by Tom Clancy
Was it just coincidence that Hardweare downloaded a D’Aliso program for me to work on? Or is this some sort of hacker’s revenge?
That wasn’t a welcome thought. Stirring up his own very real fears made the programmed panic attack all the stronger. David was dashing forward wildly, stumbling over abandoned garbage bags and loose trash. Something squished wetly under his left foot as he came up to a wooden fence that was taller than he was. Flakes of paint clung to the warped boards. Years ago someone had painted a mural.
“Willie-Boy died here,” the faded letters announced.
Even as he scrambled over the fence, fighting the mindless rush of adrenaline, a part of David had to admire the craftsmanship that went into creating this simulation. He got a splinter from one of the crumbling boards.
What David really wanted to do was look back at whatever was pursuing him. But the program wouldn’t allow that. He swung over the top of the fence, fell almost full-length on the pavement on the other side, scrambled up, and resumed his mad run.
Something darted across his path—either a small cat or a huge rat—and David stumbled again.
That’s when he noticed the bright-red dot that appeared on the brick wall beside his head.
That was the trademark of a laser gunsight. David lurched away, all rational thought temporarily swamped by a new rush of terror. Was this supposed to be a horror sim?
He got a few more steps in, dodging from side to side, then something slammed into his shoulder, and terrible pain rolled over him.
I’ve been shot! David realized. But this is VR! I know I keep my pain thresholds set lower than most people, but I shouldn’t be able to feel this much pain! The safety protocols in my computer —
He was down on his face among the sour-smelling garbage on the stained concrete. What felt like a red-hot spike being driven through one shoulder had rendered his right arm useless. His left arm was moving, though. His fingernails clawed at the pavement; his legs pumped as he tried to scrabble a few inches forward.
David couldn’t seem to catch his breath. His muscles weren’t quite working right. He couldn’t even push himself up. All he could do was make spastic little attempts at crawling as footsteps came closer and closer from behind him.
Sobbing moans erupted from David’s lips. He wanted to turn his head, to look up and face his pursuer, but the program wouldn’t allow him to. He lay with his face pressed to the cold concrete as a hot metal ring—the barrel of a recently fired gun—was pressed to the back of his neck.
Then the system crashed.
of pampered executives? He must have taken at least one very long step past the safety blocks of regular virtual reality to get the effects he’d achieved.
David knew a lot about the safety restrictions programmed into the world of veeyar. When he created a sim, especially a space-related one, he expected people—including himself—to behave intelligently. Lapses of attention in space could have fatal consequences, so David programmed a certain amount of pain to result if people screwed up. Those signals could, of course, be overridden by anyone going into the sim. Settings for the degree of stimulation allowed or desired could be calibrated in every VR system. Users could adjust those settings to reflect their own personal tolerances, from avoiding all pain entirely to playing macho and risking the allowable maximum. It was a matter of user’s choice. David’s friends usually trusted him enough to let his settings stand when they entered his sims. They knew him well. They were making an informed choice.
But I had no choice in what happened to me, David thought. It’s as if my body was somebody else’s puppet, going through a set of programmed motions. Nick D’Aliso’s a crackerjack programmer. This is hardly typical of Nick’s work, which usually features dizzying numbers of choices. This sim was strictly linear, with the user stuck as it played out, a prisoner of the predetermined events. Which wasn ‘t to say the sim was simple, without artistry.
Remembering the incredibly real details, David examined his hands. One palm seemed inflamed—the place where he’d gotten stabbed by a splinter scrambling over that fence.
Details real enough to leave stigmata—and a one-dimensional action line. It didn’t make sense.
Unless it was a sim designed so the viewer couldn’t escape—a sort of nasty farewell present from Nicky da Weasel himself. David shuddered again. Maybe he should count himself lucky that the system had crashed when it did. He only wished his Net safety features had activated a little sooner. Admittedly, he tended to keep them adjusted to allow the maximum level of sensation, but this was ridiculous.
David shakily got to his feet, ordering the computer to shut down. He wobbled a little as the holo display turned itself off. He’d check out that little program again later— much later, and from the outside.
His hand suddenly clapped to his mouth, and he dashed for the bathroom.
Right now he had more immediate concerns.
The next morning was Saturday. David stayed in bed as long as his younger brothers would let him. As he blearily headed down the hall to wash up, his mother asked, “Feeling better, dear?”
David considered for a second. It seemed as though a night’s sleep had let him shake off the worst effects of his veeyar adventure. “Guess so,” he said. “I don’t know what came over me.” No way was he going to admit that a computer program had attacked him.
Speaking of which—David quickly showered away the last traces of cobwebs and headache, then quickly headed back to the bedroom. The little guys were out in the living room, watching the Saturday morning holos on the big system out there. David turned on his computer, running it strictly with spoken orders. No way was he reentering veeyar until he knew what awaited him there. He ran some diagnostics, just a check in case D’Aliso’s sim had acted as a Trojan horse for worse surprises, then called up his directories.
He frowned as he looked at the holo display. There was no trace of last night’s download. Apparently it had been erased in the crash that had ended his computing session the evening before. David called up memory utilities, trying to see if any traces remained in his virtual in-box. No joy. Maybe if he’d tried this stuff right after the crash—
David shook his head. No. He’d been too busy barfing his guts up back then. Programming simply hadn’t been possible.
He frowned. Well, if he didn’t have the copy, he’d just have to check in with Hardweare and get another one.
Or find out where it came from if Hardweare didn ‘t send it, a cynical little voice in the back of his mind pointed out.
Sabotine MacPherson’s holo image looked a little surprised to see him when he called in. “I’ve finished with the last of your previous batch,” David told her. “That’s being uploaded to you as we speak.”
Usually, he’d just upload and leave an E-mail. But David had a question to ask, and he wanted an immediate answer if possible. “Now what do you want me to do with the game or whatever you downloaded last night? It looks pretty buggy to me.”
“What game?” Sabotine asked. “I was just about to send you an E-mail. The stuff Luddie wanted to zip your way won’t be moving until tomorrow at the earliest.” She gave him a crooked smile. “This investigation has got things turned completely upside down.”
“So you didn’t download anything?” David pressed. “I got a program, with what looked to be Hardweare protocols.”
Although, he had to admit, he hadn’t really paid much attention when he picked up the icon.
“I didn’t send it, and I’m pretty sure Luddie didn’t, either. He’s been spending all his time with our lawyers.” Sabotine looked at him curiously. “What was it?”
“A very nasty little sim that self-started, ran me through the wringer, and then blew the system,” David said grimly. “Hacker’s work.”
Sabotine looked shocked. “You’re saying Nicky—”
“Well, he certainly didn’t like me as much as he liked you,” David said. “It wouldn’t help his feelings for me to hav
e Luddie fire him right after talking with me. Maybe he felt I deserved a lovely parting gift.”
“That’s not like Nicky at all!” Sabotine protested. “I’d like to see this program.”
“So would I,” David admitted. “But it got erased—or erased itself—when my computer crashed.”
“So you don’t actually have it,” Sabotine said.
“And I don’t have many people who would send me something like that,” David pointed out.
“There’s nothing I can tell you one way or the other. I haven’t spoken to Nicky since Luddie cut him loose.” She looked pretty upset. “But the guy I know wouldn’t—”
Sabotine hesitated a moment, and David could imagine what she’d been about to say—something about Nicky not wasting his time on petty revenge.
Instead, she finished with “He wouldn’t do something like that.”
David thanked her and cut the connection. The guy you know was on his best behavior, taking you out, he thought. Dropping a little sim-bomb on someone who ‘d gotten on his bad side sounds just like the Nicky da Weasel I’ve always heard about.
The hologram bleeped again, and David made the connection, expecting to see Sabotine calling with something she’d forgotten to tell him.
Instead, he found Leif Anderson looking out at him with a serious expression. “You free to make a veeyar visit in a little bit?”
“You make it sound like we’re going to court,” David joked.
Leif didn’t laugh. “In a way we are. I’ve got to explain what’s been going on to my folks. And I’d rather have one of my more reliable, respectable friends on hand to help with the job.”
David was about to come up with some sort of polite refusal when he saw the pleading look in Leif’s eyes. “Okay,” he said with a sigh. “I can try.”
His visit took place in the virtual equivalent of the Andersons’ living room. It wasn’t as large, as high-tech, or as filled with art as the MacPhersons’ parlor, but it was no doubt a very expensive room.
/ guess that’s what happens when you’ve got interior decorators, servants, and no younger brothers always jumping on the couch, David thought.
Mr. and Mrs. Anderson were very polite, greeting David, seating him in a chair that felt much more comfortable than it looked, then turning to their son.
“A couple of things have happened that I think you should know about,” Leif began. As he spoke, David could see that the Andersons knew a little about Hardweare and the leaks on the Net. But they were shocked to hear about Cetnik’s extortion attempt and his death.
“Maybe it’s a terrible thing to say, but I’m glad that man is dead,” Mrs. Anderson said.
Leif s father had pain in his eyes as he looked at his son. “If you’d come to us—”
Leif looked just as unhappy. “I couldn’t tell you, just as I couldn’t tell David.” He turned to his friend to verify what he said. “Otherwise, an innocent person—a person I liked— would suffer. And I would be responsible.”
Magnus Anderson sighed. “Heaven knows, we’ve talked enough to you about responsibility. I thought that when you got involved with the Net Force Explorers, that might have a good effect.” The older Anderson glanced at David, who caught his meaning. Nice, steady, dependable kids to act as role models.
“Instead, we find people trying to kill you through veeyar, and spies threatening you and your friends.” Leif’s father shook his head. “And I thought / led an exciting life!”
David found himself speaking up. “But Leif is being responsible, Mr. Anderson. He’s telling you all this stuff—and taking responsibility for it.”
“After the fact,” Mrs. Anderson pointed out.
“I know you mean well, David,” Mr. Anderson said. “And you, too, son. I don’t know what we’d have said if you’d come to us. We definitely have a problem here, and I’m not sure how to resolve it.”
Leif braced his shoulders and turned to David. ‘ ‘Thanks for helping me explain things,” he said.
David nodded. Obviously it was time for him to go. Things would probably get very personal from this point on. Leif’s father had been very cool, very calm. Not at all like David’s dad, who’d have probably hit the roof, bounced off it, and laid down the law on the return trip.
Cutting the veeyar connection, David found himself back in the cluttered bedroom he shared with his brothers. Even through the closed door, he could hear them playing one of their crazy games, running up and down the hall.
Leif had big bucks, a beautiful apartment with his own private suite, and parents out of one of those sophisticated, very civilized European holo-dramas.
So why do I feel sorry for him? David wondered.
He went outside to join his family. The Saturday morning computer-animated kid shows were coming to an end. Robo-Mouse was kicking some serious ArmorCat butt. Heroes and villains looked like real animals, except that no real animal David had ever seen was ever quite that cute, or had such big eyes.
Cheered on by Tommy and James—David’s younger brothers—Robo-Mouse had ArmorCat by the tail and was swinging him overhead with a whizzing sound. The mouse let go, and the cat plowed through several skyscrapers with plenty of crashes and booms.
Some things never change, David thought. Growing up, I’ve seen this same toon with several different characters and cruder computer graphics. But the story never changes.
The episode came to its usual end, and the kids rushed over to their father, their faces eager. • ‘Are you coming outside with us, Daddy?”
“We’re gonna play!”
Martin Gray was only too glad to spend his day off being a daddy instead of a homicide detective. David’s mom smiled fondly as the boys led their father off, each holding one of their father’s hands.
“Do you want me to turn this off?” David gestured toward the holo display.
“No, I’m just going to change the channel,” his mother replied. “We can still catch some of the noon news.”
She shifted the display to the holo-news channel, where a pair of plastic-looking anchorpeople with perfect hair smiled out at the audience.
I’m surprised they’ve never used computer animation to replace these types, David thought as the newspeople shared a loud laugh over a lame joke. They’re human versions of Robo-Mouse and ArmorCat, with more perfect hair than normal people — and bigger eyes.
The anchorman looked into the holo pickup, his big smile switching to an especially pretentious expression. “Thanks, Leslie-Anne,” he said, his voice zooming down to hit the low notes.
Okay, we get it, David thought in disgust. Serious news ahead.
It could be anything from the death of a popular star to the latest scare news about the disease of the month. But a familiar logo appeared behind the anchorman, reading “Crime in the Streets.”
“With the ever-improving crime statistics in the D.C. area, violent death comes as more of a shock,” the anchorman intoned. “We had a suspicious death yesterday .. . and today, an out-and-out case of murder. Jay-Jay McGuffin reports.”
The scene shifted to a blow-dried anchor-in-training standing against a brick wall wearing a totally unnecessary trench coat.
Except it makes him look like a Holo-Net detective, David thought. / wonder if they poll viewers to see what they expect the newspeople to look like?
Jay-Jay was busy trying to make somebody’s run down these skeevy backstreets sound like The Odyssey. “Perhaps,” he said dramatically, “the still-unidentified victim might have successfully made his escape, except he chose to run down this alley—”
The camera followed the newsman down a garbage-strewn alleyway. David felt a cold prickle run down his back at the reminder of last night’s unpleasant sim.
“An alley blocked by this reminder of a long-forgotten gang murder.” Jay-Jay went on in his most pompous tones, but David wasn’t hearing.
He was staring in horror at an eight-foot-tall wall of weather-beaten wooden boards, where ancient fl
akes of paint clung like scabs on an old wound.
The mural was even more faded in full daylight, but David could read the letters painted under the almost-obliterated picture.
Willie-Boy died here.
This was the same site as last night’s nightmare sim!
scheduled for demolition and rehabilitation, the area had been virtually deserted.
Police had responded to calls about the shooting and found the body. Checking out the area, they’d come across a place where someone had been camping in a ruined building. According to the report, it didn’t sound like a homeless person living rough. Cops discovered a sleeping bag, supplies of food and water, and a laptop computer with heavily encoded files.
A search of the usual fingerprint files showed that the deceased hadn’t had a police record—and offered no hope of quickly identifying him. The coded computer and Washington location suggested a foreign connection to some—could the dead man have been a spy?
David’s thoughts immediately swung to Slobodan Cetnik. Could this somehow be connected to him?
Ridiculous, a nervous voice insisted from the back of his mind. This has nothing to do with you.
Except that I saw that alley last night, David thought. / ran down it and was shot… .
He wished he could dismiss the nightmare images skittering around his brain as just a bad dream. Could he have imagined the download, the whole tormenting episode of the chase? Could he have dozed off on his computer-link couch?
Or could someone have somehow recorded and downloaded the dead man’s last moments? There was the crash … and the feeling in his gut when he’d seen die image of the wall across the alley.
David read on to find a quote from one of the cops who’d found the hideaway. “It was a good enough place to live, for a rathole. The guy had even managed to hack the electric company and get power.”
Hack. Encoded computer. The dead man was a hacker.
A sick churning began again in David’s gut. He turned off the computer and headed back to the living room. “I have to go out for a little while, Mom,” he said. “Gotta talk to Dad.”
