It had hardly been more than four hours and she was already going spare. The thought of returning to her work at the Jet Propulsion Laboratory in California was not pleasant. Armed guards and peaceful research were not happy bedfellows. She walked into the Waldorf-Astoria on Park Avenue where she was meeting Anne for lunch. Anne arrived predictably late, although fifteen minutes late for Anne was on time, almost early. Anne swept into the bar with an accomplished flourish. A senior advertising executive with a large New York firm, she was as bright and talented as she was attractive. They kissed each other’s cheeks before Anne sat down.
'I thought this was just going to be the two of us.' Anne remarked, nodding towards the two Sunarr bodyguards sat at an adjacent table, not eating or drinking.
'I know, I know.' Sam replied desperately, 'I didn't have a choice.'
'Really, my boss has one. His choice, or at least that's what he says.'
'Seriously? Why would he need one?'
'Well he does do work for the government you know.' Anne replied, slightly annoyed that her friend warranted bodyguards and she didn't think someone as important as her boss did.
Sam let that one pass. The work the agency did was low level, public information ads and the like, nothing special.
'Actually, that's some of the good news I have.' Anne said brightly.
'Oh and what's that?'
'We have won the Sunarr account.'
'The Sunarr account? What on earth do they need with advertising?'
'It's not just advertising,’ Anne replied, annoyed at the put down, 'it’s the whole brand management'
'And what is the Sunarr brand?'
'Well,' Anne began, unconsciously launching into her pitch, 'Well we are working on three angles. Your friend in need. Help from afar. Your future in the stars. What do you think?'
'I think we both need a drink.'
Sam ordered two martinis and turned back to her friend, who had a hurt look on her face. I need to make amends.
'Sorry Anne, I'm being a bit of a bitch aren't I?'
'You could say that.'
'Sorry. Forgive me?'
'Of course! Anyway, the account is huge. The government has underwritten the cost, which is a bundle. I should make my bonus this year on this one account alone.'
There it is again, thought Sam, money. She loved her best friend dearly, but she could never understand her desire for more and more money. Money didn't interest Sam, but having grown up with it, she had never even considered its importance in life. Money is only measured in its absence, never its presence.
'Anyway,' Anne continued, 'work isn't the only news I have. I'm getting married!' Anne thrust her ring finger under her friend’s nose. Sam examined it. It was typical Anne. It was expensive and flashy. Sam hated it.
'Oh it’s lovely.' Sam crowed, 'you must be ecstatic. Who’s the lucky man?'
'William Henry Orpington the third.'
'First and second not good enough?'
'He used to work for two of the largest fund management groups in the world, now he has struck out on his own and he has a client list as long as your arm. I can't tell you who is on it, but there are some very big names, very big.'
Sam was happy for her. Anne was never going to settle for an employed man, she wanted someone independent, someone rich. Someone others looked up to.
'Have you named the day yet?' Sam inquired, aware of what was coming next.
'Yes the thirteenth of September. I hope you are free, well I mean you have to be free, can't having the wedding without the bridesmaid.'
There it is, thought Sam with a deep internal sigh, bridesmaid. Anne was the last of her friends to get married; now it would just leave Sam. Sam the singleton. Spinster Sam her friends would start calling her, and they would be sad for her. Poor Sam, no man in her life to define her. No man to care for her. No man to provide for her. Poor Sam. Sam wanted to throw up at the thought of this. True she did want a man in her life, but she didn't feel that she needed one. Sam managed a broad smile.
'I'd be honoured.'
All the subsequent wedding talk helped Sam to forget her bodyguards. Anne had planned her wedding for years, the venue, the music, the food, everything except the dress. She wanted this to be the height of fashion and she would be going to the best designer. She had even designed the engagement and wedding rings when she was only sixteen. Now she was wearing the real thing. She had a tiepin designed in the same style and with the same gem setting as her engagement ring. This she planned for her fiancé to wear on the wedding day. Anne showed the tiepin to Sam who nodded appreciatively and made the right sounds. Lunch stretched into the afternoon, by the time they had finished Sam wished one of her bodyguards would shoot her. Or Anne, whichever.
12:43 24 December [12:43 24 December GMT]
Research Laboratory, Cambridge University, Cambridge, England.
The results were good, unfortunately, the news was not. The infection was worse than he initially thought. The virus, Trojan or whatever the hell it was, was intelligent, aware. Whenever he used his primary security system, it would mutate, adapting to the presence of the system. It even tried to replicate the security system and overwrite it. John was proud that the system resisted this effectively; it both knew what it was and what it wasn't, so the invasion was foiled. The secondary system went undetected; it kept monitoring and reporting on the Contagion, as John had decided to call it. He had managed to do a partial trace on it. It had, like most network traffic, taken several routes to arrive at his system. The entire network infrastructure of the university was infected, that was certain. Obviously isolated networks wouldn't be yet, not until some student or professor uses a data device to effectively bridge the networks. The Net was widely infected too, the lack of virus alerts from the leading commercial suppliers of anti-virus software a clear indication that it hadn't been detected yet. Given his research, he felt it unlikely that they would; more likely the servers that provided the anti-virus updates were infected and systems were being updated with infected software. Meanwhile this intelligent contagion was sending back information, but to where John had no information, only an educated guess. The Sunarr.
The Contagion was too far advanced technically to be the product of any one individual; he doubted that this was the work of any government either. The Contagion exhibited the characteristics of a third or maybe even fourth generation artificial intelligence. First generation artificial intelligence is written by developers, second generation by the program that they created. This meant that it had been written by a program that had also been written by a program and maybe that program was also written by a program. With each generation the algorithms became simpler, the interrelationships more complex, just like biology. And just like biology, each generation becomes more intelligent than the previous. Now he was sure he was looking at something the equivalent of a spider in intelligence, mostly instinctual, but clever nonetheless. However, this spider had the ability to reproduce at the speed of a microprocessor. It hadn't yet though. It appeared that wouldn't happen until it was triggered.
For now, the problem was how to eradicate it and protect his system without being detected. The Contagion was like a virus in that an already infected body wouldn't be infected again. However, one with immunity might trigger an adaptive response, causing the Contagion to mutate into something that could infect his machine. There was only one real choice. He realised that he would have to reverse-engineer the Contagion and incorporate it into his operating system. It would run in its own processor like his secondary security system, but it would have its own operating system to monitor. This would be separate from the operating system that he would be using. Unfortunately, this would necessitate setting up several email addresses between which this ghost system could exchange emails and he would need a bunch of data every day to simulate normal use. John felt a mini-project for an undergraduate coming on. Need to find a bright one, who is keener to please than question, he smiled at that
thought.
12:00 24 December [12:00 24 December GMT]
Ministry of Defence, Whitehall, London, England.
Charlie Beaconsfield was not a happy man. The cause was the piece of paper he held in his hand. It was a written order from the Secretary of Defence, Sarah Montgomery-Smith, instructing all senior military officers that they would be issued with Sunarr bodyguards. He had spoken to her about this, off the record. She had assured him that she had argued vigorously with the Prime Minister, even threatening to resign to no avail. Therefore, she had issued the order, with reluctance, but hoped that by keeping her position she could at least affect how it was implemented.
Charlie was currently in the secure communications room having put through a call to Sam Colt, his US opposite number. It was seven in the morning in New York, but Sam was at work.
'Hi Charlie, what's up with the early call?'
'Sorry Sam, this couldn't wait. I have just been given written orders that I will have two Sunarr bodyguards from now on.'
'Shit, sorry Charlie. I was hoping you Brit's might escape that.'
'You have the same order?'
'Yep. Not official yet, later today probably, but yer we're getting the same order.'
'What do you intend to do about it?'
'Same as you I figure. Bitch about it in private and support it in public. Why? Do you have something else planned?'
'No Sam, I was hoping you had.'
'It's going to make the exercise real tricky. I don't know about you but I don't fancy them looking over our shoulders while we show our best tactics. Shit, I just thought, what about Ivanskiy? If I know him at all he'll do a shit over this.'
Charlie didn't like his friend’s use of profanity, but he couldn't argue with his assessment of the situation, or the likely reaction of their Russian colleague.
15:00 24 December [12:00 24 December GMT]
Office of the Head of the Russian Army, Kremlin, Moscow, Russia.
'Absolutely not!’ General Gregori Stephonovich Ivanskiy bellowed at his boss not three feet away. He had jumped to his feet, sending his chair, a nice seventeen-century handcrafted French example, flying away behind him. 'Never!’ He slammed his considerable fist down on the desk, inches from his boss.
His boss sat there impassively. Uncharacteristically for a Russian he was not quick to anger, or at least not to show it. He looked up at his subordinate, glowering over him. 'Have you finished, Gregori Stephonovich?' He asked, his voice a quiet strength against the noise still echoing in the room.
Gregori Stephonovich breathed deeply, like a wounded bear. He straightened up and retrieved his chair from where it was cowering. He pushed it back in front of his boss's desk and sat down on it heavily, the old wood creaking slightly under the sudden strain.
'Yes.' Gregori Stephonovich said, trying his best to sound calm and in control.
'Tell me old friend. If you were given an irrational but legitimate order in battle what would you do?'
'I would have to follow the order, but I would interpret it in such a way so that I could make a good decision from it.' He replied honestly.
'Even from me?' His boss raised an eyebrow.
'Of course not from you.'
'Of course from me.' He said making his point clear. 'This is a field order. You must obey it. How you obey it, is up to you. Just make sure that everyone sees that you have obeyed it...Gregori Stephonovich, this is not the time for rocking the boat. Now unless there is anything else, you are dismissed.'
Gregori Stephonovich turned and left. Waiting outside was his aide.
'How much did you hear Nickolai Andreovich?'
'Not much.' Colonel Nickolai Andreovich Petrov lied politely.
'Good. Trouble comes to the man who listens too much. I have a job for you.'
The General explained what he wanted and Nickolai Andreovich's eyes went wide.
'Brilliant General. A truly excellent response.'
'Careful Nickolai Andreovich, remember what I told you about trouble.'
13:00 24 December [12:00 24 December GMT]
Le Monde, Paris, France.
'I don't give a shit for your sad little story. It's mostly rumour and conjecture.'
'But that's the point...'
'Don't interrupt me! I was editing this paper before you could read. As I was saying, what you call a story is not. Yet. You can carry on sniffing around in your spare time. In the meantime, I want the story on the Mayor and this isn't ready to be published. Haven't you heard about the Sunarr? Help from Afar.'
The Editor quoted the copy in the advert the Sunday edition was going to carry. They were doing an advertisement feature on the Sunarr, and they were being paid a lot for it. Moreover, the owner was now a personal friend of the Sunarr ambassador to France. A good editor follows the news; a long-term editor follows the owner.
Jean Minoit left his bosses office a deeply unhappy man. Six years into his full time journalist role he had failed to get a scoop to make his name, others had and their careers had blossomed. Jean's was still a fledging, not yet capable of flight, its legs tired and weary of carrying all the weight, his wings as yet untested. He could feel this was a story in his bones, but everywhere he looked doors closed in his face. Contacts normally happy to reveal even the deepest of secrets, often to the detriment of their own side, were conspicuously silent on the Sunarr and the possible existence of any camps. Somehow, world gold production had shot up soon after their arrival. Some relatives couldn't contact those in jails close to a gold mine. Others had no problem. In addition, it was only gold mines.
This is a real story, it has to be. But how do I get corroboration when no one will talk off the record, even on deep background? Jean thought to himself. He realised that he was going to have to paint a picture without the subject in it, just the background. Like a painting of a black hole in space, with only the absence of stars to denote its presence. He would build his story on all the circumstantial facts that he could gather. Testimony from the relatives of prisoners. The decrease in food and supplies sent to those prisons close to gold mines, compared to those that are not. The increase in production of gold at virtually all mines. The no flyover zones implemented. The perimeters set up around them to keep people out. The edited satellite photos.
Jean would build his story and let the world know what was happening. Prisoners, hundreds, maybe thousands of them had gone missing and the aliens had taken over nearly every Gold mine on Earth. This is news; the people have a right to know.
Jean left the offices of Le Monde, crossing the street to his favourite café, deep in thought about his story. A blue Mercedes van hit him square at speed, sending the reporter into the path of oncoming traffic. The van never stopped.
19 The Living Letter
13:40 19 December [07:40 19 December GMT]
La Guitarra Mine, Nr. San Simon de Guerrero, 60 miles South West of Mexico City.
It had taken Chuck a few days to find his target. The dishwasher was young, perhaps seventeen. He spoke good English, which was essential for Chuck, and he was very unhappy with his lot. That was the deciding factor. He had overheard him talking with the other dishwashers and what he could understand was how unfairly he had been treated. Chuck didn't know what it was yet, but he knew that he would soon. He took the opportunity that lunch provided, bolting down his food he took his plate back to be washed.
'You know I used to wash dishes when I was you age.' Chuck lied.
'Si, now you are a prisoner, so what?'
'So I decided one day that I wanted more. Seemed to me that others were getting the good life and I was clearing up after them.'
The young man stopped and looked up at Chuck.
'What did you do?' His face was beginning to show his yearning for a better life.
'I found out what others wanted and helped them get it. For a fee of course. How much do you earn?'
The young man laughed like the fates had conspired against him.
'Hah,
I get the same I always have. The others, well, they are getting rich.'
'Whys that?'
'The miners, they get paid on the price of gold. I have heard them talk about it. They also get paid on production. Both have increased many times, but I still paid the same.'
'That's not fair.'
'Si, it is not. My girlfriend is with child. We want to get married. This I cannot afford.'
'Perhaps I can help.'
'Why should you help?' The young man was suspicious now.
'I'm Chuck.' He said as he held out his hand.
'I am Angel.' He took Chuck's hand and shook it, grateful that someone thought him worthy of something as simple as a handshake.
'Well life is pretty uncomfortable in here. I have friends and money on the outside that could help. I would be grateful enough to help you...and your family.'
'How grateful?'
'Enough for the wedding and maybe a nice house.'
Angel smiled. Chuck could see he had him right. Give me a disgruntled man and I’ll give you a way in…or out. Chuck smiled and offered his hand again, sealing the bargain.
'I'll see you at dinner Angel.'
'Si, see you later Chuck.'
Chuck whistled to himself as he walked away. His back was stiff, his stride confident. He hadn't felt this good in a long while.
'Angel, what was that about?'
'The gringo thought I could get him extra food, pah!' Angel spat to emphasise his disgust at prisoners in general and foreign prisoners in particular. The other dishwasher wasn't overly convinced but walked off anyway. Angel watched him go back to his workstation; delighted by the fact he wasn't going to have to share his new source of income. I must be more careful, Angel thought to himself.
Chuck walked over to Leroy, and squatted down next to him. 'Have you got the letter ready?'
'Not yet.' That was quick, Leroy thought to himself, this guy is good.
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