by Anthology
HOW I SPENT MY SUMMER VACATION
Pat Murphy
Don’t get me wrong—I like Queen Victoria OK. She’s not bad for an old lady. I think it’s great that dad saved her from getting wiped down at the lab when they decided that her simulacrum wasn’t entirely successful. When I was just a kid, he brought her home and installed her in the household computer, and I’ve gotten used to having her around. Kind of like having your grandmother in permanent residence.
She hangs out in the system and keeps an eye on things. That’s fine—I just don’t want her keeping an eye on me. She’s got time on her hands, and that’s the trouble. She used to run an empire and now all she has to do is keep a single house in order. So she started snooping into my business. At the beginning of the summer, I realized I had to do something.
I was in the kitchen, having a late afternoon snack of soy-sushi. The speakers were blasting the latest release by Shari’a, the fundamentalist Islamic rock group that was topping the charts. Suddenly the sound of the rabob and the wailing voice of the lead singer faded.
Queen Victoria stared at me from the computer screen just above the microwave unit. She sat in her favorite easy chair, with a pot of tea and a plate of sweet biscuits at her side. A small fire crackled merrily in the fireplace beside her. She did not look happy.
“Hiya, Your Majesty,” I greeted her. “Why’d you turn the music down?”
She pursed her lips, but did not begin her usual riff about how the noise I listened to wasn’t music. Nor did she mention that sushi was not good for the digestion. Clearly, she had something important on her mind. “Suzy, my child, have you anything to tell me?” she asked.
I chewed on a bit of crab-flavored soy, considering the question. “Off hand, I can’t think of anything, Your Majesty.”
Her eyes narrowed, and she shook her head mournfully. “I checked your academic records today,” she said. “There seems to be something amiss.”
“I don’t know what that would be,” I said, playing the innocent for as long as I could.
“Suzy,” she said to me, “it is not proper conduct to change your own grades.”
I decided to try to brazen it out. “Oh, that,” I said. “Of course it’s proper.”
You see, what had happened was this: the silly lob who taught programming 101 had given me a D because he didn’t like my attitude—or my final project. I’d sent out a computer virus that carried a Father’s Day greeting to my dad at work. While I was at it, I sent the same program to every other computer I could access—and that’s a lot. Since my dad’s affiliated with the University’s Artificial Intelligence Department, our system’s linked to theirs, which links in turn with a number of others. The virus got further than I thought it would. As near as I could guess, I wished about half a million people Happy Father’s Day. Some of them were as far away as the Han Confederacy and the United Nigerian States.
! I thought my Father’s Day message was kind of sweet. And it wasn’t my fault that so many security systems were full of holes. But the lobhead who taught the class said I was lucky the computer cops hadn’t traced the message back to me. I told him that luck had nothing to do with it—this was a question of skill. He didn’t like my attitude. Said I might have started a major international incident. For the sake of the school, he said, he would keep his knowledge of this affair to himself, but he didn’t like it. Said that my behavior was not socially acceptable. I guess he figured I’d start soaping the fat man, trying to get back into his good graces. I didn’t. So he gave me a D.
No problem. I just hacked my way into the school system and changed the grade. I figured that was fair—if I could hack my way past the security locks, I deserved an A, and so I gave myself one. I left my other grades alone—even the D I got in Outdoor Rec. I don’t like to work the meat and I don’t care who knows it. Fair’s fair.
I explained all this to the Queen. But she didn’t buy it.
“This is very unfortunate,” she said. “I’m ashamed of the role that I had in raising you. You’ve shown great disrespect for your teacher, for your father, and for me.”
“Hold on, Your Majesty,” I protested. “I think you’re getting all heated up for nothing. Now consider it from my point of view . . .”
She was gone before I could finish the sentence. That very night, she told my dad. So we had one of those father-daughter scenes that make my dad so uncomfortable. He really doesn’t know what to do with me. My mother divorced him and disappeared when I was just a child. For as long as I can remember, he’s acted vaguely uncomfortable around me. I think that’s one reason he brought Queen Vic in as a kind of watchdog. He just can’t deal.
He called me into his office. “You know we can’t have this kind of behavior,” he said. He sat behind his desk in a big swivel chair. A hologram of my mother watched me from the shelf beside him.
“Come on, Dad. Why not?” I said. “What does it hurt?”
He shook his head mournfully. “If everyone did things like that . . .”
“Everyone couldn’t. It took me hours to figure out how to break in. I deserve the grade just for figuring it out.”
He frowned, trying to look stern, I think. He wasn’t very good at it. “The Queen suggested that I forbid you to use the system for a month. She thinks that the lesson would do you good.”
Sometimes, I know when to keep my mouth shut. I did my best to look contrite, and I think I succeeded in looking terrified. Shut out of the system for a month—only the Queen could think of a punishment that horrible.
“But I think that might be too harsh.”
I breathed a little easier. In the end, he put me on restriction. Dad being head of the department and all, we have quite a system and tie directly to the University Net. He was leaving for a conference on the latest developments in artificial intelligence, and just before he left, he grounded me, installing locks that were supposed to keep me from using the computer for anything but school work.
So there it was, the beginning of the summer, and I was shut out. Really, it was no big deal. It took me a day to get past his locks. But still, it was trouble and I don’t like trouble. At least, not that kind of trouble. So I figured I had to do something about the Queen, but I didn’t know what.
First, let me explain how I am with the system. Tight, that’s how. I’ve got a set of custom-fit Koshiki data gloves and a Kengiri egghead. The egghead is a maxicool add-on; my dad gave it to me for my birthday six months ago. On the outside, the egg is smooth and black and slightly cool to the touch. On the inside—oh, on the inside, it’s altogether elsewhere. Slip your head into the egg, and the system creates a virtual environment, supplying pictures for the eyes and sounds for the ears. Goodbye screen, goodbye speakers. You’re strolling through the system, not outside looking in. This is my kind of place.
I hear that the egghead is an acquired taste. My dad—like most older programmers—doesn’t like it. He prefers to keep a little more separation between himself and the system. Me, I’d just as soon get me a full data suit and dive in.
So on the second day of summer (after wasting the first getting past my dad’s security locks) I went for a walk in the system. When I first slipped on the egghead, I saw swirling clouds, the system’s standard rest pattern. The air smelled faintly of perfumed face powder, a sure sign that the Queen had been snooping around recently.
You want to know about the smells? They aren’t really supposed to be there, but they are. At least, every good egghead hacker knows them. I caught a notice on a bulletin board that suggested the egghead might feed the brain combinations of visual and audio and tactile sensations that could somehow be misinterpreted as odors. Who knows? Who cares? Old style programmers like my dad don’t smell them because they don’t use the egghead, and so the smells give us egghead hackers an edge we need. I figure it doesn’t much matter where they come from. I know when the Queen has been snooping because I smell her powder, and that’s good enough for me.
I flexed my data gloves in a pattern that opened a new area and heard the tone that requested a password. In finger code, I spelled out the password that would take me to the private place I set up the day before. The smell of powder faded; the Queen hadn’t found this place yet.
Icons floated around me in a gray haze. Each one represented a program. Some were standard issue: educational programs, access to public spaces, games, and so on. The rest were programs I had hidden before my dad grounded me. A fluorescent pink cube, a duplicate of the program that had let me crack the school system, hovered beside my tool box, which contained a collection of subprograms that came in handy when I was deep in the system. A cluster of spheres, each one representing a virus program, hung in space like a cluster of technicolor grapes.
I reached out, got a grip on the telecom icon, and contacted my pal Micmac.
I’ve never met Micmac offline, but I get the feeling that she’s older than I am. Maybe a lot older. Once or twice, she’s talked about what L was like back before datagloves became so popular. She works for some data pirate, I think, though she doesn’t talk about that.
A few minutes delay, then a silver skull appeared next to the telecom. “Micmac?” I asked. Beneath it, I could see the outlines of her hands. Her fingers were moving in the datagloves—while she was talking to me, she continued working on whatever she was on when I called her up.
“You called?” As I watched, the skull flowed and changed, becoming the kindly face of an older woman with her hair in a peculiar style. Micmac liked to change faces; during the course of a conversation, she might cycle through a dozen or so.
“Who’s that?”
The woman’s face crinkled in a smile. “Barbara Billingsley, alias June Cleaver. Beaver’s mom. From Leave it to Beaver. Before your time. Before mine, but I saw reruns. What’s up?”
“I’ve got a problem.”
June Cleaver nodded. Her face changed; her hair darkened. The face of an Oriental woman regarded me with a benevolent gaze.
“Quan Yin, the Bodhisattva of Infinite Compassion,” Micmac said. “So talk.”
I told her about my troubles with the Queen. As I talked, she cycled through a few faces that I recognized: Mother Teresa, The Buddha, Jesus, and the Virgin Mary. “So I thought you might be able to help me. Maybe some better locks to keep her out, or . . .”
“Naw.” The Virgin Mary shook her head. “Lock her out better and she’ll just try harder to get in. Maternal instinct dies hard. She’s trying to protect you.”
“From what?”
“Probably from people like me.” Micmac’s grin didn’t sit well on the Virgin Mary’s face.
“You’re not helping,” I said.
The Virgin Mary’s face melted and reformed as a beautiful dark-haired woman who smiled knowingly. “Mata Hari,” Micmac said. “I’d say distract her. I know how. There’s a ghost on the loose—escaped simulacrum of Bakunin, an old anarchist. Likes overthrowing governments; favors explosives. Get his help.”
“How?”
Mata Hari shrugged. “Tell him what’s up; appeal to his sympathy. You work it out—I’m sure you can. Here’s where you’ll find him.” Her hands flew in the air, molding an icon in the shape of a ball. She tossed it to me.
“Thanks,” I said. “I’ll let you know what happens.”
Her face changed, stretching to form an elephant trunk. The elephant wore an elaborate headdress. “Ganesha,” she muttered. “Hindu. Sign of an auspicious beginning.” And she was gone.
I activated the icon and a Rover, a subprogram designed for tracking, led me through a series of changes: past a hospital system that smelled faintly of vanilla; through the open weave of a public access data base; past the jagged edges of a Lawrence Livermore complex (major military secrets hidden there; it reeks of sulphur). I entered a clear space. Up ahead, I could see the spongy orange of the university system and smell its characteristic licorice aroma. I sniffed the air carefully, but smelled nothing new. The licorice scent of the university system masked any other smell.
The Rover barked from over by the university library system. As I approached, I heard a low rumbling—like someone muttering under his breath—and caught the stink of tobacco. I came closer and caught sight of the source of the sound and scent.
This shaggy-haired old guy was wandering along the edge of the university library system, muttering to himself. Definitely a simulacram. Few egghead hackers bother programming in an entire body image. This guy was all there: broad bearded face, broad shoulders. He wore an ill-fitting black coat and matching pants. He kind of shambled as he walked along the edge of the library.
The Rover circled him, yapping. I beckoned with my right data glove and the subprogram darted back into the icon. “Yo,” I hailed the old guy. “I’ve been looking for you.”
He stared at me from beneath shaggy eyebrows. “What branch of the secret police are you with?” he asked.
“Secret police?” I shook my head. “What secret police? CCA?”
“The ones who have been tracking me since I gained my freedom.”
“You got the wrong kid,” I said. “I’m on the other side.”
“What side would that be?” He stared back at me, his hands in the pockets of his baggy black pants, waiting for an answer.
“My own side,” I said.
“You haven’t answered my question. What side is that.”
“Oh, I suppose it’s the same side as most hackers. The side of anyone who doesn’t like walls keeping them in or locks keeping them out. If you’ve been in the system for a while, you know how it is. Half the people you meet in here are on my side.”
“And the other half?”
“They’re looking for the first half. They’re building walls and snapping locks shut. The other side, I’d guess, is the side that’s looking for you.”
He nodded slowly. I couldn’t tell if I was convincing him or not. “You have a very simplistic view of the world,” he said. “I would guess that you’re very young.”
“I’ll be fifteen in a few months,” I protested. “Old enough.”
He smiled for the first time. “Tell me then, youngster, how do you tell one side from the other?”
“By the smell,” I said. “By the glint in their eye. By the twitch of their fingers. By instinct. By feel.”
“You can make mistakes that way.”
“The way I figure it, you take chances and you make mistakes—and eventually you die,” I said. “Don’t take chances, and you don’t make mistakes, but you die anyway. Take your choice.” I was quoting Micmac, but I didn’t tell him that.
He rubbed his beard and stared at me long enough to make me uncomfortable. “That sounds like someone I know.”
“Well, a friend of mine said it first,” I admitted reluctantly. “Micmac . . .”
“Ah, you know Micmac. A fine revolutionary. And your name is . . .”
“Suzy Richardson.”
His smile broadened. “You should have said so immediately,” he said. “Let us go somewhere more comfortable to talk. Come along.” He fumbled in his pocket and pulled out a glowing rectangle. Then he reached out and touched my glove.
Smooth transition, scarcely a flicker. The university system was gone, replaced by wood-paneled walls. A fire burned in a massive stone fireplace. “What is that?” I asked, eyeing the rectangle. “Gift from a friend,” he said, shoving it back in his pocket. He sat in an upholstered easy chair beside the fire. “Sit down,” he said. “Tell me why you were looking for me.”
So I told him the story about the lobheaded professor and the grade switch and the Queen’s snooping in my affairs, and my dad’s unreasonable reaction. He shook his head and muttered under his breath as I talked. When I told him about the Queen’s complaints that I neglected my duty, he could not contain himself.
“Doesn’t she understand that all rights and duties are founded on liberty?” He shook his head. “It’s useless to coerce you to do anything. She takes away
your free will and robs you of your human dignity. Your liberty, morality, and dignity consist precisely in doing good because you wish to do it, not because you are commanded.” He went on for a while about my rights and my liberty, and it all sounded pretty good, though I only caught about half of it.
“Micmac said you’d feel that way,” I said when he slowed down a bit. “How about talking to the Queen about it for me?”
He frowned. “And why do you think I would be any more successful than you have been? I have never been friends with royalty. Even the Tsar—who ought to have understood me since he is a fellow Russian. I think you might be better off without me.”
“You couldn’t do any worse than I’ve done. She won’t listen to me at all anymore. She’d at least be willing to talk to you. After all, you have something in common, being simulacra.”
Bakunin raised an eyebrow. “We actually have much more in common than that. I was in London briefly, during her rule, taking refuge before returning to Poland.”
“All the better,” I said. “She’ll listen to you.” He shook his head. “I fear I cannot spare my energy for such a hopeless cause. I have much too much to do. I feel as I did in 1848—in Paris, the Revolution had been declared. There were meetings and processions. The very air was alive, changed, spiced with novelty and power. But I had to take myself from that place—leave the Revolution for the Polish border, where I was needed more. Always, always, there is too much to do. I cannot be everywhere at once.” One of his big hands rubbed the other, as if he were eager to be out and working.
