Earthweb
by
Marc Stiegler
Table of Contents
EARTHWEB
by Marc Stiegler
This is a work of fiction. All the characters and events portrayed in this book are fictional, and any resemblance to real people or incidents is purely coincidental.
EARTHWEB copyright © 1999 by Marc Stiegler
All rights reserved, including the right to reproduce this book or portions thereof in any form.
A Baen Books Original
Baen Publishing Enterprises
P.O. Box 1403
Riverdale, NY 10471
ISBN: 0-671-57809-x
Cover art by David Mattingly
First printing, May 1999
Distributed by Simon & Schuster
1230 Avenue of the Americas
New York, NY 10020
Typeset by Windhaven Press, Auburn, NH
Printed in the United States of America
In Memoriam,
This book is dedicated to Phil Salin, who recognized the remarkable consequences of electronic commerce long before there was a Web. Phil, soon the future that once you alone could see will be so commonplace, no one will believe it was not always obvious. But then, we always knew that that is how it would be, in the end, didn't we?
Acknowledgements
My heartfelt thanks go to all the following people: My wife Lynne, who told me to go ahead and quit my day job to complete this book, who also undertook every research problem with enthusiasm and charm; my daughter Shea, who gave me a break just often enough to write it; Jim Baen for a decade of encouragement to write another novel; Rosie Smith for her insightful editing comments; Fordham Otieno Wara for his help understanding the culture and character of the people of Kenya; Wilfred and Agnes Chan for their similar help with Hong Kong and Guangdong; Robin Hanson for his insights about idea futures; and all the members of the Foresight Web Enhancement Project, especially Norm Hardy, Mark S. Miller, Tanya Jones, Peter McCluskey, and Eric Dean Tribble, for their review of various aspects of the security, link, and detection features yet needed by the Web before it can achieve its true destiny. As always, any errors in this book are mine alone.
Chapter One
T minus Twenty-seven,
The End Of Angel One
The Dealer stepped under the fabric canopy stretching above the alley. The delicate patter of misty raindrops rustled above him; his sneakers squished with every step. The Dealer smiled in the darkness; the rain protected him far better than even the night sky now gathering around him.
A soft hum came around the corner of the factory to his right. Lights glared, and a truck, an old white groundhugger with more than its fair share of dents and scratches, lurched into view. The Dealer tensed as it approached—the alley was too narrow, he had nowhere to dodge. It was hard to hide when you were six feet two in a country where the average height was still around five foot seven.
The vehicle jerked to a stop. The Dealer relaxed and ran slender fingers through his long black hair. Lights died, the door squeaked open, and the driver jumped to the pavement, splashing in a puddle.
The Dealer peered through the fading twilight into his new customer's face. Too young to be that smart. A kid, really. An ugly one at that. The crook in the kid's nose bespoke some fighting, yet the twisted nose did not explain the twisted harshness of the kid's appearance. It was the cold anger in the eyes and around the mouth that made you want to look away from him. Such warped anger . . . The Dealer wondered momentarily if he himself looked the same. He couldn't see it in the mirror, but . . . oh, well. He was what he had made himself—a successful entrepreneur. Chan Kam Yin, the child he'd once been, had grown up to be the Dealer. In the process he had grown out of his anger, or at least into the belief that living well was the best revenge. Perhaps the kid would grow up, too. The Dealer shrugged. If the kid didn't grow out of it, he'd probably get himself killed. Either way it would work out for the best.
The kid had a truckload of high-end motherboards, the kind you'd use in the central server for a comfortable flat in Hong Kong. "Okay," the Dealer said, continuing the negotiation where they'd left off a few minutes earlier, talking on their palmtops. "I'll buy the truck too, but it better be clean."
"It's clean, all right. You have my reputation on it."
The Dealer grunted. The kid couldn't be more than fifteen years old, and new to the business. Yes, the kid had sent him email from an unforgeable identity that, when cross-referenced on the Web, turned up as the seller in half a dozen transactions. He showed all the indications of an honest burglar. Vague clauses permeated his contracts in the eMarkets, typical of the deals for illegal goods. The buyers all commended the kid on his excellent merchandise.
But half a dozen transactions, no matter how properly tricked out, didn't make for much of a reputation. The cops could have set the identity up, a ploy they tried from time to time with a modest level of success.
The Dealer would have stayed away—should have stayed away–but even in email he could tell the kid was young and earnest. The kid reminded him of himself at that age, a long time ago—a whole four years or so earlier.
The Dealer's electronic identity—the one he used for fencing operations—had almost two hundred references on the Web, most linked with glowing reports from both buyers and sellers. His reputation was worth more than gold, he'd come to realize. You just couldn't conduct business, legal or illegal, without it. His high-quality reputation—his brand—had been the means by which this kid had found him on the Web.
The Dealer continued, "Remember, you agreed to link a comment to our contract." The Dealer pointed his palmtop at the kid's system, initiating a delicate digital dance that took upwards of half a second. The kid probably didn't understand the mechanics of what was happening, but the Dealer, who'd spent more than a little time studying electronic security systems, did. The bottom line was that digital cash flowed from the Dealer through a highly reputable electronic escrow agent to his new, happy customer, while the control codes for the truck's engines flowed back to the Dealer through the same agent. At the end of the sequence, the Dealer's palmtop held new control codes. The kid's old codes, now revoked, could no longer start the truck.
Thereafter, the kid worked his palmtop, speaking softly to it from time to time. In seconds the Dealer could see the comment appear on the contract in the Wan Fen Emarket. Chalk up another notch in his brand's reputation.
"You too," the kid said.
The Dealer nodded, and a few taps made another comment appear, noting that the kid had shown up on time and delivered as promised.
The Dealer tensed—this was the moment in these transactions when risk ran high. He'd given the kid both the cash and the electronic endorsement. If the kid killed him right now, and if the kid had somehow jimmied the control code authentication system in the truck (no mean feat, but still possible), he could take his truckload of parts and sell it to another fence.
But the kid was already backing down the street. In a few seconds, he turned and started to trot.
The Dealer stood quietly for a time, trying to think of anything he might have missed that would lead someone to believe stolen goods had changed hands here. He'd bought exclusive rights to the vidcam recordings of this alley from the owner of the body repair shop next door, so no one could use that footage against him. But you never knew when some satellite would pick you out for a close look for one arcane reason or another. The canopy under which he'd completed the exchange wouldn't protect him from infrared.
He decided that he'd really done nothing suspicious or even interesting to a roving eye. A gentle tingle of anxiety in his shoulders that he hadn't even noticed till now eased off.
The Dealer wondered idly
if the motherboards were all as good as the sample he'd examined. If they weren't, the kid would soon learn a bitter lesson. The Dealer's endorsement of the kid's delivery was indelibly etched on the Web—it was virtually impossible to get a comment retracted from a reputable electronic marketplace, and when working with criminals, you just had to use the most trustworthy markets—but he could always add a second comment about how the goods had turned out, upon detailed inspection, to be defective. One such comment would effectively burn such a young reputation to the ground. No sensible fence would work with him again. The Dealer hoped the kid understood the consequences.
Satisfied, Chan Kam Yin climbed into his new truck and fired up the engine. He would have to hurry if he wanted to get home before all the Angels died. He wanted to be watching the action on his own touchscreen when his 'castpoint position paid off.
* * *
Only a handful of people ever received invitations to visit him in this room. Those invited always accepted. They rarely stayed long. Guests uniformly found the room too cold and dark for comfort. Morgan MacBride thought it was perfect.
Outside, a thick blanket of night lay softly upon the piñon pines, cedars, and scrub oaks that enveloped his isolated dwelling. Outside, the darkness finally brought cool relief from the throbbing daylight. But this room remained dusky even at sun's zenith. Morgan kept his workroom in perpetual twilight. Such darkness seemed appropriate to a place that saw so much death. The darkness had a practical purpose as well—it eliminated eyestrain while he watched his wallscreen.
The image of a sandstone corridor filled the wall. The image had traveled over a million miles to get here, yet arrived perfect, crisp, clear and life-size. The underlying screen disappeared from view for the untrained eye, building the illusion that the miles-long hallway led directly from the room.
Then the image jerked, breaking the seamless sense of continuity. The simple purity of the corridor scene jump-focused to a complex, grisly scene of dead men in spreading pools of blood.
Morgan sat transfixed by the sight. He did not move, though the heels of his large hands dug into the worn leather arms of his chrome-and-steel wheelchair. Eyes wide open, he nevertheless listened sightlessly to the sounds he had heard so many times before.
The crunch of disintegrating ceramic armor assailed Morgan's ears. Then the screaming began. The dying man did not scream in fear—he had volunteered, and had known that he would die even if he succeeded. He did not scream in pain—a stew of pain-control chemicals coursed through the Angel's bloodstream. No, these screams filled the air with distilled rage, with frustration . . . and with apology.
Morgan spoke, his tongue thick with the effort. "Trudy, shut the wall off."
The computer responded instantly, and the image of the faraway corridor winked out. Overhead lights turned up a notch, just enough to make visible the plush maroon carpet and the navy blue velvet hangings on two walls.
Morgan bellowed in helpless fury.
Solomon, his African Gray parrot, was perched on Morgan's left shoulder. She ruffled her feathers, then whistled the first few chords of "Exodus." "No win," she observed in her trilling voice. Morgan reached across with his right hand to scratch under his companion's feathers.
"No win," Morgan agreed. For a moment it appeared Morgan would regain his composure. Then the vision of those final, fatal moments filled his mind's eye. He heaved himself out of his chair with a practiced motion and seized one of the iron rings above his head. Solomon growled and took flight as Morgan grabbed another ring, let go of the first, and hurtled across the room.
The most graceful treefolk of the world are the lemurs. With long, long arms and stubby legs, these distant relatives of humanity can swing through a forest canopy faster than a man can run. Watching Morgan MacBride swing through the room in a dizzying series of figure-eights, any lemur would have grudgingly conceded that the big primate demonstrated a certain skill. Like the lemur, the man had short stubs for legs; the truncated lower body allowed the man to achieve a rhythm of motion known only to the forest dwellers.
Solomon flew around the room at the same altitude as Morgan, crisscrossing the swinging ropes and rings in a cloverleaf pattern of her own. As man and bird swooped through the airspace, a terrible collision seemed inevitable time and again. Somehow, though, the crash never came. The two continued flying and swinging, a flowing tapestry no one else had ever seen.
The reason Morgan kept the temperature down became clear as a slick sheen of sweat covered his face. The perspiration soaked into his heavy white T-shirt, gluing the cloth to his chest, outlining the ropes of muscle that danced across his ribs and shoulders in time with his flight.
At last he dropped exhausted into his chair. The chronic dull ache in the left side of his lower back now peaked in a sharp dagger of pain, throbbing with such intensity that a sadistic masseur might contemplate it with glee. The pain and exhaustion drove the corridor images from his mind.
Silence enfolded the room, a silence that seemed to absorb every hint of sound, even Morgan's breathing. Solomon backwinged gently to land once again upon his shoulder.
A silky woman's voice with just a trace of the South penetrated the hush. Trudy, his computer, spoke. "The General's calling. Would you like to talk to him?"
Morgan's fingers dug deep into the chair arms. Of all the people Morgan didn't want to talk to, the General topped the list. "Put him through, Trudy," he growled.
A small portion of the wall came back to life, featuring a white-haired man with blue-gray eyes now hooded in sorrow. The rigid line of the General's jaw told a different story, however, a story of endurance that would yet prevail. He pursed his lips, knowing Morgan would now add to his grief. "They got pretty close this time," he offered. "They reached the previous Gate location." The voice reached for an upbeat tone, but the General hadn't fooled Morgan in over a decade.
Morgan growled. "They got nowhere close. The entrance wasn't in the same place, and they should have known it."
"Wait a minute, Morgan—the forecast was giving them sixty percent odds that they'd find the entrance."
Morgan slammed a fist into the chair. "And for Shiva IV and Shiva III , the odds were never lower than eighty-five percent. You can't just look at the numbers from a 'castpoint, Samuels . . . you've got to understand them. There were a bunch of tailriders on that one, and they were the only ones who were really certain. But tailriders aren't certain because they're smart, they're certain because they're stupid."
Samuels eyes turned cold. "Well, it doesn't make any difference anymore." His tone softened. "You start tomorrow, Morgan."
"Yeah. Thanks for sharing." Morgan's voice dripped sarcasm as he waved his hand at one of his computer's vidcams. The General's window closed, leaving the wallscreen dark as before. Morgan sat in the crepuscular quiet for a long time. His eyelids sagged, then closed. After a while his breathing turned deep, slow, and steady.
Solomon clacked her beak twice, then in a rough, whistling voice ordered, "Trudy, lights off. Boss asleep."
The silky Southern voice replied, "Sure enough, Sol."
Solomon squawked, "Brights for seven," to set the alarm.
Trudy softly answered, "Sweet dreams."
Solomon proceeded to sing. She sang an aria that would be easily understood by other African Gray parrots, though it was wasted on her present somnolent company . . . even if he did think almost as well as a parrot. At the end of her performance she fluffed her feathers once more, tucked her head under her left wing, and went to sleep.
* * *
Chan Kam Yin sat motionless in his closet-sized apartment, thinking about facts and forecasts. The session had started so well and gone so badly.
He had come home after the evening's successful business and sat down at his one extravagance—a black lacquered desk inlaid with mother-of-pearl in delicate garden scenes. With Singapore rice sticks in hand, he was comfortably prepared to watch the end of the Shiva assault. He had turned on his tou
chscreen, and his Factoid of the Moment had popped up with important news:
To escape the grip of a crocodile's jaws, push your thumbs into its eyeballs—it will let you go instantly.
It had seemed like a good omen indeed, a clear-cut solution to a deadly situation. So much for good omens.
Now he just stared at the mocking results on his touchscreen. He felt a moment's ironic happiness that he had decided not to purchase the bigger screen of which he dreamed. A bigger screen would have shamed him more effectively than the tiny machine he now faced.
The hideous deaths of the Angels did not upset the Dealer. He, like everyone else, had expected that result. And he had watched the videos of other assaults from the Web archives, so none of what transpired surprised him. No, his personal horror had come as the Angels broke into the hallway where the control room entrance, the Hallelujah Gate, should have been.
He still couldn't believe what had happened. This Shiva had suckered him as surely as it had suckered everybody else. Well, not quite everybody else. Half an hour before the Angels reached the not-entrance, while they were fighting their way past a squad of minitanks, someone had bought heavily against the forecast that the entrance lay at the end of this hall. Maybe the buyer was the mythical Predictor that gullible people around the Web speculated about. Probably not, though. Personally, Kam Yin thought the gossip ridiculous—how could anyone be that much better at guessing what lay around the next corner?–but whoever had made the massive purchase had single-handedly dropped the odds on the 'cast from eighty to sixty-five percent. Kam Yin could only draw one conclusion. Predictor or not, the guy who had bought that position had known that the entrance wasn't in the same place it had been on all four of the earlier Shivas. Whoever he was, he was either a real expert or a real fool. Kam Yin bet on the former.
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