Liege-Killer

by Christopher Hinz

  Rome shook his head wearily. “Believe me, we do not know where they are. And E-Tech is not in the habit of planting bugs on every witness who comes through our doors.”

  The conversation was leading nowhere. Rome was tempted to simply break the link. He was tired. It was almost nine p.m., and he wanted only to go home and lie down and persuade Angela to rub his back until he fell asleep.

  “You are trying to use this entire incident for your own political advantage, Franco! You do not fool me!” Artwhiler wagged his finger. With the short distance between camera and subject, the finger resembled a tree trunk.

  Rome forced patience. “I’m sure the woman’s disappearance will only create a temporary setback. Your Guardians are bound to locate her.”

  “We had better,” Artwhiler warned. “Or Wednesday’s Council meeting will be your personal hell!”

  It seemed a good time to end the conversation. Rome switched off his monitor and leaned back in the soft leather of the desk chair. He imagined Angela’s strong fingers kneading his spine.

  The intercom twanged.

  “Yes?”

  “Sir, the Pasha is on the line. He says it’s urgent.”

  “Put him through.” There was no need for anyone to mention securing the line. After today’s mess, Rome had ordered that all channels be scrambled.

  Haddad took shape on the screen. “I’m in the archives. The main data-retrieval section. We’ve found something.”

  “Can it wait till morning?” He could feel Angela’s fingers slipping away.

  The Pasha shook his head. “You’d better come down right now. It’s important and it’s too complicated to explain over the intercom.”

  Rome sighed. “I’ll be right there.” He had no idea what Haddad could have found, but he was certain that it had cost him a backrub.

  * * *

  The vaults took up almost the entire first floor of E-Tech’s Irryan headquarters—nearly two million square feet of floor space.

  Rome passed through the outer security checkpoints with ease. Guards and electronic monitors recognized him; doors opened quietly, detection portals flashed safe to proceed. Although the walk down these long corridors seemed simple, he knew he was passing through a series of sophisticated tracking-ID systems. He would have been stopped at the first indication that he was not who he claimed to be.

  Beyond these walls lay the heart of E-Tech’s power: the great data archives. Information about thousands of technological disciplines was encoded into the computers; a wealth of data taken from the days of the pre-Apocalypse, when science had overreached its human masters. Here in these archives, and in duplicate facilities on another dozen colonies, resided knowledge of many of the technologies that had contributed to the decimation of the Earth two centuries before. This was the goal of La Gloria de la Ciencia: E-Tech’s warehouse of riches—knowledge being held in trust for a time when humanity might use it without self-destructing.

  In the years since the Apocalypse, much data had been declassified and reintegrated into society. Along with Ecospheric Turnaround—the combination of experimental bioprojects that were attempting to restore habitable conditions on the surface of the Earth—the reintegration of information was E-Tech’s most important function. A long-term plan existed. Before any scientific facts were declassified, the effects of the “lost” technology on the holistic quality of Intercolonial life were carefully studied by E-Tech scholars and scientists.

  E-Tech never initiated this process. The request for reintegration of a restricted technology had to come from an outside agency. Rome and his predecessors were all painfully aware of the potential for fascism engendered by an organization with such power. The Council of Irrya had been created two centuries ago, primarily at the request of E-Tech’s founders, who realized that their own organization had to be tempered by a system of checks and balances.

  Under E-Tech’s grand scheme, it would take hundreds of years before the bulk of the information was reintegrated. La Gloria de la Ciencia, if given their way, would undam the archives and flood society overnight. There was no accounting for such madness.

  Rome passed through a door into the deepest sector of the vaults, a stretch of corridor studded by large metal airlocks. Beyond each portal lay hundreds of sleeping humans, in stasis since the time of the Apocalypse. The tombs of Irrya were a depository for scientists and welders, mechanics and secretaries, the skilled and the unskilled; all those who had opted for a frozen future rather than take their chances on a dying planet.

  During the final days, E-Tech had been unable to guarantee living space in the Colonies for all of its supporters. The organization had chosen the next best option. Millions of people had been frozen and transported in bulk up to the Colonies, and were now stored in over a hundred E-Tech facilities throughout the cylinders.

  Currently, the Irryan Council set a quota for Wake-ups. Every month, a few hundred more humans were unthawed and introduced to the world of the cylinders. Someday the stasis tombs, like the data vaults, would be emptied.

  “Identify,” demanded the door at the end of the hall.

  Rome gave the current password and stuck his hands against the door’s body sensor.

  “Proceed,” said the door, in the same angry tone. It slid open on invisible hinges.

  He entered the prime data-retrieval section, a cramped circular room filled with instrumentation. Pasha Haddad stood at the main terminal. A string bean of a man fluttered beside him.

  Begelman had a first name, but no one ever used it. Like Haddad, and most of the other senior E-Tech officials, he preferred as much anonymity as possible. His time within the organization rivaled Rome’s and it was sobering to realize that among the three of them, they accounted for more than a century of experience.

  Haddad began. “Begelman started accessing Paratwa info this morning. He believes that he has tentatively identified the breed of assassin that we’re dealing with.”

  “Terminus,” said Begelman in a quick high voice that sounded more like a chirp. “Terminus labs, circa 2075. Money-motivated. Not the worst of the assassins. On a scale from one to ten, about a four.”

  “What else?” Haddad would not have called Rome down here just to tell him that.

  Begelman’s scrawny fingers abruptly attacked the nearest keyboard. Rome wondered how the programmer avoided getting blisters.

  “Ran into angels,” Begelman whined. “Called Haddad. Strange stuff. Soft-perimeter and sticky. Real sticky. Like zero-G glue.” He grinned as if he had just told a joke.

  Rome gazed at Haddad, waiting for a translation.

  Begelman batted away at the keys while the Pasha explained. “It seems that he came across two secret programs concerning the Paratwa. Now, we find hidden programs down here almost every day, but most of them can be accessed by password—hard-perimeter programs, one way in and one way out. What Begelman found is much more complex. These two programs have soft perimeters. That means in order to gain access to them, you have to share your own knowledge with the programs—feed them data every step of the way. And if you don’t feed the right data, your entrance is rejected.”

  Rome nodded with understanding. “You can’t guess your way in.”

  “Right,” squawked Begelman. “Designer was no dummy.”

  Haddad continued. “He believes the programs are pre-Apocalyptic.”

  Begelman wagged his head. “Vittelli or Quincy Gorman or Martin Riley—maybe even the Asaki brothers.”

  “Those were cutting-edge programmers who worked for E-Tech during the final days.”

  “Genius,” spouted Begelman. “Pure genius!”

  Rome nodded. “So what did you find?” He tried to keep the impatience out of his voice.

  Begelman ignored him. His attention was suddenly focused on a monitor screen.

  Haddad explained. “We think these two programs were put into the files for just such a situation as we’re faced with today—a Paratwa on the loose. Begelman believes th
at the programs might be keyed to you—not personally, of course, but because of your position as director of E-Tech. Is there anything that you’re aware of that no one else in the organization would have access to?”

  Rome smiled. “I’m sorry to disappoint you, but there are no secret keys passed from one E-Tech Director to the next. I have access to the same information as the two of you.”

  “Thought I had it,” Begelman chirped while scanning the screen. “Another dead end.”

  “How did you find out about these programs?” Rome asked. This felt like a waste of time, but he might as well cover all the bases while he was here.

  Begelman appeared to stare at a spot on the ceiling. “I asked for a rundown of Paratwa unaccounted for following the Apocalypse. Got a couple thousand names. Nothing unusual there—Research has confirmed the figures in the past. But! An x-line showed up at the end of the list!”

  An x-line meant that there was related information stored somewhere else within the network. “Go on.”

  “First thing I did was check Research. Assassin rundowns have been requested many times in the past...”

  “For doctoral theses and such,” Haddad added.

  “But! Not once in all those years did an x-line show up.”

  The Pasha nodded. “All the previous requests were from Research. Ours was the first in two centuries to have a Security code tagged onto it.”

  Rome was beginning to feel some of their excitement. “You think that someone two hundred years ago foresaw the possibility that we might someday encounter a Paratwa? And that we might need help?”

  “Exactly!” Begelman clapped his hands. “I asked the computer to identify the x-line and the computer asked me who I was!” The programmer’s frail body shook with excitement. “I identified myself and then it asked me why I was interested in the Paratwa. I provided it with all the information we had concerning the assassin. Then it split in half!”

  “Two separate programs,” Haddad clarified.

  “The first program started asking me all sorts of questions. Where was E-Tech located? How was it run? What were the current goals of the organization? Etcetera, etcetera...”

  “A morality test?” Rome wondered.

  “Yes, I believe so.” Begelman looked suddenly disappointed. “But although I apparently provided the correct responses, I haven’t been able to get any further. The program tells me that I have done well and then it simply stops. There is something that I’m still overlooking.”

  “What about the second program?” Rome asked.

  Begelman’s eyes lit up. “Even stranger! Again, it asks questions. Bizarre questions. How many seeds in a watermelon? Why is love of family conducive to the formation of less-rigid social institutions? Do gray cats have claws? Why are there no tropical rain forests in Kansas? What are the two nicest aspects of Hawaii?”

  Begelman shook his head. “It goes on and on—question after question, each apparently unrelated to any of the others. It’s obviously a heavily coded program. But that’s not the only mystery.

  “Neither of these programs can be entered by a computer, because of the soft perimeters. A scanner simply is not designed to interpret such complexities. But I did manage to create a counter to search through the program and find out how much bulk data is contained.” He gave a wicked grin. “This second program would require incredible patience. Allowing for an average human reaction time, and providing you had the correct response to each question at your fingertips, it would take approximately six hundred years to get through it.”

  Rome frowned. “Six hundred years? Are you sure?”

  Begelman waved his hands violently. He looked like a bird trying to take off. “Of course I’m sure! And I’m equally sure that I must be wrong! It’s very frustrating!”

  Haddad smiled grimly. “You’re doing your best.”

  “No, no! If I was doing my best, I’d solve it!”

  Rome shook his head. “You’re saying that a computer cannot run this program and that it would take a human being six hundred years to complete it?”

  “Very well put,” said Begelman. Genuine admiration appeared on his face.

  Haddad frowned. “The first program—the morality test. Could it be keyed to a conglomeration of data—a special set of facts that only a person in the position of E-Tech director might consider important?”

  Rome shrugged. “I can’t think of anything. Why do you believe that these programs are tied to me?”

  “Just a hunch,” Begelman said. “A lot of these pre-Apocalyptic encrypters played around with sophisticated targeting techniques. It seems natural that they’d chose an E-Tech director as their key—especially if the program contained sensitive data.”

  Rome shook his head.

  “Knowledge of your predecessors?” Begelman prodded. “Long-term goals of E-Tech that are not necessarily officially formulated? Structural changes within the organization?”

  “Honestly, I can’t think of anything.”

  “We have passed the test,” Begelman insisted. “I’m sure of it. The first program should open...”

  “We have passed the test!” the Pasha snapped. “Rome Franco, E-Tech director, has not!”

  Begelman exploded. “Of course! That has to be it! How utterly simplistic. How could I have missed it?”

  “We all have our bad days,” Rome said dryly.

  Begelman did not hear him. The frail programmer dropped to his hands and knees and groped beneath the console. A moment later he popped up clutching a hand modem—a flat gray plate connected by cable to the bottom of the terminal.

  “Put your hand against it,” Begelman ordered. “Now, type with the other hand ... that’s it ... tell the machine who you are.” Rome keyed in his name and waited for the invisible sensors of the modem to confirm his identity. Begelman brought the first program onto the screen.

  With one hand remaining on the modem, Rome read each question and typed in his response. He answered as truthfully and as accurately as possible.

  Begelman, observing his own monitors, spoke with awe. “The program is scanning our entire system—accessing whatever files it can get into! It’s actually studying our records to make sure that Rome Franco is who he says he is. It’s making sure that we’re not trying to trick it by using a false modem. Incredible!”

  The last question was the simplest of all.

  has e-tech remained true to its original goals?

  yes, Rome typed.

  proceed, said the screen. Begelman leaped up and down in a fit of triumph.

  “So simple,” the programmer whispered. “So beautifully simple.”

  “What now?” Rome asked. The screen had gone blank.

  Begelman fluttered his arms in exasperation. “It’s an open program! Just ask it what you want to know.”

  He typed: we have a paratwa assassin on the loose. we

  need help.

  The program responded instantaneously. please provide access to current stasis files.

  Begelman instructed him, and Rome typed in the requested data. Again, the screen went blank. Then:

  awaken stasis capsule mh-785462. end of program.

  “Aha!” cried Begelman. “That’s it! I’ve got it! Whoever is in that stasis capsule will know how to enter the second program!”

  Rome nodded. It seemed like a strong possibility. He looked at Haddad. The Pasha was frowning.

  “If we awaken this person,” Haddad began, “E-Tech will be in violation of the Council edict.”

  Rome shrugged. “We’re already in trouble for not reporting the murder.” He paused. “Are you absolutely sure that the Paratwa leak did not originate with one of our own people?”

  For a moment, Haddad looked glum. “You know that I cannot say such a thing for certain. I can only reiterate what seems likely—that Paula Marth, or her son, contacted someone else before they called E-Tech last night. Such a scenario fits the known facts.”

  “Perhaps,” Rome said, “we’ve
got this whole thing backward. The Paratwa assassin, or whoever woke the creature, could have leaked the facts about the murder.” He recalled the Council meeting. “Maybe such actions were meant as an attack on E-Tech.”

  “I thought of that. But how could the Paratwa know that Paula Marth would only call E-Tech? You said yourself that today’s incident at Council looked like a setup, as if Artwhiler and Drake knew E-Tech—and no one else—had been alerted to the existence of the Paratwa.”

  Rome saw his point. Yet there was still too much they were in the dark about.

  “Where is this stasis capsule?” Rome asked.

  Begelman smacked the keyboard and read the screen. “MH-785462 is in our storage facility on Shaoyang Colony. We could have the capsule here by tomorrow morning.”

  “A routine transfer,” Haddad offered. “No one would have to know about this other than the three of us and a Wake-up team.”

  It seemed a safe enough move for them to make. Rome could not bring himself to turn this program information over to Artwhiler’s Guardians. No matter what the Council proclaimed, a Paratwa was a matter for E-Tech to handle.

  “Let’s find out who’s sleeping in that capsule.”

  O}o{O

  Miles Yukura, with feet propped on the heavy console that ringed his chair, glanced sharply at viewscreen number nineteen. The flash of movement that had caught his attention was gone by the time he focused on the image—a hilly, near-barren vista in the northernmost part of the Preserve. Miles activated the joystick for infrared camera nineteen and panned and zoomed across the two dozen acres that fell within the instrument’s field of vision.

  He saw nothing out of the ordinary. A pair of small waddling groundbirds pecked at the dirt; a doe and buck, brave enough to have ventured from the southern forests, stood frozen at the base of a small rise. Hector, the albino wildcat and unofficial mascot of the Preserve, boldly roamed the perimeter of a small waterhole. The liquid glittered weirdly under the camera’s infrared sensors.