by Tom Clancy
It was the kind of thing, Burt thought, that would have driven Wilma crazy. She tended to be very structured about everything, Everything had to make sense. She wanted everyone around her to know his or her role and stay in it. The trouble only started when you tried to slip out of one role into another.
Burt was getting ready to do that… though he had only recently started putting it to himself just that way. Since he had actually left home, it had become plain to him that he was going to have to make things work, now, was going to have to make a success of this new life. Otherwise his parents, if they found out he had somehow messed it up, would never cut him a moment's slack for the rest of his life. If everything went well, there would be a day when Burt would go back to them and magnanimously offer to take them back into his life, even after the way they had treated him. He was counting on his father to refuse, and after that he would be, for the first time in his life, completely free. But first Burt had to get on his feet and start making some kind of living. And if he was ever realistically going to ask Wilma to share that life with him-a request he had been trying to figure out how to make, sometime in the next few years-he was going to have to be able to support her. Burt knew that some people these days would consider that kind of thinking old-fashioned… but it was just the way he was.
That concept had been very much on Burt's mind when he had first met the man called Vaud, the man Bodo and some of the others had said was the one to talk to, on the "street corner"-which looked nothing like a street corner at all, but was just a blank blue-swirled little pocket of virtual space off a city plaza that Burt hadn't recognized. The pocket into which Burt had stepped from a nondescript doorway in the plaza contained a table, a couple of chairs, and Vaud, a salt-and-pepper-haired man sitting there in a dark suit with his hands folded, on one side of the table. There was no telling what he really looked like, of course; as in most virtual environments, anybody could look like anything they felt like, and this man probably had reasons to want to keep his identity private, considering the kind of work he was offering. He was a short man, but there was no sense of him being small. Everything about him suggested power and control. He had turned on Burt a sharp, narrow, cool-eyed regard, when they were introduced, and questioned him closely about what he thought he was going to get out of this job. 'The money," Burt said, and that cool face produced just a crack of a smile, the kind of crack you might get in a stone wall-somewhat intimidating with its suggestion that it might possibly split wider, with unfortunate results. Burt told Vaud the truth. His mother and father were not looking for him, he had no intention of going home any time soon, and that they knew this, that his friends weren't concerned enough about him to come looking for him- they knew he could take care of himself. All this the man called Vaud had listened to without much comment. Burt had shown him his driver's license when asked. It was clean, no points-but then there hadn't been time to get many, especially with his father unwilling to let him drive the car much farther than the local shopping center.
"What can you do?" Vaud said to him finally.
"Keep my mouth shut," Burt said firmly.
Vaud's smile widened, another crack in the wall, an alarming look. Burt didn't react, for what he had said was true enough. He had had endless education in that particular art from his father, who would tell him to shut his mouth about once every half-hour. But Burt also meant the phrase as he strongly suspected Vaud meant it. He would work and not ask questions, and not discuss it with anyone. Doubtless that suited Vaud's needs, but it also suited Burt's. He didn't really feel like discussing, with Wilma or anyone else, where he was going to be getting the money he was about to start making. He preferred to keep its source mysterious, if only because his life had always been short of mystery, and now that he had the chance to insert some, he intended to do just that.
"That'll do," Vaud had said at last, and told Burt to go on. If he was going to be considered for hiring, Vaud would message him the next day. Burt had gone out into that big busy plaza pretty sure that he had blown it. But the next day the message had come through, and then had come the meeting with the two other people, men-they might have been men-who were never identified to him. The one who wore the black sliktite, a tall young man whose face somehow always managed to be in shadow, even in that evenly lit place, never spoke the whole time. The other, a little round man who wore a suit like Vaud's and a face that could have been cheerful if anything like a smile ever got near it, let Vaud ask all the same questions again. Burt answered them doggedly, with no trace of annoyance at having to repeat himself. And finally, when the three looked at one another and then exchanged nods, Burt could have whooped for joy, but restrained himself.
"We'll try you out," said the little round man. "A little package needs to be picked up in Chicago and taken to Amsterdam. The people you meet there will have one for you to bring back. They'll give you instructions on where it has to be delivered."
"All right," Burt had said.
And now here he was, on time. He was mostly delighted with the way things were going. He had an overnight bag. He had in his wallet, for the first time in his life, the photo-embossed plastic card that was his passport-produced for him, by methods he hadn't inquired into, and forwarded to him, the day after he had agreed to take this job. His things, removed from Breathing Space this morning, were now in a left-luggage facility at O'Hare, and there they would stay for at least several days. Everything was going well, and Burt was in high spirits… but there was one thing very wrong. The man he had been sent here to meet, the one making the delivery of the package intended for Amsterdam, was very late. Was this some kind of test, to see if Burt had enough patience? Or was it just an accident? No telling. Burt waited. He had a magazine rolled up under his arm, but he had read it three times now. He let his eyes rest again on Day and Night, and once again wondered about the penguin…
Until he saw the hat. He had seen Shriner's headgear before, on occasion, when he was young. Now he saw one all bright with gaudy embroidery across the lines of polished wood benches in the waiting room, on the head of a man who had to be about six feet six, a man booming out jovial laughter at something a shorter man walking next to him had just said. They paused together in the aisle between the rows of benches, looking up at the clock and checking their watches.
And after that it all happened very fast. The man in the Shriner's fez-and very strange it looked, contrasted with the ordinary business suit-came wandering over to the magazine stand, and put down his own overnight bag next to Burt's. He browsed the magazines for a moment, bought a copy of Field and Stream, and bent down to pick up his bag again, looking at the cover. Then he strolled off to rejoin his friend, and the two of them vanished out one of the side doors, toward the corridor that led to the suburban trains.
Except that he was carrying Burt's bag, and had left his own.
After a little while, as the clock chimed the quarter- hour, Burt picked up the bag and slung it over his shoulder, unzipping the top of it to put his magazine away. As he did, he saw inside it the yellow jiffy-bag which he had been told to expect.
And that's all there is to it…
He let out a long breath. This was it at last, the real start of the change in his life-the change that in a few years would see him and Wilma settled down, safely past the discomfort and mutual misunderstandings that seemed to be getting into things at the moment. They would get married, and buy a house, and start a family… one that would be nothing, nothing at all, like the one Burt had grown up in.
But that would come later. Right now, time to leave. He had an hour before the check-in time for his flight.
But Burt did one last thing before he left the station. Casually he walked to that far door, over which the big clock was mounted, and had a good long look up at it. The door itself was impassable now, walled up with marble that matched the walls. This seemed to have been done in the last century, maybe during a renovation of the station. But Burt's attention was elsewhere
. From right underneath the clock, he could see that the sleepy-faced statue of Night was holding, not a penguin, but an owl. It appeared, though, to be an owl carved by someone who had never seen one before, which explained its rather strange shape.
Burt sighed. Funny, he thought, I kind of liked it better as a penguin. I bet Wil would have liked it, too…
Smiling, Burt headed out of the station, making his way to the Metro line that went to the airport. It was going to be a long flight to Amsterdam, and he was planning to enjoy every minute of it.
Chapter 7
Megan woke up earlier than she normally would have, even after the talk with Leif. Her anxiety wouldn't let her sleep. As a result, she found her mother in the act of getting ready to leave for the airport-heading off for some meeting in New York that couldn't be conducted virtually. Megan often wondered what went on at these, for whatever else seemed to be going on at work, the Time staff seemed to go out of their way to get together physically once a month for the "screaming sessions" her father had mentioned to her in passing. Her mother always came back from these meetings looking energized and cheerful, almost younger than she had when she'd left; but on the mornings of departure she was always grim, and she barely looked up when Megan came into the kitchen in a desperate search for caffeine.
"I hate these early mornings," her mother said to the air. "I went freelance to avoid these early mornings. I am supposedly still freelance. Why, then, does it appear to be five-thirty in the morning?"
"Six," Megan said. 'The Earth rotates, Mom."
"Six! Oh, heavens, where's the cab?"
"It'll be here, Mom," Megan said, putting the heat on under the kettle. "By now Kevin knows better than to be late."
"But what if they don't send Kevin?"
The kettle started whistling almost immediately. Meg made tea and watched her mother take what appeared to be the third or fourth inventory of her coat and briefcase. As she straightened up from this, someone honked outside the house, and Meg's mother grabbed coat and briefcase and headed for the door.
"Whoa!" Meg said, picked up her mother's reading glasses from the table, slapped them into their case and handed them to her mother.
"I hate this," her mom said. "Hate it. Remind me to resign."
"Resign, Mom."
"Right. Bye bye, honey, have a good day. Better than mine, I hope."
"Bye-bye, Mom. You'll feel better in a while."
"From your mouth to the Deity's ear, daughter of mine," her mother said, heading out the door.
'Tear 'em a new one, Mom!" called a voice from the front door.
"Arrrgh," Megan heard her mother say as she got into the cab. Chuckling, Megan closed the side door, hearing Mike do the same at the front.
She got some sugar for her tea, then went into the den and settled herself in the implant chair. A few moments later she was standing by her desk in her workspace, holding the mug of tea and looking around to see if there were any new virtmails. Nothing. Damn. Suppose he doesn't… Suppose he changes his mind…
But there was no point in worrying about it right now. "Manager…" she said to her workspace.
"Here, Megan."
"Link to Leif Anderson's space."
"That link is already active. He has been waiting for you." The doorframe appeared on the floor of her amphitheater. "Please go through."
Megan went through into the ice cave. It was brighter. The earlier lighting must have been twilight, she thought. As she stood there, looking around her, a figure moved in the depths of the cave, down by the ice-Edsel, and came toward her.
It was Leif… she thought. He looked pallid and worn. His hair, normally a surprisingly fiery red, looked dull and tired. He looked thin, and there were shadows under his eyes. Even his skin tone looked bad-it looked looser than usual, somehow. Megan sucked in breath. "Leif? Are you sick, are you coming down with something? What's happened to you?"
He grinned at her and straightened up. "Makeup," Leif said. "If anyone wants to meet me in the nonvirtual mode, I don't have to be afraid of looking too good."
"Boy, you're right about that," Megan said. "You look like death warmed over."
"Good," Leif said. "Naturally, in Breathing Space, I'll wear a seeming that matches this one fairly closely. It might look a little better, to maintain the illusion… Most people who look this bad would try to improve their looks a little while virtual. But out in the real world, this'll fool a surprising number of people. My mom's taught me a lot about stage makeup… and even in broad daylight, there's a lot you can get away with if you really know your own skin tone."
"If you were unscrupulous," Megan said, admiring, "you could get off a lot of school that way."
"Don't remind me. There have been times…"
There was a soft chime in the depths of the ice cave. "Come on in!" Leif said.
A slight young dark-haired boy with slightly Asian features walked out of the air and glanced over at them. "Hey, Megan."
"Mark!" Mark Gridley was small, and fairly young for a Net Force Explorer. But he was also one of the sharpest and most devious young minds that Megan had ever had the dubious pleasure of being associated with… besides being the son of Jay Gridley, the head of Net Force. There was very little that Mark couldn't get a Net-oriented computer, facility, or resource to do if he was properly motivated, and Mark didn't take much motivating, being possessed of a curiosity that would have made the Elephant's Child look like an ostrich by comparison. Megan often reflected that it was a good thing Mark was on the side of law and order. Otherwise, the law enforcement organizations responsible for online life, meaning Net Force in particular, would have their work cut out for them. Far better he should be used for "peaceful purposes…"
"Took you a while," Leif said.
"I was busy," Mark said, sounding mournful. "It's harder than usual getting online time when we're traveling."
They glanced at the dim and hazy background out of which he'd walked, a sort of swirling default blue. "Where are you, exactly?"
"Paris," Mark said, making it sound more like he might as well have said "Alcatraz." "Boy, am I glad it's lunch- time here. I'd hate to get up as early as you two."
"Go on, rub it in some more," Megan said. "What've you been doing over there? Is it a vacation?"
"Don't I wish," Mark said. "Why does my dad have to go do these things physically? He could be there in a second, virtually, and not mess up my work schedule." Mark sighed. "But he feels the need to go 'press the flesh' sometimes. Claims he can tell things from actually being with people that he can't tell just from virtual experience. And he insists on bringing me along to 'expand my horizons.' He can't fool me… he's just trying to keep me out of trouble. Unsuccessfully, I might add, since here I am." Mark grinned innocently. "He has to take his Net hardware with him wherever he goes… but at least he isn't always using it. I can get some business done."
Megan reflected that Mark must be one of the few human beings on the planet who could be taken out of school and sent on an all-expenses-paid vacation to Europe and still feel like he was being badly treated. "So this is what you meant when you said you thought you knew someone who could manage the 'fakery,' " Megan said to Leif. "I see your point. Mark, what have you got?"
"Well. I won't bore you with the technical details-"
Leif and Megan exchanged skeptical looks.
"Come on, you guys, eventually you have to learn something about the bones of the system you use every day-"
"Not today, we don't," Megan said.
Mark sighed like a philosopher denied the chance to cast pearls before swine. "Well, after Leif called me and told me what you told him, and what you two were thinking of, I went and had a look at Breathing Space's security 'cordon.' It's comprehensive, but not watertight… but then no system is watertight, if you poke it hard enough." Mark frowned. "The problem is, I didn't have to poke it nearly hard enough."
"You didn't?" This surprised Megan a great deal, after what she had read
about the hacking attacks on Breathing Space in its early days, and the huge amounts of money the service had spent on security thereafter.
Mark shook his head. 'There are entirely too many holes in their system," he said. "They're not all obvious. But there are a whole lot of side doors and back doors in and out of the space for administrative use, and someone's gotten a little careless about closing them down behind counselors and staff who've left the charity. In particular, there are even some 'ready-made' side doors, templates, sitting around stored away for assignment to new staff."
"You're kidding," Leif said.
Mark shook his head again. "This," he said, reaching into his pocket and flipping something small and bright and shining to Leif, "is one of them."
Leif caught it. It looked like an ordinary old-fashioned house key, the kind that would go into a physical lock. Megan peered over at it as Leif turned it over in his hands, and found that it even said "YALE" on it.
Mark said. "That's a symbol for one of about twenty template mail and space accounts they had lying around. A sign that someone over there really hasn't thought things through. Not in the charity itself. They don't handle their programming, it's contracted out. I know who the contractors are, too. They even do some work for Net Force. But if they did this kind of work for our people, and someone caught them at it, they and their contract would get flung right over the horizon. They may have implemented these 'ready-made' keys as a courtesy to the staff, or the staff may even have asked them to make them as a way to avoid extra 'call-out' charges when new entry/ exit protocols for added staff had to be written. But either way, in terms of security, it's a dumb idea. And it's entirely possible that the kids inside, the ones who're savvy to security structures, have found out about these keys, hijacked a couple of them, and are using them to set up these 'street corners' inside the main system."
