Safe House nfe-10

by Tom Clancy

  He sat going through his papers and that terrible smile appeared again, so that the major shivered. “Thousands of hours’ worth of his and his colleagues’ work,” he said, “all gone in a moment…. Though I misspeak myself — it was not a momentary act. The man must have been planning this for a long while…the worst kind of treason. He worked until the project was almost ready, then destroyed the active prototypes. All but a few…”

  “Where are they?” she whispered, shocked by the enormity of what Darenko had done. “Does he have them?”

  He glanced up at the major again, and that smile got more feral, something that she had not believed could happen. “No,” he said, “but someone else does.”

  She opened her mouth, closed it again. “The boy,” she said.

  Bioru nodded. “Darenko was not so indifferent to the value of his work,” he said, “that he was willing to simply throw it away. The boy is carrying fully enabled microps in his body. They are so small that it would have been no trouble at all to simply give them to him in a glass of milk, a cup of tea. To judge by what the associate has told us, they are now floating around in his bloodstream doing general maintenance work, their ‘default’ programming — stripping cholesterol off the interiors of his arteries, killing passing germs, and taking apart noxious compounds like lactic acid and so forth.” The smile fell off. “Major, I do not care for the idea that a weapon which could do our country great good in its unending battle against spies and enemies inside and outside is presently meandering around in the circulatory system of a traitor’s son, protecting him from the ill effects of Western junk food!”

  “I will recover him immediately,” she whispered.

  “No you will not,” Bioru said.

  The major’s eyes widened.

  “There is something that must be done first,” the minister said. “I had some hint of this material, but I was unwilling to go on the record until it had been confirmed, and this is why I told you earlier that you were to be ready to pick the boy up on signal but not before. You will not be the only one receiving a signal.”

  “The microps,” she said.

  “Yes. The associate has been most forthcoming as regards the activation codes and the necessary methods for instructing the microps in what their new role will be. We will activate them and set them to work on the boy’s central nervous system — with predictable results. We will make sure the father knows about this. We have a good guess, now, where he is and how he is equipped — but there is no need to go digging him out. In perhaps thirty-six hours from the microps’ activation he will come to us without hesitation. Otherwise, if he does hesitate—” Bioru shrugged. “We will not countermand the routine the microps have been running, and it will really be too bad for the boy. I have seen the slides from the test animals,” he added, turning over some more paperwork and glancing at a photocopy of something the major could not clearly see from this angle. “There was apparently a mistake in one of the commands given in an early series of tests. After this particular ‘erroneous’ command is given to the microps, the resemblance of the subject brain at the end of the process to one which has been infected with one of the spongiform encephalopathies is quite remarkable. Sponge is definitely the operative term.”

  “But if the father should not respond in time, if the boy should die—”

  Bioru shrugged again. “Morgues are routinely even more lax in security terms than hospitals are,” he said. “We can as easily harvest the microps from a corpse as we can from a live body. More easily — corpses do not need anesthesia. Either way, with the boy alive or dead, we will have no problems with Dr. Darenko in future. If the boy survives, we will keep young Laurent as a hostage to further work by his father. If he does not, we will at least have recovered the microps and can pass them on to some other expert more loyal than Darenko for further work.”

  The major nodded. “When will the activation happen?” she said.

  “We are still working on the details of that,” Bioru said. “We think Darenko may have warned his son to stay off the Net, fearing that someone might work out how to send an activation or reprogramming burst to the microps.” The smile began to grow again. “In any case, the warning seems not to be having much effect. Granted, the boy has not yet ventured anywhere much except the Greens’ household Net — unfortunately this has become inaccessible from outside. They seem to have had some work done on their bandwidth just now, and the work included some unusual one-way traffic protocols. It seems from the phone company’s records that the good professor is extremely paranoid about colleagues stealing the articles he writes for his various journals.” Briefly that smile went merely malicious. “Other than that, the only other place he has been is this”—he peered at another piece of paper—” ‘Cluster Rangers’ entertainment, which the daughter seems presently to favor.”

  “My department has registered with that server,” the major said. “Their registration should be going through shortly.”

  “It has already gone through,” said Bioru. “However, the boy has not yet ventured back in. Once he is in active ‘gameplay,’ we will be ready to send the reprogramming burst. After that, it will take no more than eighteen hours for him to begin showing symptoms, and we will at that point notify the father, through public media to which he has access, of his son’s condition. If he cooperates, we will send a ‘stop’ burst and hold the damage to the boy’s system at whatever level it has reached when Darenko turns himself in. Then you will bring the boy home. He should at that point be ill enough to be taken to the hospital…and that is the point at which, if you have not already found an opportunity to move, you can easily do so. No one questions an ambulance crew fetching a sick child when they have called for it themselves. After that, a quick trip to our embassy, and he will come home the same night in the ‘diplomatic pouch,’ under seal, where none of the local police or security forces can touch him. It will hardly be the first time our embassy has designated a carrier large enough to contain a person as the ‘pouch.’ Notice is unlikely to be taken…and even if it is, there is nothing any of the various intelligence or security forces can do — they will not dare interfere with diplomatic immunity.”

  The major smiled, too, now, just slightly. “I will see to the details.”

  “I doubt there will be much in the way of interference from the Green family until it is too late,” said Bioru. “The only sensitive part of this operation will be happening when they will be too distracted by the symptoms to suspect the cause, let alone to delve far into it. However, if there should be any interference—”

  “The father’s ties to Net Force…”

  “These are mere cronyism, as far as I can tell,” said Bioru. “He seems to lecture to their people a great deal. He is not an active operative, and they are hardly likely to go out on a limb for him. Do what you have to to get the boy, Major. This matter is too important for me to enjoin you against deadly force. If this weapon falls into the hands of our enemies — even of some of our present allies — many of our people in the field could die as a result. What is the saying? ‘Do unto others as they would do unto you — and do it first’?”

  She nodded. “I will take care of it.”

  “See that you do,” Bioru said, and vanished.

  She was left in the unornamented black work space of the booth, sweating slightly. The major sighed, stroked her hair back into place, and then turned — the door opened, and she stepped out.

  Yet another small child, a little boy of about eight, barreled full tilt into her legs. She caught him. “Uh-oh,” she said, “look out, sweetheart!” and pushed him off gently in the direction of his mother, who was coming down the aisle after him.

  Then she walked back to her seat, smiling gently, and thinking about young Laurent.

  “Look,” Maj said. “At least give it some thought.”

  The Group of Seven were in session later that evening, sitting around in Kelly’s present work space, a bizarre multistory lo
g cabin located in some mythical backwoods surrounded by mountains high enough to make Everest feel slightly inferior. Kelly changed work space styles the way some people changed their underwear, so the Group made it a habit to meet regularly at his place, just to see what he was up to — mostly never the same thing twice.

  The Great Hall of this particular cabin was scattered with animal hides which would have been extremely politically incorrect if they had been genuine. However, they weren’t, and some of them were simply hypothetical. Mairead was presently curled up on one of the five huge sofas, absently petting one of the pelts, an amazing thing streaked in midnight blue and silver. “This is really pretty,” she had commented when they first all came in. “They should make an animal to go with it….”

  Now, though, she looked across to Maj, who was sitting on the sofa closest to the huge open fireplace. Maj had always been a sucker for fires, and she was presently gazing into this one, estimating idly that you could probably roast a whole cow in it, assuming you had a block and tackle to swing the cow into the flames with.

  “Look,” Mairead said. “It’s not that he’s not a nice kid. He is. But I’m just not sure how committed he is to simming.”

  “Lots of people think it’s simming they’re interested in, when what they really want is to be a fighter jockey,” Kelly said. “Nothing wrong with that. But it’s not what we do. If we start diluting the purpose of the group, adding people who’re going to pull it in different directions, it’s going to start coming to pieces. I’ve seen that kind of thing too often before.”

  “Yeah,” said Chel.

  Shih Chin frowned. “Kel, it’s easy to say that. But what about the other side of the argument? Do we want to shut ourselves off entirely from new blood, good people, just because we’re not sure they fit some narrow little definition of our own purpose? Don’t we have the room to grow a little?”

  “Yeah, but—”

  It had been going on in this vein for the better part of three-quarters of an hour now, and Maj felt like getting up, creating a can of spray paint, and graffiti’ing right across the biggest of the log walls YOU ARE ALL UNCLEAR ON THE CONCEPT. That might at least get their attention. However, it was considered bad form to trash others’ work spaces, no matter how sorely one was tempted — though there had been the time Chel had purposely built the Castle of the Sugar Plum Fairy, and everyone had lost their composure in unison—

  That was unison, though, and the occasional outbreaks of unison were one of the things that made the Group of Seven worth sticking with. Maj sighed.

  “Guys,” she said.

  There was a lull in the argument. This was not necessarily a good sign — there had been several so far, to no effect.

  “Look,” she said. “I’m not asking for an answer today. I’m not even sure I want an answer today, whether everybody has one or not. I just felt the need to let you know that Niko really likes what we were doing. He thinks he might be good at it…and he’d like to ‘try out.’ He wants a chance to get to know you better. And possibly to fly with you on a regular basis, if possible. But otherwise, he just would really like to fly with us sometimes…for now.”

  “How long is ‘now’?” Chel said.

  That was where Maj had gotten stuck the last time, for she was unwilling to let them know or guess too much about what was going on. “His folks may be moving over here,” she said. “They’ll be coming to visit for a while — his dad, will, anyway — but I’m not sure how long it’s going to last. I’m not even dead sure it’s going to be permanent.”

  “Not that it matters when we’re all virtual,” Mairead said.

  Yeah, but some of us are more virtual than others. Laurent had briefly shown her his small bare ported-over work space — just blackness with text and pictures hanging in it — and she had been at pains to cover up her embarrassment for him in a hurry, and to show him how to build it into an environment he could sit in and get comfortable with. He was a fast learner, but it was still going to take him time to get used to all the “special effects” now available to him, things that everyone else here had long taken for granted.

  “What is likely to be affected is how often he can get in,” Maj said, “after the immediate present. This is sort of a quiet time for him.” She sighed. “Look, do I have to spell it out? He’s lonely. You guys made him welcome.”

  Shih Chin made an aggrieved face. “Some of us called him ‘Goulash.’”

  “He didn’t mind,” Bob said.

  “No,” Maj said, “he didn’t. He’s a good-natured kid, for someone so young.”

  “There’s that, too,” Del said, a little dubiously. “I mean, it’s nothing personal, we were all thirteen once—”

  “Some of us may have done it twice,” Mairead muttered into the fur she was still stroking, looking sideways at Sander.

  There was some muted snickering about this — the juvenility of Sander’s sense of humor was legendary in the Group.

  Maj refused to be distracted. “In this case,” she said, “I’m not sure how much chance he’s had to be thirteen in the first place. He’s had a bad time of it at home. I’m not going to get into details. There has been family stuff going on for him, and he’s had to grow up fast. A lot of work, not much play, and not a whole lot of smart people who’re also nice to play with.”

  “‘Play?’” Sander said, a little archly.

  “‘When I became a man,’” said Bob suddenly, in a quoting tone of voice, “I put aside the concerns of a child, including the fear of looking childish, and the desire to seem very grown up.’”

  Everyone looked at him. “Well,” he said, only a little defensively, “we’re old enough to cut each other some slack when we act underage, aren’t we?” He looked at Sander. “We can surely make a little allowance for someone who’s a little older than his age.” He looked at Maj. “Does he have any previous simming experience at all?”

  “You’re not going to believe this,” Maj said, “but he had never even been in a sim before last night.”

  “God,” said Shih Chin, in complete astonishment. “Talk about deprivation.”

  “It’s not like they don’t have the Net over there, Maj,” Kelly said. “What was the problem? Financial or something?”

  “I think maybe so,” she said. “Look, guys, please, there’s no need for any ‘final’ decisions. But he’d like to fly with us a couple of times, get the feel for what we’re doing. If it becomes obvious that he really is just a rocket jockey, I’ll take him aside and show him where better to practice the art. But, meantime…”

  There was some silence. “When are we scheduled up next?” Bob said.

  “You’re the squadron leader. You don’t have the schedule?”

  “Schedule,” Kelly said to his work space. With a flourish of trumpets, there appeared in midair before them a meter-long parchment scroll supported at each end by a small flying cherub. The parchment unrolled, showing a Day-Timer page made large.

  Mairead gave this apparition a look. “Very rococo,” she said. “Obviously you’re unconcerned that Della Robbia might sue.”

  “Wednesday,” Kelly said.

  “That’s the old schedule. I can’t do Wednesday,” Bob said. “I have jazz class that night.”

  “Tuesday?”

  “Cripes, that’s tomorrow already,” Sander said.

  “No good for me,” Mairead said. “My turn to cook at home.” She looked at Sander. “And by the way, what about those chiles you were going to get for me?”

  “Uh, I forgot. Tuesday’s out for me, though.”

  “I can do Tuesday,” Bob said.

  “Me, too,” Kelly said. “Who else can’t do Tuesday?”

  Maj searched her mind. “I’m okay, I think.”

  “I’m in,” Del said.

  “Me, too,” Robin said. “I have a half day. What time?”

  Time zones…Maj thought. “Six o’clock Eastern?”

  “I think I’m going to have to pass for
me,” Mairead said. “I have a ton of homework that night, and then a six A.M. bus the next morning. Sorry. I’ll come in the next time.”

  They played the “schedule game” for a few minutes more. Finally Maj agreed to meet Del and Robin and Bob on Tuesday night at seven. “We can show him some of the underpinnings of what we’re doing,” she said. “See if he catches fire at the idea of building one of these from scratch rather than just playing in someone else’s sim.”

  “Fair enough,” Bob said. “We’ll report off to the rest of the Group. If this doesn’t work out, though, Maj…even if he is your cousin or whatever….”

  “I’ll let him down gently,” she said. “I’m not going to ride you guys about this. I appreciate what you’re doing, anyway.”

  “Okay,” Bob said. “Kelly, for cripes’ sake will you get those things out of there? They’re creating a draft.” He waved one hand at the cherubs.

  “Begone, bugs,” Kelly said. They and the “parchment” vanished.

  “Okay,” Bob said. “Down to work.”

  In the air in the midst of them appeared the wireframe model of the Arbalest fighter. It rotated in three axes, its usual “presentation” spin, and then fleshed itself over in black mirror alloy and settled in “plan view,” horizontal to them. “Right,” Bob said. “I think we can get rid of any worries about the camber of the wings, because they worked just fine. Now, here’s what we might look at next….”

  Maj breathed out a sigh of relief and leaned in to see what Bob was going to propose. One less thing to worry about, she thought. We’ll see how Tuesday goes….