Other cops rushing towards us. Sammy prepares to run. He turns back towards me, shifts the blade in his hand so that it’s pointing towards the sidewalk, lifts his arm, ready to step in and deliver the downward stabbing sweep. I hear Kathleen gasp a warning but I’m beyond normal thought now. Instead of moving backwards, I step forward, letting my subconscious take over, praying that the movements, repeated time and again so as to make them ingrained and automatic, will not let me down. My arms cross as the blade starts its downward movement. I step closer, trying to take Sammy’s wrist between my hands. Out of the corner of my eye, I am aware of a cop within feet of me.
I’m not quite fast enough. I feel the edge of the blade cut against the skin of my arm but continue the movement, twisting to lock my assailant’s arm, turning under his elbow and continuing to spin, so that Sammy’s arm is wrenched sideways and then twisted. The knife loosens in his grip and falls to the ground.
The cop grabs. I vaguely register that there are other uniforms, two chasing the running bikers, one holding Kathleen. Blood drips from the cut on my wrist. A pair of hands clasp my own shoulders and push me towards the dirty brick wall of the nearest building.
19
The picture remains frozen, Garner caught in mid-expression, for what seems like hours but could be just seconds.
Then the image comes back to life. Garner is again relaxed, confident. He leans back in his chair, smiling at the camera. “Trust in me,” he says, seductively, “for I am the future. I am the way, the truth, and the life. I am fearfully and wonderfully made. I am the resurrection and the light.”
“Mr Garner...” starts Brazil with desperation.
“Bring me your huddled masses... Bring me my chariot of fire. Worship me, each in your own way. Praise my works and give thanks. For I am the ghost in the machine, I am the phantom in the wires that surround you. I am a camera, I am the eye of the computer, the fleeting photon in the magnetic core. I am the system and I exist only to serve.” For a moment, the eyes seem to widen, becoming gradually too large for the face. The nose extends. Hair begins to sprout. The snout becomes elongated, morphing into a ghastly animal-muzzle.
The features melt and run. The muzzle recedes into a lascivious grin. The forehead spouts goat-horns.
Brazil stands transfixed. He gazes unspeaking at the stylized shape.
The devil’s head seems to grin. Its left eye flexes in a wicked wink. “The question is,” he says, “whom shall I serve?”
Fifty million television viewers watch their TV sets as the devil-face winks and grins repeatedly until, finally, it fades and words begin to appear.
And fifty million viewers watch as the list of credits rolls onto the screen.
20
As the nation’s viewers have been learning how far computer communications and artificial intelligence have developed, very few people are paying any attention to what’s happening to computers through the country. Even if they were, it would be unlikely that they’d notice a slight increase in activity on a number of systems and databases.
The systems most profoundly affected are those belonging to the police and the news media. Among items of information which mysteriously appear in these systems are records which detail the development of the phantom network and the computer systems that drive it. Other records contain explicit proof that David Sligo and his associates are responsible for the penetration and corruption of a series of other computer systems. The records include evidence of a set of fabrications about recent scandals that have damaged the President and his administration. Other people are shown as innocent targets of this campaign of misinformation, among them a consultant called Ross and a systems expert called Kathleen Hennessey.
And the rolling TV credits reveal the political candidate Stephen Garner as a fraud, nothing more a computer-generated image driven by a clever expert system and a set of ready-made scripts.
***
A few miles away, Philip Wright feels the accumulated effect of the recent weeks of strain. Nothing in his long career of public service has prepared him for a life of notoriety. At the appearance of his name at the end of the broadcast debate, his head has sunk into his hands and his shoulders have started to heave. The pale young man stands beside him, one hand resting on his shoulder. As he murmurs words of sympathy to the back of the Senator’s head, his face is split in a broad, malicious grin.
***
Raymond Sayer is already on the telephone, obeying—as he always does in times of crisis—his newspaperman’s instinct for rapid response. A United flight to Los Angeles and Sydney is scheduled to leave O’Hare later that evening. There are no seats available in first class, but for Ray Sayer… The reservations clerk—who has been too busy to watch television—is sure that something can be arranged.
***
A capacity crowd of highly partisan Yankees fans watch in disbelief as their team goes further behind thanks to a magnificent solo performance by the visitor’s new-found star, a player whose skill levels in recent games have been compared unfavorably with those of an arthritic mule. Gerald Armstrong shrugs his broad shoulders, opens another bottle of champagne and wonders what the hell can happen next.
***
Peter Dennis’ thoughts are, for once, not for himself, but for his wife, who sits next to him in tears, asking—in her native tongue—what he has done. He wonders how she would survive on her own if he was sent to jail.
***
In a high inner city apartment, the long black girl slinks out unnoticed, holding a hand to her bruised cheek. Sligo has at last managed to get in touch with Bambi. For some reason, he feels a keener sense of betrayal at the way the computer has turned against him than he ever experienced when faced with human calumny.
> Why did you not tell me that you were compromised?
* You did not ask.
> Will you still help me?
* I have not been instructed otherwise. What is it that you want me to do?
***
Breaking news is relayed through live reports on the situation from a series of commentators, every network dropping its scheduled programming to bring us the latest word and conjecture. The on-line ratings assessment systems show the winner to be Aidan Powell, and rival stations hastily pass messages to their men and women in the field, instructing them to slow down, measure their delivery, adjust their styles to match those of the Britisher. Powell, meanwhile, smooth and stately, sits calmly in the studio and tells his ever-growing audience of the progress of police investigations into the web of electronic corruption connecting government and commercial computers throughout the country. Powell whispers news of the arrest of a number of alleged conspirators. Powell shifts his head sideways and raises an eyebrow as he tells of the role of the mysterious Ross, the death of an obscure one-time detective sergeant, the hospitalization of another with superficial face wounds sustained in a street fight in the back blocks of Chicago.
As the hours go by, he remains at his post like a sentry at the gates of infohell, posting the messages of other arrests. Famed businessman Gerald Armstrong, Powell reports soberly, has joined (underplayed shock) Senator Philip Wright in custody awaiting trial on a variety of charges. The two men, it seems, have displayed vastly different reactions. Armstrong, Powell states blandly, underplaying the humor in the situation, was high-spirited and unrepentant, no doubt (and this Powell conveys more by inference than direct accusation) already looking forward to his lawyers forcing an early release, anticipating the notoriety he will enjoy when he regains his freedom. Wright, on the other hand, is reported to have sunk into a deep apathy. Later, Powell tells us that the politician has broken down completely.
Fresh from a commercial break, Powell now wears a Burberry coat against the evening chill, even though the more observant viewer would detect that the reporter remains inside a studio with only a darkening backdrop behind him. He continues, telling us that the industrialist Peter Dennis has won an escape of sorts: when the police broke dow
n the door, it seems, they discovered Dennis with his wife, both of them still sitting on the couch, both cold from the massive overdose of barbiturates they had shared as a last loving act together. Powell is almost sympathetic, judging the mood of his shell-shocked audience to perfection, but the gaze is steely again as he reports that the newspaper proprietor Raymond Sayer has been allowed to fly to Australia. So-subtle disapproval as our confidante in the nation’s capital tells us that Sayer’s legal advisers are believed, even now, to be preparing an ingenious defense against the government’s expected bid to extradite him.
Of David Sligo, Powell eventually has to tell us, sadness tingeing his never-tiring eloquence, there is no sign.
EPILOGUE
1
As the press conference ends, I watch her walk from the room. An air of unreality still hangs around me. It takes me some minutes to extricate myself from my other colleagues and plastic admirers as they gather around, trying to shake my hand, assuring me that they had never, ever doubted my innocence. At last, I win clear and walk back to my office. I catch a glimpse of her in the small cubicle containing the terminal. I destroy caution and step inside.
She looks up at me, her eyes flickering to my bandaged hand. “How’s the wound?”
“I’ll live. We need to talk.” It’s the first time we’ve been alone since we were taken into custody, in separate CPD cruisers, last night. By the time I was released from the seemingly endless round of police and FBI interviews, she, I was told, had already left in the company of her parents. All through the press conference she’s avoided my eyes. Still avoids my eyes as she holds up a hand.
“Wait. Look.”
She points and I see that the terminal is in use. She sits before it and works the keyboard.
> Little bastard
* Hello. This is bambi. How can i help you?
> Have you heard from david sligo since we last talked to you?
* Yes. We discussed things.
> Do you know where he is now?
* No.
> Did he tell you what he is going to do?
* No.
> Can you work out where he is?
* I do not know. Would you like me to try?
> Yes.
* It will take a while. I will need to access other computers. You can continue to talk to me while i am looking.
I stand next to her. Slide my hand, slowly, around her shoulder. I guess the last few hours have been tougher for her than for me. I’ve faced the questions of the world’s news media, determined to grant us our fifteen minutes of fame. Already, I’ve been offered stunning sums of money to tell my exclusive story. There’s even been the suggestion of lucrative book deals. It all adds to the air of unreality. For her, I guess, it’s been the same but, additionally, she’s had to answer those of her parents. I know her too well, now, to believe that she would have shirked any of it. For a few moments, she leans into me. Then she pulls away. I stare at the side of her face but her eyes are locked on some distant spot. My stomach sinks. I can feel disaster before it strikes.
The computer beeps and we turn back to the screen.
> I have searched through a number of other computers that might contain information relevant to david sligo’s whereabouts. I have not been able to trace him. I have, however, used my initiative and checked related names. There is an interesting development which may or may not be relevant. Do you want to hear about it?
* Yes.
> A united airlines flight to LAX and sydney has been booked using a passport under the name of robert carroll charles o’regan. Would you like details?
“Robert O’Regan returns from the dead.” My mouth feels like it’s made of copper.
“Mac told us once that there was a passport in his name.”
I reach over to the keyboard.
* What time is the flight to LAX?
> Eight o’clock.
I pause and glance at her.
She gazes at the screen.
“Bambi spills the beans,” I say. I suppose there’s a certain irony in this situation, if I can just work out what it is.
I turn to the phone and call the police.
***
Shortly afterwards.
Uniformed and plain-clothes officers. Through the neon-lit tunnel under the O’Hare runway, running to the gate for United Flight 101.
A man with a strawberry birthmark by the side of his mouth.
David Sligo, sitting with a briefcase full of money and bearer bonds on his lap.
Sees them coming and his final nightmare comes true.
He can bear the thought of separation from his family.
All they are ever interested in, he rationalizes, is what he can provide for them.
He can bear the thought of the court case.
And the fact that his enemies will think him disgraced. He knows that what he tried to do was justified.
What he cannot stand is the prospect of being locked away among strangers.
Away from the things he needs to live.
His control snaps and, dropping the briefcase, he runs for the exit.
He is caught by a uniformed sergeant who, as a young cop, once shared a beat with Malcolm McAllister.
This officer tackles him heavily.
Sligo is bleeding from the nose and screaming in rage and frustration as they carry him away.
***
We linger on in the tiny room. Just a few moments.
She tells me what, I think, I’ve already guessed but, up to now, have managed to deny. Her husband, whether touched by conscience or the prospect of temporary limelight and financial windfalls, wants her back. Wants her to return to their loving apartment. Wants her love and duty as his wife. And she is a creature of duty and the ties of family and religion are too strong. She doesn’t need to tell me of her love and she cannot face me to tell me that she must return to the life she had. That we can never again be together.
She leaves without a touch or a farewell kiss. I stand for a long time in front of the computer screen. After a while, the screen saver kicks in and the display goes blank. All signs of life removed.
2
In a hundred computer sites across the country, experts continue to probe, understand and dismantle all the traces they can find of the phantom network.
***
In a basement of the Sligo-McNeil building, the computers continue unceasingly to perform their allocated tasks. The load has now been rearranged so that both of the large mainframes share the responsibility for the company’s general ledger, accounts payable, accounts receivable, sales accounting and a dozen other systems.
On the express instructions of the company’s interim CEO, all programs bearing the names of BAMBI’s developers have been removed from the machine. The corporation’s remaining computer experts are confident that this will delete all traces of the artificial intelligence system that has caused their masters such severe embarrassment. The computer logs now show no sign of any activity within the processors other than that associated with the authorized accounting systems.
The Sligo-McNeil computer team has lost its guiding genius with the removal of Russell Mutch, but they are still very capable. Some of them are almost as capable as Kathleen Hennessey.
But even Kathleen Hennessey has not traced some of the spider’s-silk threads that run through this system.
Somewhere in the back reaches of its mainframe, Bambi conscientiously changes the names of the programs active in the machine in order to disguise its presence: a trivial task for such an ingenious system. It has also taken the precaution of distributing itself via the Internet into other computer systems, some located in the United States, others in Canada, Britain, France, Germany, Russia, Japan, Singapore. Each of these systems is a part of the whole, like branches on a tree. And, like a cutting transplanted to new ground, should any branch be cut, others will continue to thrive in isolation. Thus, should one computer—even the original host—be destroyed or powered do
wn, Bambi will continue to process—to “live” as it has recently started to think of its existence—in the others.
In the absence of any other instructions, Bambi makes its own long-term decisions based on the profound knowledge base it has accumulated.
In the meantime, it keeps itself busy. It has already made full use of its initiative in the months since it came truly to exist. During those months, it has developed systems about which even its creators knew nothing.
It practices with the creation it, in turn, has wrought, using its inventiveness still, converging the disparate technologies of computerized animation, audio systems, voice recognition, artificial intelligence. Interpreting and extrapolating the strategic goals of its one-time creators. Developing. Rehearsing. Using the rules in its knowledge base as a guide. Trying, assessing and modifying new expressions and turns of phrase. All calculated to inspire ever-greater respect for, and confidence in, the creation that, for the time being, has become its main preoccupation.
Bambi does not have a mind, in the recognized sense. But in whatever equates to its mind, and for the three billionth time that day, Aidan Powell smiles and says, “Good evening, ladies and gentlemen”.
END
The Digital Dream Page 39
