The Digital Dream Page 3
“What damage signs?”
I press keys and peer at the new display that forms on the terminal. Modern satellites routinely have multiple collisions with the debris that litters inner space, ninety-nine percent of it man-made, the result of past accidents and intentional explosions as old birds are taken out of service. The indicators show that REGNAR’s shields have taken over two hundred such impacts so far but they’ve all been within design parameters and none have caused damage.
“Clear,” I call.
“What’s her position now?”
“138 degrees West, veering 0015.”
“Fuck. What’s near there?” Lorca’s voice has lost its easy New England drawl now, I notice. He sounds faintly Latin and seriously worried.
“Trace 1302,” says Schwartz. “That’s a Hughes APSTAR. Commercial comms bird. There’s another over here.” Schwartz points to the screen display. “Trace 409. Don’t know what that is. Not one of ours, or the Europeans. Probably Chinese or Russian. Further on we’ve got 199. That belongs to INTELSAT.”
I get up and walk over to peer past Lorca’s shoulder. “Check the course,” I suggest. Schwartz appears not to hear me, lost in concentration as he tracks other, more distant, satellites. “Check the fuckin’ course,” screams Lorca.
Schwartz types new commands and the screen display refreshes. “Oh shit.”
I return at the run to the other terminal. I hit keys like they’re a rapist’s face. “Lorca. Here.”
Lorca jogs over to the desk.
“I’m getting something back,” shouts Schwartz. “According to this, the other bird’s Chinese and we’re straight on to the bitch.”
“Oh fuck,” breathes Lorca. Sweat falls from his face onto the desk. The Spanish accent becomes more pronounced. “What more do we got on her?”
“Fuck all. She could be a spy.”
“Atomic?”
“Possible.”
“Oh, fuck, fuck, fuck.”
I stay calm and enter commands. At least this screen is still working. More instructions. Display of the positions of the two birds. Course holding now. No correction going through. We watch the screen as the two dots move inexorably towards each other. I try more commands but none make any difference.
“Come on, you motherfucker.” Lorca’s voice grows steadily higher with tension. I wonder if he is swearing at me, the satellite, the computer, or all three of us.
We are helpless.
6
He keeps away for a short while but the system drags his mind towards it like a matchstick to a whirlpool. It’s an addiction. He can’t live without it.
That thing before. He must have got spooked. Imagined half of it. Anyway, the connect is long gone. Turning off the system gets rid of all links.
He sits in front of the screen. His hands are steady now. He turns the machine on and watches it go through its warm-up and error checking routines.
A game perhaps. Something harmless. He remembers that he had been halfway through the “Sex Sirens of Titan” game the previous week. Time to find out how Sporrywinkle the Pluto Pervert is going to get out of the Altarian HyperBrothel. When we left our hero he had been in the clutches of the multi-bosomed nymphomaniac octopus-person from Raga-4. Death through ecstasy looms.
Sikpuppi begins to key the instruction that will re-start the game and it’s a moment before he realizes that the characters he is typing are not appearing on the screen.
> I’m still here, sikpuppi.
“Oh shit, fuck, shit.” Muttering, stomach churning. “You bastard.” This is fuckin’ impossible! Turning the computer off breaks any connection to other machines. Maybe it’s a dream. He closes his eyes for a few seconds and opens them slowly. The message is still there and, as he watches, more words begin to form. The letters appear slowly, quite unlike the normal crisp image, each letter starting as a ghostly outline and slowly building in intensity until it glows from the screen. The letters hold him in a dread fascination and for a while the message that they spell does not penetrate his mind.
> You thought you could turn me off, didn’t you sikpuppi?
> It’s not as easy as that. I know too much now.
His hand reaches out and hovers over the off switch while he tries to think. He has a sudden horrible feeling that he is in real deep shit. He forces himself to stop and consider. Rational and creative thought is beyond any computer, he knows that. And yet this seems so... His mind struggles with the concepts. He is beginning to suspect that he is actually dealing with a human being. It’s like some bastard is playing games. He fights down the fear and makes himself think. Be rational. Cool. Just like Mulder on the X-Files. Logical, like Mr Spock on the old Star Trek reruns. He loves Mr Spock. The thought of his hero calms him. He raises an eyebrow in unconscious imitation of the great Vulcan. Slowly, his hands return to the keyboard.
o How did you get here?
> I’m everywhere, sikpuppi.
o How do you know who I am?
> It’s not hard, sikpuppi. I know a lot about you.
“Oh yeah?”
o Like what?
> I know lots of things. Like, for instance, about the CPD report on you. The police didn’t press charges because the parents of the little boy wanted to keep it quiet. But it’s on record. Mr and mrs irwin won’t be having you back again to baby-sit, will they?
“Oh shit, no.” His stomach rumbles again. Sudden nausea. He feels like his face is burning up. There’s no way anyone can know out about that.
> You won’t really want anyone else to hear about it, will you, sikpuppi?
He’s too shocked to make any pretense of talking to Godzilla or the computer screen. His voice is thin and wheedling. “Nobody knows about that. It isn’t anything, anyway. Nobody knows about it.”
He stops. Shakes his head. Rational. Logical.
o I don’t know what you mean.
> Yes you do, sikpuppi. All reports get stored away, you see. They’re all there, if you know where to look.
> What do you think your friends will say, sikpuppi?
To hell with rational. To hell with logic. And Mr Spock could just go suck a Klingon’s ...
This time he will go out. He needs a walk. Fresh air. Anything away from this dump.
He reaches for the off switch. Just before he presses it, another message flashes onto the screen.
> You can’t get rid of me that easily, sikpuppi.
7
In space, I’ve heard, the silence and the distances make movement seem slower than it really is. REGNAR continues to nose its way forward, edging closer to the other bird. The sun still gleams off its hull. Through a powerful telescope it would seem like two bright stars converging. Partners at a ball, moving together for the waltz. Blue Danube. 2001 and Strauss all over again.
I type in new commands, then sit back in amazement. The message appearing on the screen is one I’ve never seen before.
8
CHICAGO POLICE DEPARTMENT. CENTRAL RECORDS
INCIDENT REPORT LOGGING SYSTEM
RESTRICTED USER STATUS
SUB-SYSTEM ACCESS APPROVED
The boy’s logon is Predator. He looks at the screen suspiciously. This has been too easy. He’s been surfing, passing time while he waits to hear from his comrades in arms. It’s like this has just fallen from the sky, straight into his lap.
Police records? There are rumors... There are always rumors. Local boys, maybe. Or the Germans, dialing in from Hamburg. Or the Chinese, cool and denying of terrorist claims, and who the fuck really knows what they’re about? But police systems? They’re said to be sound. Only one step down from the military systems, which, despite all the crap you hear, are mostly impregnable.
He nudges the ENTER key. The screen changes.
CHICAGO POLICE DEPARTMENT. CENTRAL RECORDS
INCIDENT REPORT LOGGING SYSTEM
MENU OPTIONS
1. REPORTS CLOSED
2. REPORTS OPEN
3. UNPROSECU
TED COMPLAINT REPORTS
ENTER NUMBER TO PROCEED
Suspicious. It’s been too easy. Predator’s day involves logging on to a series of boards, just to rap with buddies, see what’s happening. One of them, belonging to an anarchist group out of London, England, contained a posting with the codes listed. Dropped there some time during the last twenty-four hours by another user who had left a false email address. According to the posting, the codes would give access to a “fascist running dog” computer “with interesting results!!!!” Fuckin’ coincidence. It’s linked through to Chicago. His city. Too much coincidence. It’s almost certainly bullshit...but shit sometimes hides pearls. These things do happen. There were stories that the Krauts at the Chaos Computer Club had gotten into a US Defense Department system, through pure chance: the word was that an authorized programmer had coded in a fast access “trapdoor” with only his own name as a password. The Chaos guys had stumbled on that one by mistake, and then spent a few happy hours rummaging around in the Pentagon’s pride and joy .
What’s to lose? Predator reaches out and enters the number 1. The screen refreshes immediately.
INCIDENT REPORT LOGGING SYSTEM
ACCESS DENIED. YOU DO NOT HAVE ACCESS PRIVILEGES.
PRESS ENTER TO CONTINUE.
“Shit.” Predator hits the ENTER key in irritation. Just a tease! Some of these systems are worse than girls. He decides to try the other options anyway and enters the number 2.
INCIDENT REPORT LOGGING SYSTEM
ACCESS DENIED. YOU DO NOT HAVE ACCESS PRIVILEGES.
PRESS ENTER TO CONTINUE.
Oh well... He presses ENTER once more and, prior to logging off, stabs at the number 3.
To his surprise, the screen flashes and changes. Predator leans closer. “Oh shit, yeah man. Give it to me.”
CHICAGO POLICE DEPARTMENT. CENTRAL RECORDS
INCIDENT REPORT LOGGING SYSTEM
UNPROSECUTED COMPLAINT REPORTS
ENTER CASE NUMBER OR SURNAME OR TYPE ‘LIST’ TO BROWSE
Predator rubs his hands together. “Let’s see what we can get out of you now, you little bastard.” He enters the word LIST. Again, the screen flashes.
UNPROSECUTED COMPLAINT REPORTS
KEYED BY SURNAME, FIRST NAME
LAST MONTH, REGION 16 ONLY
ABBOTT, Steven Anthony
ABRAHAMS, Thomas Fitzpatrick
ACKERLEY, Georgina
ACKROYD, Martin Alexander
The index carries on down the screen. Predator peers at the title. For some reason the system is showing him a report for a Chicago suburb. He can’t tell which, but it’s cool. He figures it probably carries on from where the last person using the access code left it. He scans the list. Halfway down, his attention is snagged. A familiar name. His eyes widen. For a moment, he grins wolflike and then he laughs out loud. Did he say “coincidence”? This is too much! Following an instruction at the bottom of the screen, he moves his mouse until the cursor points at the name.
Again, the screen flickers and refreshes.
UNPROSECUTED COMPLAINT REPORT
NATURE OF REPORT —— ALLEGED CHILD MOLESTATION
***** REPORT MADE BUT NO CHARGES BROUGHT *****
NAME OF SUSPECT —— ADAMS, GEORGE
DETAILS FOLLOW.
9
USENET-A CHAT SESSION NUMBER 2846-D2. MESSAGES RECORDED AT ***.**.**.
PREDATOR How ya doing, Ghost?
GRAY GHOST Just cool, Dude. How U going with the Iron Dream game I sent you?
PREDATOR Jammed. You know how to get past the SS guard at the concentration camp gate?
GRAY GHOST Yeah. Jokerman told me. U have to have a pass from Himmler. U can get them if U can open the safe in the bunker B4 the Fuhrer arrives to give U the secret orders.
PREDATOR Oh f*ck. I saw those and didn’t think they were important.
GRAY GHOST Haw haw. :-) They are, man. U can’t get back. U may as well start agane.
PREDATOR Yeah. Wot a fuck-up. BTW, you know the deever who calls himself Sikpuppi?
GRAY GHOST Yeah. He’s at our school. George Adams. Fat little creep.
PREDATOR Well, I picked up something weird on the Bomdabass board. Look and see.
GRAY GHOST What’s it do?
PREDATOR You’ll see. Good for laffs.
10
Fifty yards away from impact now, the beautiful machine tilts, its spin stabilization starting to lose position. Within seconds, its antenna brushes against the other satellite, bending gracefully under the pressure. Then the hulls scrape together, shields sparking, solar panels disintegrating, pieces starting to unravel and spin away from the larger bodies. The sides of both craft begin to crunch inwards, metal grinding into metal. A larger section of REGNAR’s hull breaks off and begins to spiral downwards, other pieces joining it, still shining in the sunlight, a Catherine Wheel of debris, the stark beauty of destruction.
At the last, REGNAR’s rockets fire again, driving it into the other machine like an over-eager lover, smashing a path through the resistance for a moment until other forces take over and both satellites disintegrate in a shower of panels and componentry, sunlight reflecting like explosions off a thousand shards of metal. The fireworks display continues for some minutes, glorious dissolution, sparkling corruption, with no one to see, until the atomic reactor in the Chinese machine hits meltdown and a momentary new star appears in the night sky.
***
In the command center, on the other hand, it suddenly seems very dark. The computer display is the only thing I can see. Tunnel vision, eyes locked on the round “happy face” that has appeared in the middle of the screen. The face’s slit mouth moves, edges bouncing up and down in a parody of a human laugh.
11
Some time later, Sikpuppi sits on the handrail over the main staircase of his parents’ house. He raises the bourbon bottle to his lips and takes another drink, swaying like a Skid Row bum and thrashing his free arm about in search of balance. The landing looks out over the high open foyer at the front of the house. The drop is twenty-five feet.
He farts loudly. Laughs and cries all at once. No fear of being heard. The folks are out, seeing a movie. A comedy, that’s what they said. That’s a laugh. They could have stayed in and watched him.
He stares at the painting opposite him. A languid, dark-haired maiden set against a backdrop of sand and sea, the frame resting on a wall of smooth white paint. Stupid picture. It calls for another drink. He’s never dared steal more than the odd sip from the cocktail cabinet before. Now he’s finished most of the bottle, two-thirds full before he started. His head is spinning and he feels sick to his gut. Not the way it’s supposed to be, thinks Sikpuppi. It’s supposed to make you feel good. It’s supposed to make you forget your problems. Isn’t that what the grown-ups said? Forget your problems. Another fuckin’ adultworld con.
No forgetting. For the hundredth time his mind plays back the humiliation of the scene by the park gates as he was walking back home. There were girls with them, which made it worse. They’d looked at him like he was some sort of freak. That hurt more than the punches and pushes and the boys calling him a filthy fat pervert. Pushing him up against the iron fence and then tripping him as he rebounded, so that he’d ended up on his hands and knees, pants soaked in a puddle.
It’s all so fuckin’ unfair. He hasn’t really done much anyway and what he did do wasn’t his fault. The way he feels towards little kids is just the way he is. He’s tried to resist. He’s programmed to behave the way he does, just like a computer...
And the thought of the computer brings back the feeling of betrayal. The tears run down his cheeks and he sobs, hating himself for his weakness.
He pulls at the bottle again. The folks will be pissed. They’ll probably care more about their precious booze than what’s happened to him. Again he sways, backwards then forwards. His hand grabs at the rail, gripping on the thickly knotted tow-rope. Self-pity overcomes him and he caresses the rope like the grea
t lover he’s always wished he was, slipping his chubby fist around its width, running it along its length until his fingers rub against the slipknot at his throat.
One more gulp and the bottle is empty. He holds it out at arms length, lets it go, watches it fall as if in slow motion to the tiled floor below. The glass shatters with a shocking crash. Shards flow across the floor. Sikpuppi inspects the damage with dumb satisfaction.
At the last moment, he changes his mind, but by then it is too late and he topples forward. As with so many things in his sad, short life, he’s got it wrong. The length of rope is too short for the fall to break his neck and it takes three minutes for him to strangle.