The Collected Stories of Robert Silverberg, Volume 6: Multiples: 1983-87

by Robert Silverberg

  Oh, and the pardon was a valid one. I had decided not to write any stiffs while I was in Los Angeles. A kind of sentimental atonement, you might say, for the job I had done on that woman all those years back.

  You absolutely have to write stiffs once in a while, you understand. So that you don’t look too good, so that you don’t give the Entities reason to hunt you down. Just as you have to ration the number of pardons you do. I didn’t have to be writing pardons at all, of course. I could have just authorized the system to pay me so much a year, 50 thou, 100 thou, and taken it easy forever. But where’s the challenge in that?

  So I write pardons, but no more than I need to cover my expenses, and I deliberately fudge some of them, making myself look as incompetent as the rest, so the Entities don’t have a reason to begin trying to track the identifying marks of my work. My conscience hasn’t been too sore about that. It’s a matter of survival, after all. And most other pardoners are out-and-out frauds, you know. At least with me, you stand a better-than-even chance of getting what you’re paying for.

  The next one was a tiny Japanese woman, the classic style, sleek, fragile, doll-like. Crying in big wild gulps that I thought might break her in half, while a gray-haired older man in a shabby business suit—her grandfather, you’d guess—was trying to comfort her. Public crying is a good indicator of Entity trouble. “Maybe I can help,” I said, and they were both so distraught that they didn’t even bother to be suspicious.

  He was her father-in-law, not her grandfather. The husband was dead, killed by burglars the year before. There were two small kids. Now she had received her new labor-tax ticket. She had been afraid they were going to send her out to work on the wall, which, of course, wasn’t likely to happen: The assignments are pretty random, but they usually aren’t crazy, and what use would a 90-pound woman be in hauling stone blocks around? The father-in-law had some friends who were in the know, and they managed to bring up the hidden encoding on her ticket. The computers hadn’t sent her to the wall, no. They had sent her to Area Five. And they had classified her T.T.D. classification.

  “The wall would have been better,” the old man said. “They’d see right away she wasn’t strong enough for heavy work, and they’d find something else, something she could do. But Area Five? Who ever comes back from that?”

  “You know what Area Five is?” I said.

  “The medical-experiment place. And this mark here, T.T.D. I know what that stands for too.”

  She began to moan again. I couldn’t blame her. T.T.D. means Test to Destruction. The Entities want to find out how much work we can really do, and they feel that the only reliable way to discover that is to put us through tests that show where the physical limits are.

  “I will die,” she wailed. “My babies! My babies!”

  “Do you know what a pardoner is?” I asked the father-in-law.

  A quick excited response: sharp intake of breath, eyes going bright, head nodding vehemently. Just as quickly, the excitement faded, giving way to bleakness, helplessness, despair.

  “They all cheat you,” he said.

  “Not all.”

  “Who can say? They take your money, they give you nothing.”

  “You know that isn’t true. Everybody can tell you stories of pardons that came through.”

  “Maybe. Maybe,” the old man said. The woman sobbed quietly. “You know of such a person?”

  “For three thousand dollars,” I said, “I can take the T.T.D. off her ticket. For five more, I can write an exemption from service good until her children are in high school.”

  Sentimental me. A 50 percent discount, and I hadn’t even run an asset check. For all I knew, the father-in-law was a millionaire. But no; he’d have been off cutting a pardon for her, then, and not sitting around like this in Pershing Square.

  He gave me a long, deep, appraising look—peasant shrewdness coming to the surface.

  “How can we be sure of that?” he asked.

  I might have told him that I was the king of my profession, the best of all pardoners, a genius hacker with the truly magic touch who could slip into any computer ever designed and make it dance to my tune. Which would have been nothing more than the truth. But all I said was that he’d have to make up his own mind, that I couldn’t offer any affidavits or guarantees, that I was available if he wanted me and otherwise it was all the same to me if she preferred to stick with her T.T.D. ticket. They went off and conferred for a couple of minutes. When they came back, he silently rolled up his sleeve and presented his implant to me. I keyed his credit balance: 30 thou or so, not bad. I transferred eight of it to my accounts, half to Seattle, the rest to Los Angeles. Then I took her wrist, which was about two of my fingers thick, and got into her implant and wrote her the pardon that would save her life. Just to be certain, I ran a double validation check on it. It’s always possible to stiff a customer unintentionally, though I’ve never done it. But I didn’t want this particular one to be my first.

  “Go on,” I said. “Home. Your kids are waiting for their lunch.”

  Her eyes glowed. “If I could only thank you somehow—”

  “I’ve already banked my fee. Go. If you ever see me again, don’t say hello.”

  “This will work?” the old man asked.

  “You say you have friends who know things. Wait seven days, then tell the data bank that she’s lost her ticket. When you get the new one, ask your pals to decode it for you. You’ll see. It’ll be all right.”

  I don’t think he believed me. I think he was more than half sure I had swindled him out of one fourth of his life’s savings, and I could see the hatred in his eyes. But that was his problem. In a week he’d find out that I really had saved his daughter-in-law’s life, and then he’d rush down to the square to tell me how sorry he was that he had had such terrible feelings toward me. Only by then I’d be somewhere else, far away.

  They shuffled out the east side of the park, pausing a couple of times to peer over their shoulders at me as if they thought I was going to transform them into pillars of salt the moment their backs were turned. Then they were gone.

  I’d earned enough now to get me through the week I planned to spend in L.A. But I stuck around anyway, hoping for a little more. My mistake.

  This one was Mr. Invisible, the sort of man you’d never notice in a crowd, gray on gray, thinning hair, mild, bland, apologetic smile. But his eyes had a shine. I forget whether he started talking first to me, or me to him, but pretty soon we were jockeying around trying to find out things about each other. He told me he was from Silver Lake. I gave him a blank look. How in hell am I supposed to know all the zillion L.A. neighborhoods? Said that he had come down here to see someone at the big government H.Q. on Figueroa Street. All right: probably an appeals case. I sensed a customer.

  Then he wanted to know where I was from. Santa Monica? West L.A.? Something in my accent, I guess. “I’m a traveling man,” I said. “Hate to stay in one place.” True enough. I need to hack or I go crazy; if I did all my hacking in just one city, I’d be virtually begging them to slap a trace on me sooner or later, and that would be the end. I didn’t tell him any of that. “Came in from Utah last night. Wyoming before that.” Not true, either one. “Maybe on to New York next.” He looked at me as if I’d said I was planning a voyage to the moon. People out here, they don’t go East a lot. These days, most people don’t go anywhere.

  Now he knew that I had wall-transit clearance, or else that I had some way of getting it when I wanted it. That was what he was looking to find out. In no time at all we were down to basics.

  He said he had drawn a new ticket, six years at the salt-field-reclamation site out back of Mono Lake. People die like May flies out there. What he wanted was a transfer to something softer, like Operations and Maintenance, and it had to be within the walls, preferably in one of the districts out by the ocean where the air is cool and clear. I quoted him a price and he accepted without a quiver.

  “Let’s have yo
ur wrist,” I said.

  He held out his right hand, palm upward. His implant access was a pale yellow plaque, mounted in the usual place but rounder than the standard kind and of a slightly smoother texture. I didn’t see any great significance in that. As I had done maybe 1000 times before, I put my own arm over his, wrist to wrist, access to access. Our biocomputers made contact, and instantly I knew I was in trouble.

  Human beings have been carrying biochip-based computers in their bodies for the last 40 years or so—long before the Entity invasion, anyway—but for most people it’s just something they take for granted, like their vaccination mark. They use them for the things they’re meant to be used for and don’t give them a thought beyond that. The biocomputer’s just a commonplace tool for them, like a fork, like a shovel. You have to have the hacker sort of mentality to be willing to turn your biocomputer into something more. That’s why, when the Entities came and took us over and made us build walls around our cities, most people reacted just like sheep, letting themselves be herded inside and politely staying there. The only ones who can move around freely now—because we know how to manipulate the mainframes through which the Entities rule us—are the hackers. And there aren’t many of us. I could tell right away that I had hooked myself on to one now.

  The moment we were in contact, he came at me like a storm.

  The strength of his signal let me know I was up against something special and that I’d been hustled. He hadn’t been trying to buy a pardon at all. What he was looking for was a duel—Mr. Macho behind the bland smile, out to show the new boy in town a few of his tricks.

  No hacker had ever mastered me in a one-on-one anywhere. Not ever. I felt sorry for him, but not much.

  He shot me a bunch of stuff, cryptic but easy, just by way of finding out my parameters. I caught it and stored it and laid an interrupt on him and took over the dialog. My turn to test him. I wanted him to begin to see who he was fooling around with. But just as I began to execute, he put an interrupt on me. That was a new experience. I stared at him with some respect.

  Usually, any hacker anywhere will recognize my signal in the first 30 seconds, and that’ll be enough to finish the interchange. He’ll know that there’s no point in continuing. But this guy either wasn’t able to identify me or just didn’t care, and he came right back with his interrupt. Amazing. So was the stuff he began laying on me next.

  He went right to work, really trying to scramble my architecture. Reams of stuff came flying at me up in the heavy-megabyte zone.

  JSPIKE. ABLTAG. NSLICE. DZCNT.

  I gave it right back to him, twice as hard.

  MAXFRG. MINPAU. SPKTOT. JSPIKE.

  He didn’t mind at all.

  MAXDZ. SPKTIM. FALTER. NSLICE.

  FRQSUM. EBURST.

  IBURST.

  PREBST.

  NOBRST.

  Mexican standoff. He was still smiling. Not even a trace of sweat on his forehead. Something eerie about him, something new and strange. This is some kind of borgmann hacker, I realized suddenly. He must be working for the Entities, roving the city, looking to make trouble for freelancers like me. Good as he was, and he was plenty good, I despised him. A hacker who had become a borgmann—now, that was truly disgusting. I wanted to short him. I wanted to burn him out. I had never hated anyone so much in my life.

  I couldn’t do a thing with him.

  I was baffled. I was the Data King, I was the Megabyte Monster. All my life, I had floated back and forth across a world in chains, picking every lock I came across. And now this nobody was tying me in knots. Whatever I gave him, he parried; and what came back from him was getting increasingly bizarre. He was working with an algorithm I had never seen before and was having serious trouble solving. After a little while, I couldn’t even figure out what he was doing to me, let alone what I was going to do to cancel it. It was getting so I could barely execute. He was forcing me inexorably toward a wetware crash.

  “Who are you?” I yelled.

  He laughed in my face.

  And kept pouring it on. He was threatening the integrity of my implant, going at me down on the microcosmic level, attacking the molecules themselves. Fiddling around with electron shells, reversing charges and mucking up valences, clogging my gates, turning my circuits to soup. The computer that is implanted in my brain is nothing but a lot of organic chemistry, after all. So is my brain. If he kept this up the computer would go and the brain would follow, and I’d spend the rest of my life in the bibble-babble academy.

  This wasn’t a sporting contest. This was murder.

  I reached for the reserves, throwing up all the defensive blockages I could invent. Things I had never had to use in my life, but they were there when I needed them, and they did slow him down. For a moment, I was able to halt his ballbreaking onslaught and even push him back—and give myself the breathing space to set up a few offensive combinations of my own. But before I could get them running, he shut me down once more and started to drive me toward Crashville all over again. He was unbelievable.

  I blocked him. He came back again. I hit him hard and he threw the punch into some other neural channel altogether and it went fizzling away.

  I hit him again. Again he blocked it.

  Then he hit me, and I went reeling and staggering and managed to get myself together when I was about three nanoseconds from the edge of the abyss.

  I began to set up a new combination. But even as I did it, I was reading the tone of his data, and what I was getting was absolute cool confidence. He was waiting for me. He was ready for anything I could throw. He was in that realm beyond mere self-confidence into utter certainty.

  What it was coming down to was this: I was able to keep him from ruining me, but only just barely, and I wasn’t able to lay a glove on him at all. And he seemed to have infinite resources behind him. I didn’t worry him. He was tireless. He didn’t appear to degrade at all. He just took all I could give and kept throwing new stuff at me, coming at me from six sides at once.

  Now I understood for the first time what it must have felt like for all the hackers I had beaten. Some of them must have felt pretty cocky, I suppose, until they ran into me. It costs more to lose when you think you’re good. When you know you’re good. People like that, when they lose, they have to reprogram their whole sense of their relation to the universe.

  I had two choices. I could go on fighting until he wore me down and crashed me. Or I could give up right now. In the end everything comes down to yes or no, on or off, one or zero, doesn’t it?

  I took a deep breath. I was staring straight into chaos.

  “All right,” I said. “I’m beaten. I quit.”

  I wrenched my wrist free of his, trembled, swayed, went toppling down on the ground.

  A minute later, five cops jumped me and trussed me up like a turkey and hauled me away, with my implant arm sticking out of the package and a security lock wrapped around my wrist, as if they were afraid I was going to start pulling data right out of the air.

  Where they took me was Figueroa Street, the big black-marble 90-story job that is the home of the puppet city government. I didn’t give a damn. I was numb. They could have put me in the sewer and I wouldn’t have cared. I wasn’t damaged—the automatic circuit check was still running and it came up green—but the humiliation was so intense that I felt crashed. I felt destroyed. The only thing I wanted to know was the name of the hacker who had done it to me.

  The Figueroa Street building has ceilings about 20 feet high everywhere, so that there’ll be room for Entities to move around. Voices reverberate in those vast open spaces like echoes in a cavern. The cops sat me down in a hallway, still all wrapped up, and kept me there for a long time. Blurred sounds went lolloping up and down the passage. I wanted to hide from them. My brain felt raw. I had taken one hell of a pounding.

  Now and then a couple of towering Entities would come rumbling through the hall, tiptoeing on their tentacles in that weirdly dainty way of theirs. With t
hem came a little entourage of humans whom they ignored entirely, as they always do. They know that we’re intelligent but they just don’t care to talk to us. They let their computers do that, via the borgmann interface, and may his signal degrade forever for having sold us out. Not that they wouldn’t have conquered us anyway, but Borgmann made it ever so much easier for them to push us around by showing them how to connect our little biocomputers to their huge mainframes. I bet he was very proud of himself, too: just wanted to see if his gadget would work, and to hell with the fact that he was selling us into eternal bondage.

  Nobody has ever figured out why the Entities are here or what they want from us. They simply came, that’s all. Saw. Conquered. Rearranged us. Put us to work doing god-awful unfathomable tasks. Like a bad dream.

  And there wasn’t any way we could defend ourselves against them. Didn’t seem that way to us at first—we were cocky, we were going to wage guerilla war and wipe them out—but we learned fast how wrong we were, and we are theirs for keeps. There’s nobody left with anything close to freedom except the handful of hackers like me; and, as I’ve explained, we’re not dopey enough to try any serious sort of counterattack. It’s a big enough triumph for us just to be able to dodge around from one city to another without having to get authorization.

  Looked like all that was finished for me now. Right then, I didn’t give a damn. I was still trying to integrate the notion that I had been beaten; I didn’t have capacity left over to work on a program for the new life I would be leading now.

  “Is this the pardoner, over here?” someone said.

  “That one, yeah.”

  “She wants to see him now.”

  “You think we should fix him up a little first?”

  “She said now.”

  A hand at my shoulder, rocking me gently. “Up, fellow. It’s interview time. Don’t make a mess or you’ll get hurt.”