Alegría had not truly slept, but she had dreamed and hallucinated. From the shade under the tree Alegría had watched as the large basalt boulders and big rocks had slowly moved down the wash as if they were beasts grazing on the sand; next Alegría had heard the sound of a car engine, the Mercedes engine, and before she could move, she saw Menardo’s car driven by Tacho, moving slowly through the arroyos as if Tacho were following or tracking her. Alegría saw Tacho’s face clearly, but he did not see her; he seemed to be gazing out of the car window at the sandy ground where Alegría saw rounded stones transformed into human skulls the farther the car drove up the wash. Then the car disappeared, and Alegría could smell the dampness of rain in the air, although the sun burned in an empty blue sky. Alegría could smell roast turkey and saw that where the stones had been human skulls, there were now roast turkeys on silver platters that reflected the sun. Alegría heard voices from the direction the ghost Mercedes had taken; she could feel the blood in her veins begin to thicken, to dry up gradually in her veins. Her eyes no longer opened because the eyelids had swollen, then shriveled shut.
Alegría had always known life meant nothing, so dying was nothing at all either. She did not wish for her mother or father. There was no love between them. Her father would turn the story of her death into after-dinner conversation; her mother would say nothing, as if Alegría had never been born. Alegría rested her hands on her belly to feel the bulge of the pouch of emeralds inside her money belt. If her eyes dried up forever, she would replace them with two big emeralds. A natural blonde as she was would look even more stunning with green eyes.
Alegría woke with water pouring off the top of her head, down her face and chest; she rubbed at her eyes with her hands. She heard a woman’s voice in Spanish call out, “This one’s still alive.” Someone knelt beside her with a canteen and helped Alegría rinse her mouth and tongue with water to moisten her throat so she would not choke when she drank. Alegría tried but could not focus her eyes. She could hear men’s and women’s voices in English and Spanish now. They gathered around her. Alegría could make out their shoes and their legs. Something was very familiar about the identical black shoes the women wore. Alegría thought it had to be another hallucination because she was surrounded by a half dozen Catholic nuns, and two Catholic priests. The nuns wore modern short veils, white blouses, and dark skirts; they were clearly gringas chattering excitedly in English. The dark woman who spoke Spanish returned with a woman who appeared to be her sister. They had both looked closely at Alegría, then shook their heads. She wasn’t one of theirs. They had expected none by that description: blond hair. It must be the coyotes now were crossing a higher class of people as the civil wars in the South worsened.
In the back of the van Alegría had managed to whisper in Spanish to one of them, “Please, no police or hospital.” Liria and Sarita had nodded in unison. Nothing to worry about, they told her in soothing tones. Relax. Sleep. Everything was going to be all right. Alegría tucked her knees up to her belly and felt the pouch in the money belt against her ribs. She closed her eyes and whispered to her emeralds, “Oh my little beauties! I love you, I love you; I owe you my life.”
ENEMY LIGHTNING
ZETA HAD NOT HEARD from Awa Gee in days. He had not returned messages left at a computer answering machine. All his other phone lines had been busy, including a private line Zeta had been paying for, a line that supposedly was always open to her. Awa Gee was obsessed with telephone lines, and in a closet he proudly showed Zeta his “official” telephone-lineman coveralls complete with a fake Asian name embroidered on one pocket. New identities were one of Awa Gee’s many specialities. Zeta did not ask, but she assumed Awa Gee tapped into other phone lines for special jobs.
Zeta went to find Awa Gee. He had recently located what he called his “dream house” in a block of seedy, crumbling bungalows on Glenn Street off Stone Avenue. Two large arroyos cut through the neighborhood where vacant lots and yards had been retaken by the desert plants, the creosote bush and paloverde, which had always grown in the gravel floodplains of the desert washes. Before Awa Gee had located the dream house, he had moved frequently. He was wary of being caught by the telephone company and seemed always to be listening for unfamiliar sounds. Night and day he expected federal agents to knock at his door. But worse than federal agents, Awa Gee feared and hated lightning. Awa Gee had ridden all around Tucson on his old Vespa scooter, looking for “safe pwace, safe pwace.” Awa Gee’s enemies were lightning, power outages, and any and all interruptions of telephone lines. The neighborhood Awa Gee had chosen was flat and had few living trees taller than mailboxes—all excellent recommendations against lightning strikes. Awa Gee used to close his eyes and pretend to shiver at the mention of lightning. A pellet-shaped aluminum trailer was parked next to the little house he had rented. He had bought the trailer; it was necessary to house all the small computers he had wired together for the hundred-digit project.
Whenever Awa Gee talked about lightning’s threat to his precious computers and programs, Zeta was able to detect a bitterness that Awa Gee kept concealed with his wide grins and apparent cheerfulness. They had been standing in the semi-darkness that Awa Gee preferred for work at his terminals. Awa Gee said U.S. military and foreign governments had taken steps to secure their computer centers much too late. Only rank amateurs and blunderers had ever been detected or identified for computer-network break-ins. The biggest heists, the best penetrations, would not be detected for years; millions and millions of dollars per hour had evaporated out electronic circuits. Awa Gee said international banking and finance were all part of a great flowing river where immense quantities might disappear before the river level fell noticeably. Theoretically, somewhere, someday, the figures would catch up with themselves and somebody would come up short; but in fact, unless all the lights went out, the electronic river would never stop flowing, and the two-nanosecond lead that the deposits had would forever keep them ahead of the debits.
Awa Gee had a great deal of money in offshore bank accounts. He need never lift a finger again if that was his pleasure. Awa Gee collected “the numbers.” His prospective clients were asked to supply entry codes. Ninety-nine percent of his clients had been former employees motivated by revenge. His collection of numbers had saved Awa Gee the innumerable hours of computer time required for random “safecracking” as he called it. Of course he had always kept meticulous records of every entry and entry attempt he had ever made. To assure that he would not duplicate sets of numbers in his search for new networks to penetrate. Awa Gee screened prospective clients according to whether he had any interest in the particular network that was to be entered. Naturally Awa Gee could have demanded top dollar for his expertise, but he had been careful not to get greedy. Awa Gee called the global networks “a big-tit cow” he was going to milk and milk; but always before he had stopped short. Up until then. But now Awa Gee saw the day approaching when he must strip “the cow” of everything, milk her, then bleed her dry. On that day he would set loose a host of allied computer viruses and time bombs that would combine and interlock to alter financial records and data in systems around the world.
Zeta had never asked any questions, but sometimes the strange little yellowish man talked nonstop when she came to make inquiries about the work he was doing for her. Awa Gee had recommended Zeta demand all payment in gold. Gold, always gold, because anything else was only paper or a few electronic impulses encoded on bank systems vulnerable to tampering.
Awa Gee had carefully taped blackout cloth all over the windows of the little house. The only light had been from a huge fish tank and from a mute color TV in the center of the room near the zebra-hide sofa. Awa Gee had dumped pillows and bedding to the floor to make space on the sofa for Zeta to sit. Awa Gee perched himself on his work stool; his eyes, strangely magnified by his glasses, shifted from her eyes to the terminal screens and blinking red, yellow, and green lights that filled the room from floor to ceiling. Awa Gee did not show
Zeta what was inside the trailer, but they had stepped over two bundles of heavy cable that seemed to connect the little house to the trailer. The cable had been carefully wrapped in plastic garbage bags and taped securely.
Awa Gee had been working night and day for weeks on an international project. “All goodwill—no pay! By invitation only!” he told Zeta proudly. All the other participants had had billions of dollars of research facilities behind them. Awa Gee had been the only “little guy” to reach the last level for entry to the project. Split the atom? They had done that easily with sheer force. But to split a one-hundred-digit number into two primes! That had not been accomplished until last week, Awa Gee said, smiling.
Awa Gee had acted as if he had not seen another human being for weeks; the little man could not seem to stop talking. Zeta told Awa Gee he must feel very pleased with himself, but the little Asian shook his head and the bitterness had returned. No, he could feel no pleasure, not while there was injustice. Injustice allowed others with inferior brains, intellectual imbeciles, to receive all the millions in research grants, while he, Awa Gee, had to settle for what he could make from the junk he found in the dumpster behind the university’s computer-science center.
Awa Gee’s last outburst seemed to tire him, and he sat down muttering to himself in Korean. Zeta settled back on the zebra-skin couch to watch the huge lion-fish. Awa Gee reached into a Styrofoam ice chest on the floor by his feet for a cold can of beer. He offered it first to Zeta, who shook her head.
They sat in the dim light, and Awa Gee drank the beer while they watched the lion-fish beg for food. Awa Gee seemed to revive after the beer and was ready to talk some more. During the special prime-number project he had barely had time to call orders to the liquor store. He had paid cabdrivers to deliver cases of beer because his constant attention to the project had been indispensable. He had gone days without sleep. A brooding expression spread over Awa Gee’s face. “The others, they had all they needed—not like Awa Gee!” Awa Gee had been forced to string together an odd assemblage of old computers considered obsolete by others. Strands of computers had been Awa Gee’s secret of course, and his “strands” could match the best the universities might have, though not the government. Of course, the government researchers themselves had third-rate brains; without human intelligence computer power hardly mattered. Awa Gee’s face tensed when he talked about the “government.” The advantage the government and the universities had was no lightning. They could all afford the latest protective devices for their precious equipment. But not Awa Gee. One bolt of lightning, one great electrical surge, and the genius of all his endless months of circuitry intermeshing and wires would be vaporized. Zeta picked up a book with huge slashes and forks of lightning blazing across the book’s dustcover. “Lightning,” Awa Gee said. “I am learning all I can about my—my worst enemy!” Zeta flipped through pages of lightning photographs; lightning leaped out of volcanic eruptions, lightning coiled inside tornado funnels, and zigzagged across the mushroom cloud of an atomic blast.
Awa Gee was sorry the special project had taken him away from his best customers, but the prime-number project had been absolutely essential. The governments of many nations had not wanted the hundred-digit prime-number project to continue because project results might jeopardize national security by facilitating hackers who broke through elaborate secret entry codes. Citing national security, the U.S. government had seized all Awa Gee’s project notes in Customs and had prohibited further work with codes by Awa Gee. “But they can never find me,” he had told Zeta proudly, “because to them, I am connected by way of Seattle and San Francisco. To them, I am a certain Professor Kew on sabbatical leave from Stanford University.”
One of Awa Gee’s specialities had been the creation of new identities complete with passports, driver’s licenses, social security numbers—everything obtainable through computer records. Awa Gee had created a great many identities for himself while he had lived on the West Coast, where Asian births and deaths were plentiful. “The dead are my friends,” Awa Gee had confided to Zeta. “I go to find birth dates on the gravestones or in the newspaper, then I write to the state capital for a new birth certificate.” Awa Gee had already created three new identities for Zeta, complete with U.S. passports. Awa Gee charged extra for Canadian or Mexican identities because it required him to travel.
SOLAR WAR MACHINE
AWA GEE FINISHED his beer and with a big smile brought out another. Zeta could see he was just getting warmed up. She thought about making up excuses to get out of there, but Awa Gee was easily insulted. Alcohol brought round red splotches to Awa Gee’s cheeks. He went to the corner where two speakers sat on the floor. “Hear this,” he said. Ocean waves crashed rhythmically and endlessly on the sound track. Zeta saw the petals of the lion-fish’s gills undulate in rhythm with the ocean sound.
Awa Gee sat at a keyboard where his left hand worked a terminal while the right hand dialed phone numbers. Awa Gee’s fingers moved over keys with amazing speed. Awa Gee did not need the company of other human beings. He was most relaxed, most “at home,” with his own thoughts and the numbers. Numbers were alive for Awa Gee; some numbers “sang,” while others flashed complex patterns of iridescent colors as if they were exotic blossoms or jungle birds. Numbers were his companions, his roommates, and his allies. One morning the “big cheeses” would wake up to discover how the numbers had suddenly all added up to zero for them. The power of the numers would reside with the poor and the dispossessed.
For Awa Gee it had become increasingly clear that the people were up against the giants. But the giants had been ruthless for too long; the giants had become deluded about their power. Because the giants were endlessly vulnerable, from their air traffic control systems to their interstate power-transmission lines. Turn out the lights and see what they’d do; turn out the lights on one of their state executions. Awa Gee had already infiltrated emergency switching programs. No interstate backup transfers, no emergency at all would register even after miles of high-voltage transmission line were gone. They’d never catch him. They’d blame the ecofreaks.
Awa Gee had no interest in personal power. Awa Gee had no delusions about building empires; Awa Gee did not plan to create or build anything at all. Awa Gee was interested in the purity of destruction. Awa Gee was interested in the perfection of complete disorder and disintegration. At first Awa Gee had experimented with disorder by unwinding spools of rope to snarl and tangle deliberately into mounds of thick knots; then he studied the patterns of the snarls and tangles as he worked to remove them. Empire builders were killers because to build they needed materials. Awa Gee wanted to build nothing; Awa Gee wanted nothing at all to happen except for the lights to go out; because then he would top them all with his “necklace” of wonder machines so efficient they operated off batteries and sunlight. Earth that was bare and empty, earth that had been seized and torn open, would be allowed to heal and to rest in the darkness after the lights were turned out. The giants of the world would fight of course, but their retaliation would serve Awa Gee at every turn. The greater their retaliation, the greater the destruction.
The University of Arizona was a giant that must die soon. The university had fired Awa Gee and sent him to hell at a photo-finishing lab. Awa Gee had written the computer programs for polishing the giant mirrors and lenses the university had developed for the government’s secret space-laser project. Awa Gee had planned to stay with the university for a few years longer to perfect his solar war machine, but one of the old white professors had caught Awa Gee polishing the war machine’s special components after hours, in the university’s optics plant. That had been the end of Awa Gee’s top-security clearance, but the end had also been the beginning for Awa Gee.
Although the lens of the solar war machine weighed at least forty pounds, Awa Gee had mounted the machine on the back of his bicycle, to show it was indeed a weapon for the poor masses, who had little or nothing in the way of transportation. The simplici
ty of the solar lens was also an important feature. A one-day demonstration and briefing was all it would take. No prototype could be expected to be perfect. The solar war machine had to be unpacked and assembled on a tripod that fit onto the bicycle frame. Awa Gee had many modifications to make, but the single most important element had been the glass lens he had salvaged from the university optics department.
Awa Gee watched Zeta relax with her eyes closed. He watched the rhythmic flutter of the gills of the lion-fish and regretted he could not tell Zeta about the success of the machine’s first test. But Awa Gee had made himself a few simple rules, and he intended to live by them. Complete secrecy had been the first rule. Awa Gee had loaded the machine and his video camera on his bicycle and pedaled down Stone Avenue to the corner of Speedway. Awa Gee had been planning and preparing for some time for the test target: a motel coffee shop where city cops drank coffee and ate lunch. Two or three Tucson police cars were usually parked outside.
Awa Gee had recorded all the tests of his weapon in order to make improvements.
First Awa Gee had set up the video camera on its tripod. The camera took attention away from the war machine on its short, stout tripod. The video camera was an old model, and its bulk was just what Awa Gee liked in case of gusty winds. Awa Gee set the video camera on auto and zoomed in first on a police motorcycle, then a squad car.
The Almanac of the Dead Page 81
