by Maggie Allen
“Don’t touch my stuff, you’ll mess it up!”
LAD detected vibrations, as if Febby’s body were being shaken. There was more shouting, and Febby fell and hit the floor. Someone else banged on the computer keyboard.
“What is all this garbage?” Jaya said. “You better not have lost my saved games!”
“Don’t do that!” Febby said. “No, don’t erase it!”
“Don’t mess with my stuff!” Jaya hit some more keys, and LAD heard the unmistakable sound of a desktop trash folder being emptied.
Febby’s body collided with something, and Jaya screeched. The fighting continued for several minutes until Arman and Nindya came upstairs to separate the children.
After breaking up the fight in Jaya’s room, Arman dragged Febby back to her own bedroom and scolded her for nearly half an hour, then left her alone to cry. It was now nearly noon, local time, according to LAD’s internal system clock.
LAD noted that Arman wasn’t angry because Febby hadn’t asked permission to use the computer; he was angry because he didn’t think his daughter needed to know anything about technology. That was what he said when Febby tried to explain what she had been doing. Arman wasn’t interested when she told him the LAD necklace was actually a piece of sophisticated bodytech, and he wasn’t impressed when Febby showed him the blinking lights she had programmed.
There was a knock on the door, followed by Nindya’s voice asking if Febby was hungry.
“No,” Febby replied. “I was doing something, Ma.”
Nindya walked into the room and closed the door. “You don’t need to know all that computer stuff.”
“Why can’t I learn about computers?”
“You can learn anything you want, Febby,” Nindya said. “But you have to think what people will think of you. Boys don’t want a girl who knows computers.”
“Boys are stupid,” Febby said. “Can I go to the library?”
“Maybe tomorrow,” Nindya said. “Pa doesn’t want us to go outside. He thinks some men might be watching the house.” Nindya sighed. “Don’t worry, Febby...”
The rest of her sentence lost priority as system behavior overrides kicked in. LAD modulated the necklace antenna to seek for spread-spectrum radio signals, which a recovery team would use for secure communications, and ultra-wideband pulses, which they would use to create precise radar images of the building structure.
Nindya left the room while LAD was still scanning. The radio analysis jobs took so many clock cycles, it was nearly 1,200 milliseconds before LAD checked the audio buffer again and heard Febby talking.
“Did you hear that noise?” she asked. “What was that? Laddie, can you hear me?”
“I’m analyzing the sound,” LAD said, switching priority back to the audio software and analyzing the sound spike just before Febby’s question. The matching algorithms came back in 50 milliseconds: .22-caliber rimfire cartridge, double-action revolver, likely Smith & Wesson. From the basement.
LAD increased the audio job priority for the noise immediately following. The gunshot had attenuated the microphone, so LAD also had to amplify the input and run noise reduction filters on it. The result came back in 470 milliseconds: hard impact, metal projectile against concrete surface. Not flesh and bone.
LAD flipped job priority back to the voice command UI. “That was a gunshot. Febby, I need you to go downstairs, please.”
“A gun?” Febby ran to her bedroom door, then stopped. “Who has a gun?”
LAD heard Arman’s muffled voice echoing in the basement, but couldn’t make out the words. On the ground floor, Jaya and Nindya shouted at each other.
“It’s your father,” LAD said. “He’s in the basement. Please, Febby, I need you to go downstairs so I can hear better. I need to know if Mr. Mundine is hurt again.”
“That was really loud,” Febby said, her voice trembling. “I’m scared.”
“I’m afraid too, Febby,” LAD said. “But Mr. Mundine is in trouble. Please, Febby. I need to help my friend.”
Febby sobbed once, then rubbed some kind of cloth against her face. “Okay.”
“Thank you, Febby.”
“You stay here! Stay here!” Nindya shouted.
“I have to go back!” Jaya said. “Pa said to get him—”
“I don’t care what he said! You’re not going down there while he’s shooting a gun!”
Their voices grew louder as Febby approached the kitchen. She stopped at the bottom of the stairs and whispered, “I don’t think I can sneak past them. Can you hear better now?”
LAD filtered the incoming audio, passed it to the translation process, then re-filtered the sample using a different algorithm and tried again. No good. The translator still couldn’t understand what Arman was saying.
“I’m sorry, Febby, we’re still not close enough,” LAD said. “But your mother and brother are on the other side of the kitchen. Your mother’s facing away from you. If you crawl along the floor, the table should hide you from your brother’s line of sight.”
Febby dropped to the floor and started moving. “I thought you couldn’t see.”
“I can’t. I’m analyzing the sound frequencies of their voices and extrapolating propagation paths using a three-dimensional spectrograph.”
“Cool. Is that a software plug-in?”
“It’s a dynamically-loaded shared library. Let’s talk about it later, okay?”
LAD could tell when Febby reached the end of the hall by the echoes of Nindya’s and Jaya’s voices. Febby sat up and put her ear against the door leading to the basement. The translator software began producing valid output.
“You want to talk now?” Arman shouted. “Are you ready to talk?”
LAD heard rustling noises, and then Mundine’s voice. “Sorry, friend, it doesn’t work like that.”
“You came here to make a deal,” Arman said. “I know how it works. You don’t bring cash, but there’s a bank. Tell me which bank! Tell me your access codes!”
“It doesn’t work like that,” Mundine repeated.
LAD was just about to ask Febby to open the door—hoping her presence would distract Arman long enough for LAD to do something, anything—when the radio monitoring job started spewing result codes into the system register. 20 milliseconds passed while LAD examined the data: multiple ultra-wideband signals, overlapping and repeating, likely point sources in the front and back of the house, approximately one meter above ground level.
“Febby,” LAD said, raising output volume above the shouting from the kitchen and the basement, “Febby, please lie down on the ground now.”
“Why?” Febby turned her head away from the basement door. “What’s happening?”
LAD turned output volume up to maximum. “Down on the ground! Get down on the ground now, Febby, please!”
Febby dropped and flattened herself against the floorboards 150 milliseconds before the first projectile hit the wall above her. That was enough time for LAD to analyze the background audio and estimate there were two squads advancing on the house, four men each, walking on thermoplastic outsoles and wearing ballistic nylon body armor, likely carrying assault rifles.
340 milliseconds after the first team broke down the back door, the second team charged the front door, and another spray of tiny missiles tore into the kitchen. Something thumped to the ground, and Jaya cried out. He ran three steps before a burst of rounds caught him in the back. He crashed against the wall and slid to the floor.
Febby was still screaming when the first team reached her.
“I’ve got a girl here! Young girl, on the floor!” called a male voice (H5).
“Where’s the IFF?” asked another male voice (H6). LAD checked to verify that Mundine’s identification-friend-or-foe signal was broadcasting from the necklace.
“It’s right here,” H5 said. “I’m reading the signal right here!”
“Febby,” LAD said. “Febby, please listen to me. This is very important.”
Febby
stopped screaming. LAD took that as an acknowledgement.
“Please roll over, slowly, so these men can see me,” LAD said.
Febby rolled onto her back. LAD drove 125 percent power to the OLEDs on either side of the pendant, flashing Bantipor Commercial’s distress code in brilliant green lights.
“It’s her!” H5 said. “The girl’s wearing the admin key.”
“Damn,” H6 said. “Target’s probably dead. Search the house, weapons free—”
“Febby,” LAD said, “please repeat exactly what I say.”
4,560 milliseconds later, Febby proclaimed in a loud voice: “Willam Mundine is alive, I repeat, Willam Mundine is alive!”
After 940 milliseconds of silence, H6 asked, “How do you know his name?”
“Willam Mundine is being held in the basement,” Febby said, pointing to the door. “His K&R stripe number is bravo-charlie-9-7-1-3-1-0-4-1-5. Challenge code SHADOW MURMUR. Please authenticate!”
“What the hell?” said another man (H7).
“It’s gotta be the admin software,” H5 said. “She can hear it. The necklace induces audio by conducting a piezoelectric—”
“Save the science lesson, Branagan,” H6 said. “Response code ELBOW SKYHOOK. Comms on alfa-2-6. Transmit.”
LAD passed the code to the secure hardware processor, and 30 milliseconds later received a valid authentication token with a passphrase payload. LAD used the token to unlock all system logs from the past twenty-four hours, used the passphrase to encrypt the data, and posted the entire archive on the recovery team’s communications channel.
“I’ve got a sonar map,” Branagan said. “One hostile downstairs with the target.”
“Ward, you’re in front. Anderson, cover. Team Two, right behind them,” H6 said. “Branagan and I will stay with the girl.”
Febby sat up. “What are you going to do?”
“They’re just going to go downstairs and have a talk with the man,” H6 said.
“No!” Febby started moving forward, then was jerked backward. “Don’t hurt my Pa!”
“Febby, it’s okay,” LAD said. “They’re using non-lethal rounds.”
LAD kept talking, but she wasn’t listening. Something rustled at H6’s side. A metal object—based on conductivity profile, likely a hypodermic syringe—touched Febby’s left shoulder, and LAD went to sleep.
LAD woke from standby in an unknown location (searching, please wait). GPS lock occurred 30 milliseconds later, identifying LAD’s current location as Depok (city, West Java province, south-southeast of Jakarta). LAD’s internal battery reported 99 percent power (charging), and LAD’s network panel automatically connected to Willam Mundine’s bodyNet and the public Internet. A network time sync confirmed that 11:04:38 elapsed time had passed since Febby lost consciousness.
“Good morning, Mr. Mundine,” LAD said. “How are you feeling?”
Mundine groaned. “I’ve been better.” He opened his eyes and looked around. LAD saw a hospital bed with a translucent white curtain drawn around it.
LAD lowered the priority on the wake-up script. The entire routine had to run to completion unless Mundine overrode it, but LAD could multitask. While giving Mundine the local weather forecast, LAD simultaneously ran a web search for news about a kidnapping in or around Jakarta and also started a VPN tunnel to Bantipor Commercial’s private intranet.
LAD found Mundine’s K&R insurance claim quickly, but there was nothing in the file about the family of the suspect, Arman (no surname given). LAD’s web search returned several brief news items about a disturbance in Depok late last night, but none of the reports mentioned a girl named Febby.
LAD continued searching while a doctor came to talk to Mundine. After the wake-up script finished, LAD started scanning Depok local school enrollment records for a 13- to 15-year-old student named Febby, or Feby, or February, who had a brother named Jaya, or Jay, or Jayan, in the same or a nearby school. But much of the data was not public, and LAD could not obtain research authorization using Bantipor Commercial’s trade certificate.
Fifteen minutes later, a Bantipor Commercial representative named Steigleder arrived at the hospital to debrief Mundine. LAD suspended the grey-hat password-cracking program which was running against the Depok city records site and waited until Steigleder finished talking.
“Mr. Mundine, this is your admin speaking,” LAD said.
“Excuse me,” Mundine said to Steigleder, then turned away slightly. “What’s up, Laddie?”
“Apologies for the interruption, but I would like to ask a question,” LAD said.
“Absolutely,” Mundine said. “Steigleder tells me I’ve you to thank for surviving my hostage experience. Didn’t know you were programmed to be a hero, Laddie.”
“Febby helped me, Mr. Mundine.”
“The girl?” Mundine scratched his head. “Good Lord. Is she the one who caused that—what did you call it, Steigleder? The web problem?”
“A DoS attack on Bantipor’s public web site,” Steigleder said. “Wait a minute. Are you telling me a thirteen-year-old kid made us scramble an entire tech team?”
“She was only helping me,” LAD said.
Mundine chuckled. “Come on, Steigleder. Didn’t you tell me this web problem helped security services pinpoint my location? I really should thank Febby in person. She wasn’t harmed in the raid, was she? Or the others?”
“She’s fine, Mr. Mundine,” Steigleder said. “The recovery team used stun darts. The mother and the boy were knocked out. They’ll be a little bruised. The father has a fractured right arm from resisting arrest. And Bantipor is going to prosecute him to the full extent of the law.”
“As we should,” Mundine grumbled, “but the family shouldn’t have to suffer for the sins of the father. Couldn’t we offer them some sort of aid?”
“Sorry, Mr. Mundine,” Steigleder said, his voice’s stress patterns indicating indifference. “The Bantipor Foundation won’t be up and running locally for another couple of years. Until then, our charity packages will be extremely limited. Marketing could send them some t-shirts. Maybe a tote bag.”
“That seems rather insulting,” Mundine said. “Surely we can do more for the person who very likely saved my life.”
“Look, Mr. Mundine—”
“An internship,” LAD said.
“Excuse me,” Mundine said to Steigleder. “What was that, Laddie?”
“I’ve reviewed Bantipor Commercial’s company guidelines for student internships,” LAD said. “There’s no lower age limit specified. An intern only needs to be a full-time student, fluent in English, and eligible to work for the hours and employment period specified.”
“It’s a lovely idea, Laddie, but we can’t take her away from her family after all that’s happened.”
“She can work remotely. Bantipor already supports over five thousand international telepresence employees,” LAD said. “Indonesia’s Manpower Act allows children thirteen years of age or older to work up to three hours per day, with parental consent.”
“Won’t the mother be suspicious of such an offer from the corporation which is also prosecuting her husband?”
“Bantipor Commercial owns three subsidiary companies on the island of Java.” LAD was already drafting an inter-office memorandum.
“All right, fair enough,” Mundine said. His voice pattern suggested he was smiling. “And I suppose I already know what kind of work Febby can do for us.”
“Yes, Mr. Mundine.” LAD blinked the OLEDs on Mundine’s necklace: red, green, and blue. “Febby is a computer programmer.”
Blood Test
Elliotte Rusty Harold
Elliotte Rusty Harold is originally from New Orleans to which he returns periodically in search of a decent bowl of gumbo. However, he currently resides in the Prospect Heights neighborhood of Brooklyn with his wife Beth and dog, Thor. His short fiction has appeared in Alfred Hitchcock’s Mystery Magazine, T. Gene Davis’s Speculative Blog, SF Comet, and multiple anthologie
s. He has also written over twenty nonfiction books for various publishers, most recently The JavaMail API and Java Network Programming, 4th Edition, both from O’Reilly.
Marisol stepped into the shot put circle for her third and final throw. The Ruidoso track team was nine points behind. They needed another first place event to win the meet, but the girl from Mescalero Apache had already thrown 13.2 meters. Marisol had cleared that mark twice in practice, once by almost a full meter, but she had never done it in competition.
She had 60 seconds to make the throw. The worst thing she could do would be to rush it. She needed a near-perfect throw. She hopped up and down a couple of times to warm up. Then she stretched her arms up to the sky to limber them. Satisfied, she pulled her arms in and nestled the heavy steel ball against her neck. She squatted down facing the rear of the circle, took a deep breath and cleared her head.
Marisol pulled her left knee up and kicked back, almost all the way to the toe board. Her right foot hit the ground in the center of the circle, and she pushed off with as much force as she could. She swung her hips toward the front as she pulled in her left arm. She reached the apex of the spin and whipped her right arm out from her neck. With a half yell, half grunt, she heaved the shot with all the force she had.
As soon as the shot left her hand, she knew it was a good put – high, straight, and far. Her eyes found the shot near the top of its arc, then tracked it on the way down. When it finally smacked into the grass a good two meters past the mark she’d been aiming for, Marisol leapt and yelled for joy. A put like that clinched the meet. It might be a school record, maybe even a state record.
45 minutes later Marisol was sitting on a bench in the visiting team locker room trying to absorb what Coach Abrams was telling her. “They disqualified me?”
The coach put his hand on her shoulder. “I’m sorry. Your scores have been dropped. They’re not going to count.”
Marisol tried to process the information. It didn’t make sense. “The shot was on my neck the whole time. I didn’t come close to touching the board. I know I didn’t. ”
