The Digital Dream Page 9

  Kathleen’s beaten me into the office. She’s taken her jacket off and is leaning back, her reddish-brown hair hanging down from her head. She’s rubbing her neck with one hand, while the other holds a cup of coffee. There’s something cat-like and sensual about the movement. I cough and she looks up at me and smiles.

  Last night’s sinister dream still hovers at the back of the brain. I find I’m concerned about her being alone in this darkened building. I close the door behind me.

  “You shouldn’t be here on your own like this.” I hope the words don’t sound patronizing.

  She looks surprised. “Why not? There’s no one here and nobody can get in without proper authority. The whole building’s computer controlled, access and all.” She must catch my glance at the darkened corridor: she smiles again, wearily. “I gave up being afraid of ghoulies and ghosties a long time ago.”

  I return the smile. I’m being stupid, I know. “You beat me in.”

  “I woke up at six and couldn’t get back to sleep so I came in here. I’ve been typing in the rest of this program. I think I’ve got terminal RSI. Pardon the pun. Anyway, I was just taking a break.”

  I look at the computer screen for the first time. To my surprise, it’s playing what seems to be an old film. Humprey Bogart, wearing raincoat and hat, talking to the camera.

  She follows my eyes. “It’s just something someone sent me. A movie clip.”

  “I love old Bogie films,” I say. “Which is this? Maltese Falcon?”

  She smiles. “No, it’s not real. I have a friend who works for a graphics imaging company. This was produced by their system. They’ve build a model of Bogart at pixel level and have software that will produce a new movie using him as a virtual actor.”

  I look more closely at the screen. As I watch, the image jumps and then there’s a pause and the clip starts to replay.

  “The idea is that they can use images of dead actors to appear in new films. It could be the next big thing.”

  I shudder. “Scary.”

  “It’s just the next logical step from Jurassic Park and Gladiator. If we can replicate dead dinosaurs and the Coliseum, why not people? It’s another step on in terms of sophistication, but the technology’s been around, gradually getting improved, since the mid-nineties.”

  “I wonder if Bogie would have approved.”

  “It’s a type of immortality,” she says cynically.

  I turn back to her. “So where have you gotten up to?”

  She flexes her wrists, thinking. Presses keys and the Bogart-image disappears to be replaced by lines of code. “I finished the programming a while ago and the modified virus is loose again. It’s already producing some interesting results. There is certainly some other program running about in the system here and probably in the others that the virus manages to get into. Somehow, the virus and the other program interact. I don’t know how yet. My guess is that it’s purely accidental. It’s like the virus becomes a parasite clinging to the other thing.”

  “And you can’t tell anything about the other program?”

  “Not yet. It must be a pretty smart piece of work. However, there is one trace of it that I’ve caught. It’s using an ID and password to get access to other computers. It’s like they’re magic words. Open Sesame, kind of thing.”

  “So what are they?”

  “The user ID is Robert O’Regan and the password is ROBOT.” She looks up at me and I catch a flash of concern in her eyes. “This is powerful stuff, Ross. I gave the virus a longer stretch of life this time. It’s been reporting back to me on all the computers it’s visited.”

  “All? How many are there?”

  “Seven, so far. I’ve drawn a map of them. The one at the heart of the network, which, as far as I can tell, is where ROBOT originated, is in the company called Blackdawn Importing.”

  She points to where another piece of paper is taped to the wall. Peering closely, I can see that the paper is decorated with small boxes and connecting lines and arrows. Apart from a couple of familiar names, none of it means a damn thing.

  “But how could any of these systems have been penetrated in the first place? They’d all have security systems.”

  “Sure they do. But ROBOT seems to have valid passwords to get through any of them.”

  My head’s spinning. This sort of thing doesn’t happen. I force myself to concentrate, only to be distracted again. There’s a noise outside the office door. I look round, finding myself whispering.

  “Cleaners?”

  Kathleen looks up in surprise. “Hardly.” Her voice is low in response to mine. Paranoia’s contagious. “They come in Friday night and that’s it for the weekend. It’ll be someone else working overtime.”

  The sound in the corridor comes closer. Footsteps. We look at each other. She shrugs, looks unconcerned. Feeling absurdly dramatic, I hold a finger to my lips as the footsteps come to a stop outside the door.

  “Hello?” I hope I sound braver than I feel. “Who’s that?”

  There’s a moment’s pause, then the sound of feet hurrying away. Weird. I glance at Kathleen. Open the door again. Peer round the frame. There’s a glimpse of someone turning the corner by reception, heading for the stairs.

  I make like Stallone and walk slowly down the corridor in time to see the door to the stairs just closing on its hydraulic spring.

  I walk across and pull open the door. The stairwell’s empty. No sound. I step inside and let the door swing shut behind me, keeping quite still, listening. My heart’s thumping. Crazy. Adrenaline cool-hot in veins. For a few moments there’s nothing, then again I hear soft footsteps padding down below. I peer stealthily over the handrail but can see no one. After a moment the ground floor door opens and is pulled to. I consider chasing down but there’s no way I’d catch whoever it is. I hope. Fuck this, I think. Heroism goes only so far. I retrace my steps down the gloomy corridor to where Kathleen waits in the office.

  “Anything?”

  “No.” I decide against worrying her. It’s surely nothing, anyway. “Like you said, I guess. Just some other lunatic working half the weekend.” I sit down next to the terminal. I can smell her perfume. Reassuring.

  She looks tired. She takes another drink of the coffee and shakes her hair backwards: again it strikes me that it’s an almost feline gesture. Uncomfortably attractive. I have to catch myself again and concentrate on what she’s saying.

  “So. The ROBOT thing goes through a bunch of networks and computers. It’s like a road system. My guess is that there’s a lot more than the seven I’ve seen. I think the virus will keep signaling more.”

  “It’s impossible. That would mean massive breaches of security.”

  She grimaces. “You’d think so, wouldn’t you? But this situation seems to have existed for months.”

  I stare at her for a moment as I think through the implications. “I see what you mean. If this thing was being used for fraud or sabotage, there would have been an outcry.”

  “Unless the companies affected had kept quiet for some reason.”

  “Could be. A lot of companies don’t want their inadequacies advertised. It might cause the shareholders to lose confidence. But there’s no way a whole series of security breaches could be kept quiet. There’d be uproar.” I raise my hands in mock wonder. “Yet there’s been nothing.”

  Kathleen puts her coffee cup down, stands, crosses to the window and looks down at the street, still massaging her neck.

  “Do you know what this is like? All these computers have legitimate networks attached to them. This one, for example,” she turns and pats the screen in front of me, “has terminals connected in New York, Philadelphia, Boston, dozens of other places. All the other systems are the same. Each network should be separate. But someone’s found a way to burrow through them and connect them up. It’s like a system of underground roads.”

  I nod. “One that someone has dug underneath the legitimate roads. A phantom freeway. Or, in this case, a phantom n
etwork. I’ve never heard of anything like it.” I slump down in the chair. “But what’s it for?”

  “I don’t know,” she says.

  “What if someone—this Robert O’Regan, say, starts using the system. Is there any way we can tell?”

  She shrugs. “I suppose I could try altering the virus again so that it will allow us to track other users.”

  “I think we should do it.”

  She sits down again and her hands return to the keyboard.

  It’s an hour before she completes her testing on the new version.

  “What now?” she asks.

  “Let it loose and we’ll see what happens.”

  6

  There are procedures to deal with a possible contamination. Processes do not allow for any chances as far as security is concerned. Hendriks enters the codes into the computer system and then waits for confirmation that the building has been sealed and that each door within is locked. Further out, the entire perimeter should now be under armed guard and nobody will be allowed to come or go.

  He and Estrada sit in the laboratory, still in their bulky protective suits. Estrada looks over from time to time and shrugs. He checks the wall clock. Three more hours. No sign of any problem. Maybe they’re worrying unduly. This sort of event had been a recurring nightmare when he first came to work at the establishment but five years had replaced fear with routine. He didn’t believe that anything could really have gone wrong. They were just too careful.

  Neither man has been able to bring himself to check the monkeys again. After an hour of screeching and mad charging about the cages, they had grown quiet. Perhaps they had recovered. It’s a forlorn hope.

  Maybe Estrada can read his mind. Hendriks watches as the other man stands and walks over to the cages. The technician seems to freeze as he nears the wire mesh. For a few seconds he makes no sound. Then he turns back towards Hendriks. Through the plastic masks, Hendriks can see his face. Unnaturally pale. Eyes wide.

  The blood seems to rush in Hendriks’ ears. He wishes he could remove the helmet. Sweat’s running down his face. The itching in his hair is worse than ever. He needs to scratch. He looks up at the surveillance camera. Someone must be watching. They must know. He wants to scream at the dead, blank lens. An absurd fear of embarrassment holds him back.

  He forces himself to his feet. He walks over to where Estrada stands and looks beyond the white-suited figure to the first of the cages.

  The monkey, or what’s left of it, is still. The animal has torn away most of the flesh on its face. The skin on its arms hangs in ragged strips. Blood has run from dozens of lesions and is congealed in a black mess on top of the straw on the cage’s floor.

  He feels the vomit start to rise in his gullet. Somehow, he controls it and looks at the second cage. The monkey within is face down, an improvement on the horrors of the first cage. The pool of blood and viscera is no better, though. It looks as if the animal has torn itself apart.

  He turns, panic rising. The sickness won’t wait. He vomits on the floor, staggering. His shoulder hits Estrada’s back. His head is spinning. He stumbles, almost loses his balance. He turns away from the cages, reaching out a hand to steady himself against the table that holds the computer screen.

  At least, he thinks, the building should be sealed off. Any contagion must be short lived. The disease can only survive as long as it has living hosts. Not that this thought is much comfort to him.

  He notices that there’s something wrong with the computer display. He wonders when he last looked at it. Ages ago, he guesses. Thoughts of his domestic troubles have distracted him, compounding his fear, taking him over and distracting him.

  The system should have responded by now. The message—code RED-A—that he entered previously is still there. The system should have responded. It should be telling him that the security boom had lowered. It should be reassuring them, letting them know that help is on its way. Decontamination teams. Emergency medical squads.

  He looks at the door. It’s still pushed to. He wonders if its automatic locks have engaged. He realizes that too much time has passed. Somebody should have been here by now. He wonders whether they have abandoned them.

  In frustration, he bangs the ENTER button on the keyboard. The system doesn’t seem to be responding. He hits it again and again.

  There. At last, the display clears. He leans over it, waiting for the “emergency procedures” screen to appear, as it did whenever they had drills. The screen remains blank but a flashing light on the processor, below the screen, tells him that the computer’s disk is working.

  The itching on his scalp is overpowering now. While his mind is distracted, his eyes watching the computer display, his hand releases part of the helmet’s seal and inches inside. His fingernails begin to scratch at his hairline. He sighs in relief.

  When he realizes what he’s doing, he pulls his hand back with frenzied haste, fumbling with the helmet seal.

  Another flicker of light tells him that the system is responding at last. A status screen appears. It tells him what he does not want to believe. It tells him that none of the procedures for dealing with contamination have activated. It tells him that the air conditioning system is still pumping air from the laboratory through the rest of the building. That, if they did have a viral or bacterial release in this room, it will by now have spread to every other worker in the complex.

  His eyes return to the screen, then widen with disbelief at the symbol that appears. Incongruous, horrifying in its innocence and simplicity. The yellow happy-face stares back at him, the edges of its mouth moving in an idiot grin.

  7

  We sit and watch the computer screen as the virus goes through the now-familiar steps. The Amalgamated Metalworkers, Enterprise Security and Blackdawn Importing screens flash by as our mutated program insinuates itself into the phantom network.

  Kathleen is using both terminals now, the one belonging to the client and the one that McAllister retrieved from the dead boy’s home. The second screen is blank. Kathleen explains that her programming has reserved it to display messages from other systems that are using the network. For a few seconds, the blackness persists. Then, a coded message suddenly appears partway down the screen. Kathleen quickly scribbles part of the message down on a piece of paper and stares at it.

  “What’s going on?”

  “The message is from the virus. It’s telling me that it’s in some other system. It’s encountered traffic on the lines that run between the discrete computers. In other words, someone is sending messages on the phantom network. I’m trying to identify what’s going on. The messages are in computer code, though. It could take me a while to figure them out.”

  “Can I help?”

  “No. Sorry.” Her head’s bent over the piece of paper and she’s chewing the end of the pencil.

  I sit back and watch, feeling helpless. Three minutes go by. Two more messages appear on the screen. Kathleen gestures to me and I copy down their contents. Useful at last. I feel fulfilled.

  “Got it!” she says. “It’s simple, really, a variation of EBCDIC based on a duo-decimal system.”

  “Yeah, great. So what does it mean?”

  “It’s a message from some remote computer system. I don’t quite understand it, but it seems to be intended to work as some sort of blocking device. It’s stopping other messages from getting through the network. At least, it’s stopping messages from one particular location.”

  “What location?”

  “Can’t say. All I’ve got is a coded network address. What we need is a copy of the message that’s being blocked.”

  I peer at the screen. More messages are appearing, still in computer code. “What about all these?” I ask, pointing.

  Kathleen looks down. “What we need is a message that starts with the code 9721A. That’s the network address for the blocked message.”

  “There’s two of them.” I point to the lines of code.

  “Yeah. Both the
same. That probably means that the originating computer knows its message isn’t getting through...”

  “That would be logical. All network computers send an acknowledgment when a message is received.”

  “Yes. So the computer that sent the message has never had an acknowledgment and it keeps trying to send the message. Meanwhile, someone else keeps blocking it.”

  “Translate the 9721A message.”

  She’s already writing, converting alphanumeric codes into English letters.

  “Well, I know where it’s from,” she says. “Although I’m none the wiser. It’s some place called Adobe Flats.”

  Oh shit. She sees my expression.

  “Mean something to you?”

  I shake my head. “It can’t be.”

  “So what is it?”

  “It’s in New Mexico. It’s a government research establishment. USMRE—the United States Microbiological Research Establishment.”

  I’ve got her attention now. She looks up at me in shock. “Microbiological as in germ warfare?”

  “Exactly. What the hell are these messages about?”

  8

  Desperation. Hendriks’s fingers scramble with the controls to the hermetic locks. He calls over his shoulder for Estrada to open the wall panel and activate the emergency air conditioning closedown. His face contorts with fear and worry. He knows he is already too late if they are contaminated, but he has to try. Maybe there’s still a hope that it can be contained in the lab, even if that means that he and Estrada are doomed. His eyes flick over his shoulder to the giant Teddy Bear still lodged on the top of his desk. If plague escapes from here, anything might happen. The ultimate horror screeches into his brain, the face of the dying monkey superimposed upon that of five-year-old Rebecca. His brain has left logic behind. All he can think of now is that he has to protect his daughter.