calm security of my world is rocked. Career moves and new cars lose a measure of importance when people have died. I need to talk. I realize that I’ve come to value her calmness and ability to think clearly under stress. I wonder what she’ll be going through now, assuming that she’s heard the news. I consider trying to trace her on the phone. Unsure whether she would welcome a call to her parents’ house, I decide to hold off and meet her, as we arranged the previous night, at work.

  The inside of my head feels like cotton wool and I’m now running late. I shower quickly, dress, leave for work. The radio DJ reports that the traffic’s solid on the freeway. I leave the car behind and take the bus. Crowded in, I’m pushed against an old man with halitosis. A large woman clutching carrier bags keeps stepping on my toes. My day is not improving.

  Back on the street, at last, I trudge to the office. Workmen are digging up the sidewalk outside the building and I walk to the door with my ears being battered by the din of pneumatic drills. At least the sun has finally banished last week’s puddles: maybe things are getting better. I skirt the hole in the sidewalk cautiously and make my way into the building and up the stairs. Settling into my office, I force myself to think logically, considering a plan of action that has been gradually forming in my mind. I place a phone call to Mac, locating him in the offices of another client. I swear the ex-cop to secrecy and then outline the events of the night before, pausing while the other man gives vent to noisy and frequently profane expressions of incredulity. I’ve started to work out my plan of attack, see? Once McAllister has recovered from the shock, I ask him to run a trace on Blackdawn Importing, the company at the heart of the phantom network. Anything else he can find out...

  I gather morning newspapers from the stand by the front desk. They all contain blaring headlines about the events at Adobe Flats. Opening USA Today, I skim pages looking, almost without realizing it, for any sign that computer users may be experiencing problems. Nothing. Maybe the whole phantom network thing is just a silly mistake. There’s nothing in any of the other papers but, on the inside pages of the Chicago Tribune and the New York Times, I notice signs that, even without the morning’s revelations, the politician Garner is getting publicity. His campaign seems to be gathering momentum: last night, he held simultaneous rallies all over California, appearing before each audience on giant television screens. According to the press reports, there were enthusiastic turnouts from his supporters. Meanwhile, the President has being speaking in his home state but it seems that he has been outshone by the Garner extravaganza: in contrast, the current incumbent of the White House seems colorless and unexciting and the reports imply that even the crowd of party faithful has been uncharacteristically subdued.

  One report starts to talk about “The Garner Phenomenon.”

  ***

  Shortly afterwards, Kathleen knocks lightly on my door and enters the office. Her face looks drawn. I stand up quickly and pull a chair over for her. She manages a smile but I can see the tension beneath the calm surface.

  “Obviously you’ve see the news broadcasts,” I say.

  She buries her face in her hands. “Yes. I don’t know what to make of it. I keep thinking that we failed. That I failed. That somehow I should have done more. God knows how many people may have died...”

  “It’s not your fault. Without you, it could have been much worse. At least it looks as though the authorities have quarantined the area. Let’s hope that that’s enough to stop the infection from spreading.”

  “I hope it is. Still, I...”

  “It’s not your fault,” I repeat. “We did everything we could.”

  She looks at me, large eyes wide. I feel a surge of human emotion amidst the desolate thoughts of malevolent technology. I have an almost overpowering urge to wrap my arms around her and I wonder how she would react if I did. Control, Ross. The relationship is meant to be professional. In any case, I can already see her rallying and I know that her inner strength is re-asserting itself.

  “I’ve still been wondering,” I say, “whether we should contact the FBI and tell them what we know. After all, we can’t very well carry on investigating this thing on our own and if they’ve caught the person responsible...”

  “It’s up to you,” she replies. “But...”

  “What?”

  “It may be that I’m being paranoid, but I don’t think that the boy they caught is the end of it. Do you remember yesterday that I thought that there might be someone else in the network?”

  “Yes, but...”

  “I can’t offer any proof, I’m afraid. It’s a hunch as much as anything else. I just have the feeling that there was another presence, watching what was going on. For some reason, I think we have more to fear from that person, whoever it is, than from any teenage boy.”

  “So what do you want to do?”

  “For now, I think we should continue on our own. Just for a day or two, maybe. I think that we’re either going to come up against a brick wall or we’ll find out what’s going on. Whatever, when something happens, we can decide what to do next. Either we quietly forget it or we send a coded message through to the FBI and let them take over.”

  “There’s no reason why we can’t do that now,” I point out.

  “I know. Two reasons why I don’t think we should. Firstly, we don’t know who we’re up against. What if we pass our information on and it falls into the wrong hands? I know,” she goes on as I start to object, “it sounds paranoid. But it’s me who was communicating with the system, remember. I just got this weird feeling... I can’t explain it.”

  “And the second reason?”

  Another sad smile. “It’s got kind of personal. Once I’ve started something, I hate to stop before I’ve finished.”

  I pinch the bridge of my nose between thumb
and forefinger, trying to think clearly. “All right, we’ll hold off on telling anyone else, apart from Mac. What do you think we should do now?”

  She stands and walks to the window, shaking her head so that her hair tumbles over her shoulders. “Actually,” she says, “I have a few ideas that I’d like to try. I’d like to carry on using the computers in the office at Amalgamated Metalworkers, if we can get their approval.”

  I pick up the telephone and call the client to beg a further day’s use of the small office. No problem: it seems the usual occupant will be on the second week of his training course. Kathleen waves at me and departs with a brighter smile.

  I feel momentarily cheered. Then I glance at my in-tray and groan.

  2

  CHICAGO POLICE DEPARTMENT

  INCIDENT REPORT LOGGING SYSTEM

  MENU OPTIONS

  1. REPORTS CLOSED

  2. REPORTS OPEN

  3. UNPROSECUTED COMPLAINT REPORTS

  ENTER NUMBER TO PROCEED

  Predator leans over the keyboard. He’s heard on the boards about the arrest of Stryka. Underdogg is shitting himself. The word is Stryka’s keeping quiet, though. No stoolie, this guy. He won’t talk no matter what the pigs threaten him with. The thought of Stryka in a cell overcomes his fear and stokes the anger and resentment that lie ever close to the surface of his life. Now it’s a point of honor that he has to continue the good work. He hunches in the wheelchair, head low between his shoulders. In the gloom of the curtains-drawn room, he looks like a shadowed bird of prey.

  Or, he thinks, some stricken genius. The phantom of the opera, 1920s style. He extends the first finger of his right hand and depresses a button with a flourish, like flickering black-and-white Lon Chaney caressing the keys of the great organ.