by Tom Clancy
But impatience quickly became dismay as the computer announced hundreds of hits.
“Organize by individuals,” Matt ordered, “listing by name in decreasing frequency of references.”
Even that way, the datascrip Captain Winters had left was quickly filled.
I bet he figured this would happen, Matt thought, and set it up as a lesson for me.
He was about to pull the scrip from its reader when he suddenly stopped, struck by a new thought. He hadn’t been able to identify the accents of two of the three proxied-up characters he’d met today. But he had a suspicion about Mr. Jewels.
“Separate file,” Matt ordered the computer. “First ten individuals on the list — sort by nationality. If there are any British subjects, give them precedence.”
The scrip whirred again. “Last thirty-seven names on master list deleted to make room for file,” the computer warned.
“Accepted,” Matt said. “List nationality file.”
A holo-screen appeared in the air over the computer console. Matt examined the glowing letters. “One British subject,” he muttered. “Look at all those press references.”
Matt decided to try and press his luck. “Computer,” he said, “is there a current government file on”—he squinted, then read the name—“Gerald Savage?”
The room was silent for a moment as the computer searched the Net Force files. “Affirmative.”
“Is the file classified?”
“Negative.”
“Call up file on Gerald Savage,” Matt ordered.
An eye-blink later, the image of a harsh-faced but handsome enough guy appeared over the console. There was just a little too much nose and chin, and the brown hair was worn defiantly long.
“Hunh,” Matt muttered. “It’s a State Department file, not Net Force info.”
He frowned as he ordered a scroll of the written contents. Gerald Savage, it seemed, was the kind of guy who gave the idea of diplomatic immunity a bad name. He’d gotten into several physical confrontations, which had earned him the nickname “Gerry the Savage.”
Matt became more interested as he discovered that Savage’s brawling apparently had a political origin. His father was a radical British politician, campaigning on an angrily anti-Irish platform. Matt knew there had always been a lot of anger in the history of England and Ireland. The Irish had fought for hundreds of years to be free from British rule.
But the antagonistic relationship had taken a new turn since the late 1990s, when Ireland began outperforming Britain economically. Where Englishmen had once claimed superiority, they now felt envy. It only became worse when, twenty years later, the British government finally allowed the six counties of Northern Ireland to reunite with the rest of the country. Many Englishmen were humiliated at losing one of their last colonies — and Cliff Savage, Gerald’s father, had ridden that wave of old hatred and anger to sudden political prominence.
It looked as though the government had given him a foreign-service post to get him out of the country.
Matt shook his head. But why send him here? They had to know about the huge Irish-American community. Or was that the idea? Maybe the people in London were hoping that the Savages would cause some kind of international incident.
“Close file,” Matt ordered. But he was already frowning as a new thought came to him. Caitlin Corrigan. That had to be an Irish name. What was she doing with a guy who liked to dump on Irish people?
Maybe it was just part of Washington society. It was amazing how diplomatic functions were always throwing together people who were supposed to be bitter enemies. Sometimes political points could be made by acting like friends.
Then again, these were two kids whose parents were always in the public eye. Maybe they thought it would be funny to drive their folks crazy by picking the world’s most impossible friend.
Matt swallowed. In school, his English class had been going over Romeo and Juliet, the famous play where two kids from feuding families had fallen in love.
Any of those scenarios could explain why Caitlin and Gerry the Savage had gotten together. But all they told Matt was that he had a lot more to find out about Cat Corrigan before he’d know what made her tick.
Chapter 7
Matt knew he should be working on the “assignment” he’d been given by the virtual vandals — the little job he hadn’t mentioned to Captain Winters. His attempt at undercover work would go up in smoke if he couldn’t deliver on what he’d been asked to do.
Instead, Matt found himself staring at a holo image over his computer console. It showed Caitlin Corrigan in an evening gown, arriving at some charity event with her escort, Gerald Savage. Cat was giving the paparazzi a mischievous grin. The Savage looked as if he’d just bitten into a chocolate-covered pickle.
How was Matt supposed to compete with these people? They were the innermost in-crowd, invited to every social event. If they couldn’t get to Sean McArdle, how could Matt expect to get through?
Unless…Matt suddenly thought, maybe I’m asking the wrong question. Why can’t they get through to Sean McArdle?
He erased the image from his computer console, and began a new data search. As Matt read the news reports he called up, a line of type caught his eye. Then a slow smile appeared on his face. Maybe, just maybe, there was a way….
A day or so later, Matt ventured out into the Net, carrying his telecommunications icon, Leif Anderson’s proxy program, and Caitlin’s earring protocol.
He took a roundabout route before heading to Cat’s veeyar, just in case she was monitoring where he came from.
Getting paranoid, aren’t we? a little voice asked in the back of his mind.
Maybe he was. But keeping himself anonymous was one of the few advantages he had against these rich kids. He figured keeping that advantage was worth a little work.
Matt flew through the glowing world of the Net until he came to another heavily trafficked data node. Then he transformed himself into Mr. Sticks and activated Cat’s communications protocol. Again he flew through the walls of the Corrigans’ virtual mansion and into the endless surreal landscape of Caitlin’s personal veeyar.
Cat appeared a moment later, wearing jeans and a sweater. Her feet were bare, and Matt noticed that her eyes seemed puffy.
“Are you okay?” he asked.
“Oh, I’m just great,” she retorted. “My whole life is in the hands of a guy who dresses like a squiggle, so I have to jump like a trained seal whenever he shows up.”
She rubbed her hands over her face, sighing. “I’m sorry. I was out last night — late. It felt as if I’d just closed my eyes for a nap when my beeper announced that you were in here.”
Matt actually found himself feeling sorry for Caitlin. Wait a minute, he told himself. She wasn’t forced to get into this. Remember Leif — and the other people who got hurt because she felt she needed a little excitement in her life.
He pushed his sympathy away. “I think I’ve got a way to get at Sean McArdle, just as your friends wanted. It will be tomorrow, if you need to get anything ready. And you’ll need this.”
Matt tossed Caitlin a small program icon.
When she caught it, her virtual image began to transform. Cat’s shining blond hair turned mousy brown, shrinking back into a severe haircut that, even though it was short, made her hair look stringy. Her heart-shaped face lengthened, the cheeks sinking in, her jaw growing long. Her lips flattened out into a tight line, and her eyes went from blue to a washed-out hazel.
The sweater and jeans morphed into a baggy, unflattering jumper dress covering a cheap, plain white blouse. Bony wrists and nail-bitten hands stuck out from the too-short cuffs. Matchstick legs and ugly brown shoes emerged from the too-long skirt.
Caitlin looked down at her altered self and let out a horrified scream.
“My hair! My clothes…the rest of me! What did you do?” she demanded.
“Don’t burst a valve,” Matt told her. “It’s just a proxy. You’ll need
it to get in — just as I’ll need this.”
He activated his proxy program, turning into a gangly redheaded boy with a freckled baby-face, wearing a not-quite-clean white shirt, a too-short tie, and dress pants that were a good inch and a half too short, showing off white gym socks.
Caitlin looked at him and shuddered. “Tell me that’s not the way you actually look,” she begged. “You’d make a perfect Dexter.”
She called up a virtual mirror and stood beside him, examining their reflections. “And you turned me into a real Nerdetta.”
“So nobody would expect that’s you under there — or me.” Matt tapped the rumpled tie on his proxy self’s chest. “But they’d think we look exactly like a pair of serious junior reporters from our school newspaper.”
Cat’s altered face turned to him, her eyes sharp. “Newspaper?”
“I bet you and your friends tried the usual social angles that work with diplomatic brats,” Matt said. “But Sean McArdle doesn’t go out to play — or bring people in for virtual bashes like Lara Fortune’s. No, he’s kind of serious, a real — what did you call it? — a Dexter. He uses the Net for research, not to play around. But he does open up his system for one thing that I bet your pals never thought about. Once a month, he hosts a virtual youth press conference. That’s what’s happening tomorrow. It took a little foozling on the school computers, but I got us clearance to attend as reporters for the Bradford Bulletin.”
“I usually erase that thing right after it’s downloaded to our computers,” Caitlin admitted.
Unless it’s got an article about a big dance, or some nonsense about one of your Leet friends, Matt thought.
Out loud, he just cleared his throat. “I’ll be Ed Noonan, and you’ll be Cathy Carty. Here’s some ID and your clearance.” He handed over a couple of other icons.
“Cathy — sounds like Cat. Good thinking,” Caitlin said. “Is the name you’ve chosen close to your real one?”
Matt just gave her a sour smile. “These people don’t exist, so there’ll be nothing to connect us to them — or to the real newspaper. I’ve chosen Irish names, because I figured that’s the kind of journalist who’d want to go to an Irish kid’s press conference.”
“What’s he going to talk about?” Cat wondered.
“I have no idea,” Matt admitted. “We’ll just have to go, wave a pair of recorders around, and try to keep a straight face, no matter what.”
“It will be different,” Caitlin admitted.
“The conference will be held tomorrow afternoon after school,” Matt said. “What do you want to do, meet here?”
Caitlin deactivated the proxy program, transforming back to her natural self. “Might as well,” she said, coiling her long blond hair around one finger. “But we won’t go directly to the veeyar from here.”
She gave Matt another one of her bitter smiles. “I’ve got a list of good cutout locations. Tonight, I’ll choose one and set it up. It should cover us in case someone takes it into his or her head to backtrace people coming in.”
“Good thinking,” Matt said, his voice flat. “I’ll see you tomorrow, then.”
When he arrived at Cat’s veeyar the next day, she was already wearing the Plain-Jane virtual form Matt had engineered for her.
“Oh, it’s me, all right,” she assured Matt, her bony face squinching up in disgust as she looked down at herself. “Trust me. None of the guys would want to wear this.”
Caitlin picked up a virtual tote bag — an awful-looking thing that fit right in with her unfashionable appearance. “Ready to go?”
Matt had already adopted the Ed Noonan proxy before arriving. “Why not?” he said.
Caitlin held out her hand, and Matt took it. They flashed across the Net, coming to rest in a large, very realistic simulated room with a series of stone-topped tables facing a raised platform with a lecture desk, also stone-topped.
Matt released the girl’s hand. “Wait a minute!” he said. “This is the virtual chemistry lab at Bradford!”
Caitlin chuckled. “You aren’t the only one who can foozle the school’s computers.”
Matt gave a wordless grunt. The guy had managed to route a request through the school’s system. Whoever was behind the virtual vandals had completely invaded the computers in Bradford Academy!
“Come on!” Cat checked the dowdy old-fashioned watch her proxy was wearing. “We’re going to be late if you keep fooling around.”
Sighing, Matt took Caitlin’s hand again as she routed them to the press conference using the clearance protocols he had obtained.
Matt had wondered if the Irish embassy’s Net node would turn out to have shamrocks, or be designed in the shape of a quaint cottage. It was almost a disappointment to find that the official site was a typical ultramodern virtual office setup.
They were quickly routed to Sean McArdle’s veeyar, which was configured as a large lecture hall. Matt was impressed at the number of young journalists who had gathered. “We’re going to wind up at the back,” he whispered to Caitlin.
“All the better,” she muttered.
Matt blinked. Then again, Cat was probably right. They could just hang out and listen, away from all the action.
Even so, he was surprised that Cat didn’t take a seat, just standing in the rear.
Exactly on the dot of the hour, Sean McArdle appeared at the podium. He was a tall, intense, shy young man who was obviously terrified at the idea of getting up to speak in front of a crowd. But for some reason — maybe to get over that terror — here he was, conducting a general interview.
McArdle’s voice cracked as he introduced himself, and he gave a sudden, disarming grin. “Don’t think I’ll ever get this speech-making thing right,” he said. “A terrible failing if I ever hope to become a politician.”
But as he went on to talk about Ireland and its economic achievements, Matt had to admit that if McArdle wasn’t a politician, he made a great cheerleader. The young man was definitely proud of his country and where it had gone. “When my father was growing up, we were still accepting handouts from the members of the European Economic Community,” he said. “The joke in those days was, ‘Thank heavens for the German taxpayers,’ because they were paying for the roads and infrastructure to bring us up to speed. I know quite a few of you are descended from Irish immigrants. So I think you’ll know what I mean when I say that certain people — certain countries—always pushed the idea that our people were shiftless, lazy. But thirty years ago, we ‘lazy Irish’ had some of the best-educated young people in Europe. We were getting some of the plum jobs in that country which will remain nameless, becoming involved in computer design, even working on parts of the American space program.”
McArdle gestured around the virtual meeting hall they now occupied. “We’ve been very involved in the Net. All the constructs at this node — including this veeyar — were programmed by Irish engineers. If you like this meeting setup, I’m allowed to give you a copy.”
Now that he was up and talking, a flush of color appeared on his high, prominent cheekbones.
“An affluent economy led to some problems we’d never have anticipated — like a flood of illegal immigrants. We aren’t a large country, and for centuries we’ve been a single people. That’s made it difficult for would-be refugees to fit in — and everyone hasn’t had the training to share in our prosperity. I know that’s led to some bitterness from people fleeing the strife in the Balkans. But especially in recent years, Ireland has taken the lead in bringing development money to that region, helping to build up the business climate as our economic partners did for us.”
As he began to bring on the holo clips, images, charts, and graphs, young Sean McArdle now seemed completely comfortable with his speech-making.
Maybe he will make it as a politician back home, Matt thought. But now I’m getting bored.
He glanced round at Caitlin to see how she was taking the presentation. With her political family, she probably heard stuff like
this all the time.
She stood with her back to the rear wall, half hidden in the shadows, not even bothering to listen.
In fact, she seemed to be fiddling with something in her hands. Matt looked a little closer. What was that? A sticky label?
That seemed to be exactly what she was fooling with. Even as he took a step toward her, she peeled the backing from the label and slapped it onto the wall behind her.
Matt strained his eyes, trying to read whatever it was she’d stuck up.
It seemed pretty silly to him, pushing so hard to get in somewhere if all she wanted to do was a bit of petty vandalism. It would probably turn out to be some nasty anti-Irish slogan spouted by Gerald Savage. What would it do? Glare out in intolerable brightness? Or maybe give off smoke?
Instead, the slapped-on label did something even weirder. Its color shifted, chameleon-like, until it matched the dark green of the wall itself. Rather than standing out, the sticker seemed to be hiding itself.
Matt came closer, trying to find the blasted thing.
But the label was vanishing…not blending in against the virtual paint job, but melting in to become part of the wall itself!
Chapter 8
“What is it?” Caitlin hissed as Matt dashed up — and roughly pushed her aside. “What are you doing?” she demanded, sounding more scared than angry.
He paid no attention, scratching simulated nail-bitten fingers along the wall. Nothing! The sticky label he had seen Cat slap onto the green paint had left no trace.
Correction, Matt thought. It left no visible trace. The blasted thing had somehow become one with this simulated room. Oh, it was possible that the Irish designers’ programming had simply erased an element that didn’t belong. But these are the virtual vandals we’re dealing with, Matt thought. Whoever they’ve got behind them, I can’t believe the genius’s handiwork could disappear so easily. Unless it was built to do that.
