by JT Kalnay
Published by JT Kalnay
Copyright 2011, JT Kalnay
This is a work of fiction. While, as in all fiction, the story is based on experiences, real or imagined, all names, characters, places, and incidents are either products of my overactive imagination or are used fictitiously. No reference to any real person is intended or should be inferred.
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License Notes
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Forward
Seven hundred and ninety three people died in airplane crashes in 1994. Most of the wrecks were attributed to faulty components. For example, a thirty-seven cent screw in a rudder actuator was blamed for the crash of a Boeing 737 near Pittsburgh on September 8th, 1994. A handful of computer geeks residing on the west coast know that this explanation is inaccurate.
Chapter
February 18th, 1994
San Francisco, California
A single bulb leaked meager rays onto the side of his drawn, nervous face. Every muscle in his body screamed with the agony of having held him motionless for the past hour. An almost unbearable cramp ravaged his calf. But he remained frozen. The hunter.
“One more step and you’re mine,” he thought. His blue eyes never drifted from the darkness into which he stared. A shadowy leg, a murky hip, a ghostly shoulder emerged from the fog into his line of fire. His black, semi-automatic Mossberg twelve gauge trembled ever so slightly in his aching hand. He drew in a ragged breath, held it, and squeezed the trigger.
The night exploded in a blinding flash.
“Shit,” he screamed. Torrents of blood streamed from his mutilated right hand. The worthless remnants of the shattered weapon clattered on the oil-stained concrete all round him. In the darkness the fog and shadows parted and the hunter became the hunted, marked by his fresh blood. Diabolical laughter spilled out of the dark.
“You should be dead. Dead!” he wailed.
“But you shall die instead,” came the low answer from the murk. Two gnarled, scarred hands reached out of the night towards his throat. He pointlessly raised the stump of his ruined right arm and flailed at the night as the overpowering attacker pressed harder and harder into his throat. His world blurred and began to swim away. He thought he heard steps approaching from behind.
“Craig! I thought you were working.”
He jumped from his chair.
“I was. I, I am,” Craig Walsh stammered.
“Playing that game again?” his girlfriend Stacey “Jack” Horner demanded.
“Um. Uh.”
“That’s what I thought,” she scolded.
“I had a long test run of the new code going. I just played for a few minutes,” Craig alibied.
Stacey flipped a RW-CD towards him. He snatched it out of the air.
“Here’s your test results. I’ve been looking at them for …” she looked at her runner’s watch and clicked the timer button, “… one hour and fourteen minutes.”
“Shit.”
“Shit is right video boy. But, to your credit, you’ve got the wind shear thing looking really nice.”
“Yeah? It worked?” Craig asked.
“I think so. But you better look this over.”
“Okay. Just let me finish up? Okay? I just got my ass kicked again.”
“How’d you get hosed this time?”
“I don’t know yet.”
“Well find out and let’s get out of here,” Stacey said.
Craig turned back to the workstation on his oversized, gray computer desk. His character’s body had started to decay. Craig’s fingers whizzed over the keyboard.
“How did you kill me?” Craig typed.
“STRANGLED YOU,” the deep female voice spoke from the computer.
“How did you find me?”
“YOU WERE TREMBLING LIKE A FAWN, AND YOU SMELLED LIKE FEAR.”
“Why did you show me your leg in the darkness? It was a perfect target.”
“I KNEW YOUR WEAPON WOULD FAIL YOU.”
Craig sat and stared at the screen.
“How did you know?” he asked. There was no reply. “How did you know?” he asked again. Still no reply. Craig sat dumbfounded, confused and beaten.
“Don’t you get it?” Stacey asked.
“Get what?”
“She knew the gun was going to explode dufus. That means she left a piece of her body there as the gun for you to find.”
“You think?”
“I know.”
“But the gun exploded. That’d kill it.”
“You saw T2 didn’t you? When Arnold shot the frozen terminator?”
“Hasta la vista, Baby,” Craig said.
“It shattered into a million pieces, but it went back together. You know how computer chess games are starting to learn how to sacrifice pawns? Things are moving ahead Craig. Sometimes you are so stuck in the eighties.”
“Alright child,” Craig said. “Some of us just happened to be alive in the sixties, and thus got stuck in the eighties.” He turned back to the Diet Coke and Doritos stained keyboard.
“Were you the gun?” he asked.
“VERY CLEVER,” the sultry computer voice answered.
Stacey nudged his shoulder in a moment of triumph. “I might not have been alive in the sixties but maybe that’s why I can still think after a full day at work,” she said.
Craig frowned, logged off, shut down and stashed the CD with the autopilot software results.
“Come on. Let’s get a pizza,” he said.
“Not pizza you porker. Chinese vegetables, steamed, not fried. We still have to run tonight,” Stacey said. “Remember you’ve got to get in good enough shape to go climbing with me.”
“Right,” Craig said, the sight of a triple cheese, triple pepperoni, triple sausage pizza snatched from his mind. Replaced with a vision of struggling uphill mile after mile in the cold. “We’re really going?”
“Yep. If we can get a few more pounds off that fat ass of yours.”
#
The couple left APSoft hand in hand. The California winter sun was just finishing its languid descent behind the peninsula hills that hid the infinite Pacific. The friendly old security guard buzzed them out of the shimmering black glass and chrome building.
“Just another ten hour day for those two,” he said as he noted their departure in the good old fashioned paper and pencil log book he kept.
#
Seattle Washington
The Same Time
Banks of brilliant sodium arc lamps made the latest Boeing 747 gleam silver on the runway just south of downtown Seattle. Scores of technicians clambered over the jet, where they installed, tested, prodded, and tested some more. A data cable snaked across the tarmac to an enormous hangar where dozens of computers purred quietly. The innocent public, commuting home along I5 paid no attention.
Chapter
February 19th, 1994
San Francisco, California
Craig and Stacey tumbled onto the mostly brown front lawn of their ocean view home. Sweat dripped from their lean, tanned bodies. Their chests pounded as they lay panting in the grass. The location, the view, and the front lawn evidenced the salary their computer skills commanded.
“Oh my God,” Craig managed. “What did we do? Ten miles in seventy minu
tes?”
“Around that,” Stacey gasped. “I need a shower.”
“Mind if I join you?”
“Race you,” she said.
#
The young lovers stripped out of their wet clothes and clambered into the shower. Steam billowed around their sleek young bodies as they first gently embraced and then clung together under the driving shower stream.
#
Stacey headed for bed. Craig headed for the computer in their home office.
“Don’t be too long,” Stacey called from the bedroom.
Craig admired her long muscular legs as she wound a towel around her winter blonde hair. Then he powered up, dialed in, logged on and downloaded his email. There was one note that caught his attention immediately.
TO: [email protected]
FROM: ICOSAHEDRAL_CODER
DATE: FEBRUARY 19, 1994
RE: SOURCE CODE
Dear Hackers,
To date none of you weaklings have succeeded in besting my creation. Perhaps a peek at the source code would help? For $149 I’ll send you 98% of the code. Call me @ 1-800-Mar-auds, or order online, if you dare. Have your major credit card ready.
Craig logged out, powered down and joined Stacey in the bedroom.
“I figured out what you can get me for my birthday,” he said as he gently ran his hand across her freshly showered back.
“Oh? You mean in addition to or in place of, new golf clubs, new running shoes, new stereo speakers, new seventeen inch monitor … should I go on?”
“Okay. Okay,” Craig said. “But this one I’m sure of.”
“What is it?” Stacey asked skeptically. Craig sat up and looked at her.
“Oh no you don’t,” she reprimanded. “Keep rubbing my back while you beg for a present.” Craig returned to the gentle massage.
“Source code for the Marauder.”
“Where am I supposed to steal that?”
“I just got some spam about it.”
“How much?”
“One hundred and forty nine dollars.”
“Are you sure it’s what you want?”
“Yup.”
“Okay. You order it. Put it on my card.”
“Thanks babe,” Craig beamed. He renewed his effort on the back rub, Stacey sighing as he worked her neck. He leaned closer to her, kissed her once, and again, and then a third time with renewed vigor.
“I like that,” Stacey said.
“Then you’ll love this.”
Chapter
February 20th, 1994
San Francisco, California
Craig looked up from his keyboard. Stacey stood quietly behind him. Her long blonde hair was pulled into a ponytail held with a bleached white scrunchy that matched her relaxed oxford shirt.
“The boss wants to see us in the conference room,” Stacey said.
“How long have you been standing there?” Craig asked.
“Two damns, one shit and an f-bomb.”
“How come you can always sneak up on me like that?” Craig asked.
“Because you get so obsessed in your work.”
“What does the Fish want to see us about?” Craig asked.
“Don’t know.”
“Shit. You think he’s going to bust me about last night?”
“For what?” Stacey asked.
“Playing Marauder on the Internet. What was it, an hour and eighteen minutes?”
“You were working late. If you want to play while you’re working late with a test run going and he’s got a problem with that, then he is totally out of line,” Stacey answered. “But still, you shouldn’t open yourself up to his shit like that.”
“I do not need this bullshit,” Craig said.
“What do you need?” Stacey asked.
“You know what I need,” Craig answered, staring into her emerald green eyes.
“Right. The source code,” she teased.
“Jackass.”
#
Stacey led him down the hallway to the glass enclosed conference room. They playfully bumped shoulders as they walked. Once in the conference room, they sat and quietly waited, touching feet under the table. Stan Maxwell, a.k.a. the Fish, the overweight CEO who doubled as the Grand Poobah of Software Development, waddled into the room.
“Thanks for meeting on such short notice. I know how busy you two are. I’ve seen the insane hours you’ve been working. Thanks for the effort. But, Stacey, Craig, I’ve got some good news and I’ve got some bad news. The good news is that we’ve got an opening at the FAA Autopilot Software Testing Center. We’ve got thirty six hours available starting tomorrow at ten a.m. in Washington. AP Inc. doesn’t have their next beta ready as scheduled, and the FAA doesn’t want to waste the simulator time so they asked if we could use the time. Of course I said yes.”
“So what’s the bad news?” Craig asked.
“The bad news is that Rick is sick and can’t go to do the testing. So I’d like to send one of you. I know it’s really short notice, but …. It’s just too good a chance to pass up,” Stan finished.
The president slid an itinerary onto the table.
“Francine’s got it all set up. Plane tickets, hotel, car, you know, everything. So I’ll leave it up to you two. But one of you has to be on that plane at noon.”
“Can we both go?” Craig asked.
“If you want to pay for your own flight and take vacation time. The hotel and the car are the same whether one or two uses them. So it’s up to you. But you know that simulator only holds one pilot and one tester,” Stan said. The corpulent executive hauled himself to his feet and lumbered out the door. Craig and Stacey looked at each other and then at the itinerary.
“So should we both go?” Craig asked.
“Craig. The round trip ticket on such short notice will cost fifteen hundred dollars. We can afford it but we need the vacation time for later. For climbing and then for Scott and Susan’s wedding, remember? We have been kind of abusing our vacation privileges.”
“You’re right. So who goes?” Craig asked.
“I don’t mind going,” Stacey said.
“I don’t mind going either,” Craig answered.
“But on your birthday?”
“I don’t mind. We’ll have a cake or something when I get back.”
“You don’t really want to go do you?” Stacey asked.
“Not really. Do you?”
“Not really. But I’ll do it.”
The room became quiet as they looked over the itinerary for the third time. They looked at each other.
“I don’t want to be apart,” Craig said. He gently rubbed the back of Stacey’s hand and looked over the itinerary yet again.
“We can’t afford the time to both go. You know it, I know it, even Bob Dole knows it,” she said. “The FAA might not even let both of us in the simulator building. It’s high security you know. And the cockpit is pretty small. There are real pilots in there.”
“I know. I know,” Craig said.
The room got quiet again. Craig’s gaze drifted from her emerald green eyes. He looked out the window and far across the Bay he saw the last wisps of the morning’s fog as it drifted away. Finally Craig broke the silence.
“Okay. I’m going,” Craig said.
“No. I’ll go,” Stacey said.
“No. I’ll go,” Craig repeated.
“No. It’s okay. I’ll go. You’ve had the sniffles today. I might have run you too hard yesterday. You shouldn’t fly with a clogged up nose and ears. And then we’ll have a little something for your birthday when I get back.”
“I don’t mind,” Craig said without conviction, knowing Stacey was right. His eyes drifted back to the disappearing fog.
“That’s okay. You’ve got plenty to do here. You won’t even miss me. Especially with your super secret video game code on the way. When did the guy say you’d get it?”
“On the phone this morning he said he’d email it to me by five o’clock this afternoo
n.”
“Well. That’s it then. You work on your present, and I’ll work on the simulator and then we’ll be back together before you know it,” Stacey concluded. She leaned over and gave him a peck on the cheek. “See you in a couple of days.” She got up and left the room. Craig watched her leave and stared after the empty door. After a minute he rolled his chair closer to the window and watched the fog complete its long, lonely retreat. As he sat in the conference room he thought about Stacey. It had been six months since they had moved in together, three years that they had been dating, the last year and a half seriously. His mind drifted back over their early dates, walking for hours in the city, biking along the coast, quiet dinners. This was the first time since they’d moved in together that Craig was going to be home alone without her.
Twenty minutes later he finally tore himself away from the window, returned to his cluttered office and started coding. While he was working, the email icon started waving a little flag, signaling an incoming message had arrived. Craig was unable to ignore the motion on the screen. He double clicked on the icon and the email interface popped up.
TO: [email protected]
FROM: [email protected]
DATE: FEBRUARY 20, 1994
RE: MEET ME IN ROOM A
Hey loser,
Meet me in room A. I know you’re on. You don’t want to know how I know, just get on. I’m waiting.
Craig trashed the message and brought up a different window on his machine. A minute later he was logged into a chat session with his old college friend.
“Still taking it up the ass over there?” Craig asked.
“When in Turkey,” Jack answered.
“Seriously. How you doing?” Craig asked.
“I am seriously short of diversions. You can’t drink anywhere in this whole country and they don’t let any single women out after dark.”
“So do it in the afternoon.”
“If only. Anyway. Craig, I got a hell of an idea. You play Marauder right? I play Marauder. I’ve got millions of dollars worth of the latest government issue computer hardware at my disposal. I suggest we tag team it and see if we can beat this thing!”
