Chapter 42
JARED
ANYONE CAN BRACE HIMSELF, slide into access, snowplow a clumsy turn from the crest of the nets, and schuss the scant beginner slopes with hardly a lean, on big fat beginners’ skis. On these hills the ski patrol is a keystroke away, and every electronic pathway is swept clear of bugs and fluffed to perfection.
The more daring can race the multiaccess downhill where images flare, webs tingle, pages flip with dizzying speed. They whiz through password blocks and shoot over the gentle rises to the semiapproved, the no-joeykits, ‘warning; heresy-ahead’ mild thrills of social disapproval.
It’s all legal, tested, fundamentally decent, safe.
True schussmen scorn the licit slopes.
I’d told the trannies I needed my nets. With luck, I thought I’d get uniaccess, or at best a sixteen multi.
It hadn’t worked that way.
We’d sliced through the tower door like butter. The two guards met us halfway to the elevator. They’d burned four trannies before falling to the fury of the rest.
Towers have safety systems, of course. Good ones. The puters that controlled access, elevators, heat, cooling, lights, and callers, were locked deep in a fortresslike control room, supervised by the very puters themselves. The steel hatches were so strong it would take a welding torch to break through.
In addition, the towers were huge, bustling places. In office towers such as the one I chose were our huge multi-planetaries’ head offices. Massive puter access was de rigueur. Somewhere in the world, at any hour, financial markets were open, so brokers were always present to work them. Even in these days of universal net access, the corporations that ruled the world huddled together and drew their minions close, as if for mutual protection. Twenty-four hours a day, office warrens buzzed with drones doing their masters’ bidding.
A pack of intruders wasn’t about to land on the roof and invade unnoticed. Someone would see, and call the jerries.
The towers were a hundred percent invulnerable.
Well, perhaps not. Let’s say eighty-five point seven one percent invulnerable.
That is, six days out of seven.
Today was Sunday. The Sabbath was inviolate; the building would be virtually empty except for the few guards. No businesses were open; they couldn’t be, under the azure acts.
And elsewhere in the city, the jerries were rather busy.
Once we broke into the ninth-floor puter center, the rest was easy. Raulie’s Subs took two lasers from the dead guards at street level. Two of the building’s security joeys had barricaded themselves in the control room, frantically calling the jerries. We killed one, forced the other to surrender.
As if in church, I drifted reverently past the banks of puters and peripherals. They were mine, if I had the passwords.
And that was easy. I asked Raulie to find them out for me. He smiled, dragged the terror-stricken guard into the hallway.
Two minutes later I had the code to the safe, and the book of passwords in hand.
The now-compliant guard called the jerries, told them the Subs had been caught and expelled.
I sealed off the lower floors, brought all elevators down to ground level.
Then I called up a list of the building’s tenants.
Holoworld, of course. A couple of snowworms would give their system fits, and I knew just where to dig for them.
I slipped on my ski mask, zipped up my parka, and grabbed the chairlift to the nets. Issuing crisp orders to the voice inputs, tapping all the while, windowing half a dozen screens simultaneously, I put out a call.
Rolf? Fiona? Wanna schuss?
I doubted I’d get them both until later; Fiona didn’t come out until late afternoon.
After killing the last guard my trannies were getting restless. Twice I had to tell Pook to stop yelling at the inputs.
Idly, I scanned the tenant list: dozens of corporations, large and small. Sales offices, accounting firms. The U.N.A.F. Eastern District Base Construction Office. I raised an eyebrow. Now, that had possibilities.
On the thirty-ninth floor was Bank of London Shearson, the world’s largest brokerage. Could I get in?
“Pook!”
He jumped. “Yo?”
“I got a job for you. Go to thirty-nine, see about breaking into the B of L office.”
“I spose ta stay wid you.”
“You think I’d go anywhere, dumbass? The only reason I’m sending you is so I can stay here.”
“I dunno, Jared.” He fretted. “’Sides, dunno how ta read elevate numbas. Or doors.”
My tone was magnanimous. “No problem, Pookboy. I’ll run the elevator from here. And on thirty-nine ...” I checked my codes, tapped a few keys. “It’ll be the only office that’s lit.”
“How we get in?”
“Up to you. Smash the door if you like.”
“All ri’!” He jumped up. “Allie, ya watchim’ for me?”
Her teeth bared. “Absolute.”
I added, “Pook, when the caller rings, answer it.”
“Huh?”
I picked up my console caller. “Once you’re in I’ll tell you what to do.”
“Bissie, wanna comealong?” He raced out with a whoop.
I studied the layout, turned to Raulie. “Your skills are wasted here. How about taking your joeys to another tower?”
“Why?”
“This will take a while,” I said. “Meantime, I can’t have jerries busting in. Maybe you could start a couple more fires and spread their attention.”
Raulie’s face went sullen. “Buncha trannies get diss each time. Ya wan’ us dead so ya can play widya toys?”
“You don’t realize what these toys can do.” Of course not; he was a trannie. “First I’ll blast Holoworld off the screens.” I jumped up, paced the puter room. “If I crash the B of L nets we can break into thousands of brokerage accounts. Then—”
“Broke her what?”
“Never mind. When Fiona helps me with the links, we can go for air traffic control, tax files, databanks ...”
Raulie’s face was blank.
“Look, With enough free RAM I can build an Arfie. I’ve figured how.” Excitedly, I paced. “After we link I’ll dump a few gig of Holoworld’s junk and build a mammoth icecracker, in borrowed CLIP RAM. An AI, got it? But he’ll be too big for Holoworld to contain. And if we squeeze him out of Holoworld with a timed dump, he’ll be floating wild, and answerable only to us! Don’t you see what that means?”
I grabbed Raulie, shook his shoulders. “You want to bring down a tower? With an Arfie behind it, maybe my CLIP can bring down a hundred towers. Crash the Uppie world!”
“What’s a CLIP?”
“Central linked processor. A few superboxes in tandem can—never mind, you wouldn’t understand. The North American Stock Exchange reopens tomorrow. Right now the streets are in chaos. But at seven A.M. five thousand people will pour into this building to work. So the jerries will know just where to find us, if this is the only tower we’ve broken into.”
He said slowly, “Ya wan’ us ta fuddle ’em? Hit an’ run?”
“Yes.” I held my breath.
“Dunno.”
“If Halber gave you more trannie—more joeys ... it’s not like you’d have to start fires on a bunch of floors like the Sheraton. Just break in, smash what you can, start a blaze, and get the hell out.”
Finally, he shook his head. “Naw. Halb don’ want us ta leave ya.”
I tried to hide my dismay. My eye fell on a caller, and it inspired me. “Look! Every office has dozens of these. I’ll show you how to use them. Take a sackful back for the Subs. Won’t that help you fight the Unies?”
“Yeah, but ...” He wrinkled his brow. “Usual, govermen shut off callers when we take.”
“Sure, if you steal one from some lost Uppie. But we’re talking dozens here, maybe hundreds. And every tower you hit will have them. It’ll take the Unies weeks to figure which to shut off.”
“Means leavin’ ya alone?”
“Let Pook stay.” It wasn’t what I wanted, but if that would appease him ... And a few of your Subs, if you must. Besides, I’ll need someone to bring me softies and snacks from the machines. Look, I’ll preset these three callers so you and Halber can reach me whenever you want.”
“How get out?”
“I’ll open a ground floor door.”
He fretted, “Halber be pissoff.”
“Raulie, look outside!” I keyed the console screen, displayed the building perimeter and the streets beyond. “This is war! Do you want to win?”
While he thought about it, I rang Pook on thirty-nine.
It was late afternoon.
I stretched, yawning. Outside my door, Allie and her trannies slept.
We were high in the electronic Alps, schussing passes that had never known a keyboard’s touch.
Rolf was with me, and Fiona. They’d brought a few friends I hadn’t met.
It took a while to convince them I wasn’t sucking goofjuice, that my access was as hard as I claimed.
It took a longer while to set it up. Pook wasn’t merely an illiterate, he was a stubborn illiterate. My voice was raw from screaming through the caller, explaining over and again how to power up and call in, what keys to hit to mini-net with my command console. When he was finally done, I sent his joeys on to Holoworld’s private floor to do the same.
It took two hours to link.
Pook came downstairs sullen, looking for a fight. I recalled the slashes he’d left on my chest, and praised him lavishly until the thunder on his face cleared.
I set Rolf’s codebreaker onto the brokerage accounts. It was normally a slow process, but my superbox linkups provided all the processing power we could ask.
While my joeyboys zarked through the accounts I cross-wired Fiona’s ID builder to the B of L database, and entered a few hundred phony accounts, to add to the confusion.
B of L wasn’t without defenses. Automatically, their CLIP raised them.
A blinding sleetstorm swirled over our heads.
The electronic wind howled. I leaned hard to the right; skied away from the edge of a cliff. I gritted my teeth, bent my knees, leaned into the blizzard, straining to peer through the electronic chaff. If I crashed, I’d be buried in an avalanche. If not, I’d own the mountain.
I worked three keyboards, windowing like a madman. My throat was dry from growling constant verbals to the obedient inputs.
I crouched low, shot over a cliff, skis bent high as I plunged toward the sheet of snowcapped ice.
Slam. A moment’s unbalance.
I raced downhill past useless drifts piled in flimsy defense.
Suddenly I coasted through a calm chill valley.
The Bank of London CLIP was mine.
Chapter 43
POOK
BUSTIN’ THROUGH DOORS BE zarky. Resta stuff, noway. Why Jared Uppie figga I know ’bout inputs an’ pitchers onna screen? Only screen I know is big newscreen on side a Holoworld build.
No reason fo’ him ta yell like I stupe.
I come back down from thirty-nine wonderin’ whetha ta dissim an’ take my chances wid Halber, but he musta realize it ain’ good ta mess wid Pookboy, cause he allasudden nice.
Still, not much ta do ’xcept sit aroun’ an watch, an every time I fidget he go inta orbit. Finally he say in Uppietalk, ya know I gonna stay here. Why doncha go upta eleven or twelve and smash a buncha Uppie offices?
“Smash what?” I ask.
“Anything you want,” he say. “Just don’t break any windows. From outside I don’t want anyone to know we’re here.”
“Dunno,” I say.
“You’ll find puters, desks, chairs, water lines. You could have fun.”
“Well ...” I be godawful tempt. “Jus’ fo’ a while, maybe.”
“Long as you want,” he say. “Allie’s here. The other joeys too.”
So I go have fun. Afta, I so tire I couldn’ smash a Unie’s face if it lyin’ unnerfoot. I go back ta putah room, lie quiet in corna.
When I wake up, screen show outside is dark. Jared sit at console tappin’ like loonie, time ta time snickerin’.
He got two callers, one talkin’ ta whole room’, otha at his ear. “They can’t trace,” he say inta one. “We routed through London on a scrambler to Madrid and I rescrambled to ring you. Cool your frazzing jets, Rolf. We’re just two friends talking. These airway lines have nothing to do with net fiboptics.”
Allatime his hands busy.
“Tellya what,” he say. “I’m wasting my time doing this by hand. Have Arfie write a quickie that manages a couple thousand accounts and performs random trades. Huh? Yes, I have a reason. About six times during the day, program half the accounts to sell off a big chunk of some multiplanetary. Start with Holoworld. And come back to hit those fuckers twice; I owe them. Toward afternoon let’s crank up the volume. If you can feed me the program by opening bell, I’ll crank the customer list through and generate orders.”
He lissen a long while.
“Yeah, they’ll close it down when they realize, but you know what? I got the B of L CLIP in London purring like a kitten. Betcha I can get it to feed me customer accounts worldwide. Wouldn’t that be a zark?”
Again he lissen. “Right. Happy schuss.”
He click off caller, talk to his desk. “Sorry to keep you wait-in’. What’d you say your name was again?”
A grunt. “Shooter.”
“Kay, feed me your idea one more time.”
“Rolf says you’re friggin’ around with brokerage accounts.”
“So?”
“Why waste the time? Go for the gold.”
Jared roll his eyes. “Kill the dramatics, it’s been a long night.”
“I’m talking literal. Go for the gold.”
I lissen, but hard time figurin’ out what he say. Somethin’ about a run on the Unidolla, tradin’ pounds fo’ francs fo’ yen. An’ a frien’ who once busted inta treasury central putah.
Jared’s eyes go wide. I ask somethin’, but he shush me fas’. He listenin’ har’.
Chapter 44
ROBERT
I SPENT THE NIGHT in the aerie of Midtown Hospital, under a fair amount of sedation.
It was a busy night for hospital emergency rooms, and it was two hours before I was seen. But when the admissions office discovered who I was, obstacles disappeared, and I found myself in a private room on a VIP floor.
Perhaps I should have pulled rank the moment they wheeled me to the clinic doors, but for once, I didn’t care about the perks of office. I made sure Dad was notified and told I’d call him in the morning, and sank into much-needed sleep.
When I woke to daylight, I had an unexpected visitor: Mother. She sat placidly in the corner, scanning her holovid. “Hallo,” she said, switching it off. She hitched her chair closer.
I held out my hand, squeezed hers. “How did you know?”
“Your father.”
“Considerate of him. I’d have called you as soon as I woke.”
“I’m sure.” Perhaps she meant it. My relations with her were cordial but lacked affection, as was also the case between me and Dad. Somehow, I’d never learned the art. That didn’t prevent me from calling her regularly, or working closely with Dad in party politics.
“Lie still,” she said. “You’re concussed. That trannie prick nearly bashed in your skull.” I was careful not to show annoyance. Mother’s language was uninhibited, and was one of the many causes of her breakup with Dad. Though some of his colleagues saw her candor as refreshing, others were put off. It had added to the strain of the entertaining that was a sine qua non of political life.
“Halber was a bit annoyed with the Captain,” I said. “And with all Uppies.”
She wrinkled her nose. “I wish you wouldn’t say ‘Uppie.’ That snobbishness doesn’t apply to all of us.”
“I suppose.” I tried carefully to sit. “Are my ribs broken?”
“Bruised. The bandages will help you breathe easier. Lie still.”
“Mother, can you get me released?” I studied the door. The room no longer spun.
“Probably, but why? They say to rest three days before—”
“All hell’s breaking loose. I want to be at my console, not buried in a boneyard. This trannie fracas is the break Dad needs. I want to help.” Perhaps I could even moderate the war’s fury, to make amends for my excess of enthusiasm.
She asked, “Will he declare?”
“Not during a police crackdown. His announcement would be buried. But soon.” Sooner than planned, I realized. The upheaval would bring a spate of news stories, a mild backlash of sympathy for the oppressed, and an intense desire to forget the blood and the men who’d caused it.
“He can destroy Kahn, head to head.” Her tone was casual, acknowledging what we both knew. Dad was a master debater, and his wit would shine in contrast to the stolid SecGen.
I said suddenly, “Would you have liked to be First Lady?”
“Not a whit. But see that I get an invitation for tea during his term of office.”
“Done,” I said, and we both smiled.
“First spouses don’t often do well,” she reflected. “Mrs. Kahn is bored senseless with diplomatic soirees, and your confidante Arlene’s jaw was clenched through the entire Seafort administration.”
I giggled, but it hurt my chest.
“I’ll find a wheelchair,” she said, getting to her feet. “And a stick of dynamite for the paperwork.” She paused at the door. “Call Van,” she said. “He must be worried sick.”
I frowned, but she was gone before I could reply. Like most who knew me, she thought I concealed an amorous relationship with my long-term aide, and paid no heed to my denials. But it wasn’t so. Van’s regard was elsewhere, lavished on a young joey who’d been a Senate page when they’d met. And my passion was unengaged: I still hoped the right joeygirl would come along, but knew that with each passing month it grew more unlikely.
While Mother was battling the hospital administrators, the caller rang. It was Dad. “Robbie, you all right?”
“More or less. I was about to call; we need to meet. There are things you should know.”
Voices of Hope (The Seafort Saga Book 5) Page 37
