by Tom Clancy
“Yes, sir,” Matt said into the phone.
“I expect to be landing in a couple of minutes. We’ll rendezvous at whatever police precinct where you’ll be giving your statements.”
“I’ll pass the word, sir.”
“Good. Winters out.”
The connection cut off. Matt passed along what the captain had said. Even as he was explaining their orders, the phone rang again.
Lucky I didn’t switch configurations, he thought.
“Matthew Hunter?” an official-sounding voice crackled in his ear. “I’m Sergeant Den Burgess, Baltimore PD. We’ve been informed that you’re with a contingent of Net Force Explorers here in the stadium. Could you please indicate where you are?”
“We’re still in the bleachers.” Matt put a hand over his phone’s pickup and turned to his remaining buddies. “Let’s get up on our seats and wave our arms.”
He got back on the phone. “Sergeant? If you can spot a small group standing on their seats and waving, you’ll have found us.”
“Got you,” the voice in his ear said. “Expect me in a couple of minutes.” Again, the connection cut off. Matt replaced his wallet.
The police had mainly been working to clear away the crowd and trying to identify the injured holoforms still in the stadium. Now a small contingent of uniformed officers made their way through the bleachers to Matt and his friends. In the lead was a tall, black, competent-looking man with sergeant’s stripes on his short-sleeved shirt. “I’m Burgess,” he said. “Which of you is Hunter?”
“I am,” Matt said, stepping forward.
“Looks like your group came through all right.”
Matt shook his head. “Several of us were here in holoform. One got hit by a virtual bullet.”
Burgess looked around in concern. “Is he—?”
“I hope he’s all right,” Matt said with a stab of worry. “He’s in New York. I called Emergency Services there — it was the best I could do. Everybody else in our group cut out safely.” He glanced at the sergeant. “I’ve never seen anything like this happen before.”
Burgess simply shook his head. “Neither have I, son. Neither have I.”
The sergeant took Matt and his friends to the nearest police precinct, where they each gave a statement, describing what happened as best they could. Matt had actually missed a lot of the action while he’d been trying to take care of Leif. Sergeant Burgess nodded at the description of the shock symptoms. “That’s what happened to everyone in virtual who got hit,” he said.
“I’ve heard that implant shock could happen to people,” Matt said. “But I thought it only occurred in small-scale, intense sims, where you begin to lose track of what’s real and what’s virtual.”
“Belief plays a larger factor in virtual injuries than many people realize,” a familiar voice said.
Matt turned to see Captain Winters step up to the sergeant’s desk. He held out his Net Force ID to Burgess. “I’ve been upstairs in the operations center you folks have set up. We’ll be coptering in additional tech and medical people.”
Burgess looked relieved. “We can use all the help we can get.”
“Are you finished with my people here?”
“Yes, sir,” the sergeant replied. “At least we have a pretty clear idea of what went down.” He shrugged. “Whether we can catch whoever was responsible….”
Winters nodded. “That’ll be a headache for all of us.” He beckoned Matt along. “They gave me an office upstairs.” A sour expression crossed his face. “Not that there’s much I’ll be able to do here.”
“I still don’t understand how it ever happened, Captain,” Matt said. “With large-scale sims, aren’t there supposed to be safety interlocks to turn off the system before people get injured?”
“There are supposed to be,” Winters admitted grimly. “But it seems some unsung genius has managed a programming miracle that hoodwinks the safety coding. The only bright side so far is that it’s not being used by terrorists or criminals.”
Matt halted, staring, as Winters climbed the stairs. “You don’t think what happened this afternoon was criminal?”
“Oh, no,” Winter said, still climbing. “This was big-time lawbreaking. It just wasn’t done by career criminals. It was done by kids.”
“Kids?” Matt echoed, starting to climb after Winters.
“Teenagers,” the captain went on. “Four of them. They’ve been trashing veeyars all around the Washington, D.C., area. Taking over systems remotely, wrecking whatever setups they’re running, business or entertainment, blowing the computers out — and injuring whoever happens to be hooked in at the time. The victims ended up in shock, like Leif Anderson.”
Winters paused. “By the way, I checked with Emergency Services in New York. Leif is in stable condition — thanks to your quick responses.”
Matt straightened as if a weight had come off his shoulders. “I’m glad to hear that,” he said. “But how does this gang get in and out?”
The captain shook his head. “We don’t really know. By the time they’re finished with a system, it’s pretty well blown out. We think that today’s little exhibition was a test to see if they could ramshackle a big system.” He stalked down a hallway. “If so, they were successful. Most of the memory of the Camden Yards system was slagged.”
“Even so, there were HoloNet crews there to broadcast the game,” Matt said. “They must have gotten images of those people.”
“Oh, they did,” Winters growled as he opened an office door. Holograms of four heads floated in the air over the systems desk.
Matt recognized them all. “That one — the round face with the big ears — that’s the guy who did all the talking — the tall one.”
“It took us a little time, but we finally got a criminal records match,” Winters said.
“Great!”
The captain shook his head. “The record was a flatfilm photo from almost a hundred years ago—1934. That face belonged to John Dillinger.”
“Proxies,” Matt said in disgust. Sometimes people used other faces — even bodies — in virtual reality. When the technology had first been developed, proxies had been a fad. People had designed all sorts of strange creatures to represent themselves on the Net. But weirdness just didn’t cut it as the Net became more of a business workplace. The fad passed, and proxies were now only used in personal veeyars, games, and historical simulations.
Matt had heard that some people used improved versions of themselves in virtual business meetings. And holo stars sometimes had their appearances tweaked in their shows. But nobody appeared in proxy form in public — especially as an open-air hologram!
“These people must be weird — no, eccentric,” he corrected himself. “Rich people are eccentric, and they’d have to have lots of money to pull off what they did. Not to mention being computer geniuses.”
“They’ve certainly got a warped sense of humor. It took us a little longer to identify this face.” Winters pointed to a set of mustached features with a receding chin. “That’s Dr. Crippen. Executed in 1910 for a sensational murder in Britain.”
He gestured toward the remaining faces. “These two aren’t even criminals at all.”
Matt stared at the laughing, lean features of a dark-haired man and the smiling, heart-shaped young woman’s face. “Who are they?”
“Actors. Warren Beatty and Faye Dunaway, circa 1967—the year they did a gangster flatfilm called Bonnie and Clyde.”
Matt couldn’t help himself. He chuckled.
“Sure,” Winters said angrily. “They’re just kids, kidding around. But they’ve hurt a lot of people. And these pranks of theirs keep escalating.”
The smile disappeared from Matt’s face. “Have you got any sort of line on them?”
The captain shook his head. “We’ve had our best on-line decoys out on the Net — and so far, we’ve gotten zilch.”
Matt examined the four false faces in front of him. “Even the best adult opera
tor can’t impersonate a teenager perfectly,” he said. “To catch these kids, you’re going to need a kid.”
He tapped his chest. “And I think I’m that kid.”
The next morning was a Monday, the beginning of the school week. Usually Matt had to drag himself out of bed. But today he was up, showered, dressed, and finished with breakfast in lots of time for a slow walk to the bus stop. He was still turning over plans in his mind. Matt went to Bradford Academy, one of the most prestigious high schools in the Washington area. He’d gotten into the academy on a scholarship — but most of the students were bright, rich kids. If the Virtual Vandals didn’t actually go to Bradford, Matt was willing to bet that somebody on campus probably knew them.
Matt flagged down the approaching autobus, climbed aboard, and swiped his Universal Credit Card past the computer system that ran the vehicle.
“Destination, please?” the operating computer asked.
Matt gave the nearest cross streets to Bradford Academy, sat down, and continued to worry at the problem he’d set for himself.
He’d have to find a way into the elite social clique at school — the Leets, Big Men (and Women) on Campus, the ones who always got elected to the student government and ran the dances. Matt knew some of these kids — the smarter ones — from classes. He ran down that list. Could any of those kids have hidden behind the gun-toting proxies he’d seen yesterday? It seemed hard to believe.
But there were lots of other rich kids at Bradford, kids with enough money to afford the absolute best in computer equipment — and who were bored enough to go looking for a few sick thrills.
The bus pulled up at Matt’s stop, announcing the streets. Matt got off and walked the couple of blocks to the Bradford campus. The parking lot was already filling with flashy, expensive car — another set of toys that the rich kids who went there could afford.
Andy Moore leaned against the wall at the side entrance, trying to catch the feeble rays of sunshine. The weather had changed overnight, and the morning was downright chilly. Matt grinned when he saw how red his friend’s face was. Andy had gotten a sunburn yesterday.
“I don’t know why we’re here,” Andy grumpily greeted Matt as he came up.
“Compulsory Education Act of 2009,” Matt replied, remembering his Civics homework. “We’ve got to stay in school until we’re at least eighteen.”
“It’s a plot,” Andy said darkly. “They could just as easily broadcast classes through the Net. I could be sitting up in bed now in my underwear, eating kelp-tarts and just preparing for the day—”
“If this is a two-way connection, that would probably be against the Cruelty to Teachers Act of 2010.”
Andy shrugged. “Maybe.” Then he gave Matt a suspicious look. “Hey! I don’t remember any Cruelty to Teachers Act.”
“So I made it up,” Matt replied. “You’re probably right that sending us off to school is probably a giant baby-sitting scheme, so the folks who go to work will know their kids are being supervised—”
“And the ones who work at home will have the kids out of their hair,” Andy finished.
“I think we learn something besides Math, English, and Social Studies,” Matt said. “School throws us in with different people, and we have to learn to get along with them. Otherwise, all we’d be good for is veeyars and interfacing with the computers in autobuses.”
Andy laughed. “Hey, at least someday I hope to be able to afford an autocar.”
The school doors opened, and Matt, Andy, and the other kids who’d been gathering hurried down the halls to the classrooms they used for Prep period. Matt logged on to one of the desk computers, giving his student ID number, automatically signifying his attendance and calling up the day’s schedule.
Good, he thought. No surprise lecturers. As a respected school in the Washington area, Bradford attracted visitors from around the world — scholars who knew the academic staff, educators examining the workings of the school, even famous alumni. But today looked pretty straightforward — except for the request to meet with his History teacher after classes.
Matt wasn’t worried about that. He liked Dr. Fairlie and got along well in his class. Besides, he had other concerns right now.
Powering down his desk unit, he turned to the kids sitting around him. Andy was already talking up the incident in Baltimore.
“Hey, I was there!” Andy was telling his audience. “It was pretty bugged up! You know Leif Anderson? He was there in virtual and got hit by one of those idiots!”
“I heard it was just a bunch of kids fooling around on the Net,” Matt said.
“If that’s the way they fool around, I’d hate to see them get serious,” Lois Kearny said.
“Yeah,” Manuel Oliva added. “This isn’t like programming all the toilets in the school to flush together.” The year before they’d started at Bradford, some unknown genius had managed that trick, and moved into legend. The school authorities had never found the culprit — officially. But a huge anonymous donation had been made, probably by the kid’s parents, to pay for flood damage and plumbing repairs.
“Anybody hear about anyone messing around on the Net?” Matt asked casually.
The answers were disappointing, all little stuff — like the person trying to send a love note mistakenly e-mailing it to everyone in the school.
“I hear somebody hacked a way into the commercial entertainment sims,” Mannie Oliva said.
“Pay-per-adventure,” Lois sneered, not very impressed.
“These are the special—adult—ones,” Mannie went on.
“Sounds like some computer geek in search of a life,” Andy hooted.
“And looking in all the wrong places,” Matt agreed.
The mysteries of schoolwork took over for the rest of the day. But Matt’s investigation got an unexpected boost from Dr. Fairlie. When Matt arrived at his History teacher’s last-period classroom, he found a classmate waiting at the door. Sandy Braxton was one of the “Leets,” short for “elite,” Bradford’s top social clique.
Dr. Fairlie beckoned them in after his students came bursting out of the door. “You know that an important part of your American History grade comes from the research project. I’m assigning the pair of you to work as a team. You both have the same topic — the Battle of Gettysburg.”
“I’ve been doing some research about Pickett’s Charge,” Sandy said anxiously. “The Confederate general who broke the Union line was attacking troops led by his former best friend.”
“An interesting start, Mr. Braxton,” Dr. Fairlie said. “Unfortunately, your reports are more known for their flashy computer special effects than for their clear content.”
The teacher glanced at Matt. “Mr. Braxton is not a writer. Amazingly, he has reached his third year here at Bradford without being able to organize his thoughts into a coherent narrative.”
Matt knew why. Sandy Braxton probably felt he didn’t need to organize his thoughts. When he got out of school, he could hire any organizational experts he needed to help run the family business — which, as far as Matt could see, involved owning about half of Virginia.
The teacher went on. “Your reports, Mr. Hunter, are models of clarity. Perhaps you can give Mr. Braxton some useful pointers.”
Frankly, Matt didn’t know what — or if — he could teach Sandy Braxton. But Sandy could get Matt into the Leets, the group he wanted to check out.
He stuck out his hand and said, “Let’s get to work, partner.”
Chapter 3
Matt headed straight for his room when he arrived home. He tossed a two-inch-square datascrip onto his desk. Its memory matrix held gigabytes of information — Sandy Braxton’s info-dump on the two Civil War generals, Hancock and Armistead. The clatter seemed louder than usual in the empty house. Dad had a teacher’s meeting, and Mom wouldn’t get home from her job at the Department of Defense for at least another hour and a half.
There was lots of time for Matt to do what he intended and then get on
to his homework.
He sank into the computer-link chair in front of his desk, leaning back against the headrest. For an instant, there was a sort of buzzing in his ears as the receptors in the chair tuned into the circuitry implanted under Matt’s skin. The desk faded from in front of Matt’s eyes as he entered his own personal veeyar, the operating system for his personal computer.
Matt drifted cross-legged in the midst of a starry sky. In front of him floated a marble slab, decorated with small glowing objects — icons representing various programs in the computer.
Stretching out a finger, Matt touched an inch-tall neon-blue telephone and gave Leif Anderson’s telecom number in a subvocalized whisper — barely a mutter, but that was enough in veeyar. A second later, he felt the twinge of a connection. Matt composed a subvocalized message. Leif, it’s Matt. Would you mind a virtual visit?
Letters of flame appeared in the air. Come on up!
Matt moved from the tiny telephone and picked up a little gold thunderbolt, his interconnect icon. Subvocalizing Leif’s number again, he added the Launch command. The universe went slightly out of focus as he transferred to the Net.
Now Matt seemed to be flying through a vast city of light. Soaring skyscrapers in single blazing colors marked major corporate Web-nodes. Other virtual buildings were gray, with each window shining a different color — small-business and individual e-mail sites. Yet other constructs floated in the coal-black sky. Matt flew past them at blurring speed, since his destination was already set.
He flashed on through the virtual landscape until he came to a glowing silver building, then arrowed toward an entire floor of red-hued windows — the family suite of the Andersons.
The moment he reached the virtual window, Matt blinked — and found himself standing in Leif’s room.
Matt blinked again. This was unexpected. He’d assumed he would land in Leif’s personal veeyar, not out in the real world in holoform. Matt shook his head. “I didn’t know you had your room hooked up for full holo projection.”
“Oh, it’s the hot thing to do, if your folks have enough money.” Leif would have been better off if he could have hidden behind a virtual mask. His skin was pale, and his face seemed twisted in pain even though he sat in a large, comfortable chair. He was wearing pajamas and a robe.
