Edited.
26: Core Dump
San Marcos, Thunderbird 2, the rear crew cabin-
Even half-conscious, he recognized that comforting background hum, the peculiar combination of scents and vibrations that signaled Thunderbird 2. Home.
He was a strong young man, and sound of body; in good general health, before a violent, system-wide infection had completely overwhelmed his defenses. Hadn't played football in years, but retained an athlete's firm build and energy level. Also, he was stubborn, and very much wanted to live.
These factors, together with an emergency smart-patch and its medical nanobots, combined to save Virgil Edward Tracy from death. Sometime around 3 AM he turned the corner physically, as a self-assembling horde of nanobots beat back the invading bacteria and mopped up their toxin. Somewhen near 4:30, he began to regain consciousness. No big deal, really, as the best he could come up with was,
'I like horses and cream cheese.'
Didn't make any sense, so Virgil drifted off to wake up and try again, later. His second effort, as the universe began putting itself on like a warm coat, was,
'Damn, that hurts. Guess I must've crash-landed.'
Except… he'd been sick, hadn't he? Or, Gordon had. It was the thought of his kid brother… sick unto death, alone and scared… that finally pried the lid from Virgil's gummy awareness, and propelled him most of the way out of bed.
Nausea and a half-full IV bag temporarily stopped him, but Virgil mastered his wave of sickness and jerked the bag off its bulkhead hook. Might be important medicine in there, so he figured he'd bring it along.
Getting to his feet was tough, staying there, harder still. Virgil had to cling to the edge of the bunk above his own in order to drag himself upright and keep from falling.
Gordon lay in bunk 2E; pale and still and hardly breathing. The biomonitor beside him was so close to flatlining that something fisted up cold and tight within Virgil. He touched his brother's near shoulder, muttering,
"C'mon, kiddo… Rise and shine."
A line on the biomonitor jiggled a little, at that. He'd been heard, at least. Seeking a way to help, Virgil looked the situation over. Gordon was attached to an IV bag of his own, so someone had clearly been caring for him. TinTin, maybe? Or Brains? Whatever, he and Gordon weren't on Tracy Island, because if they had been, someone would surely have brought them to the infirmary.
Not that it mattered much. Looking at the deeply infected young swimmer (his coppery-auburn hair a startling contrast to grayish-pale skin) all that Virgil could think about was the day they'd first been introduced, and the promise he'd made to their mother, Lucinda Tracy.
Virgil and his older brothers, Scott and John, had been escorted into a private hospital room by Granddad. Even here, the big old man smelled of cigarettes, horses and wind-scoured rangeland. His very presence counteracted all of those hushed voices and unfamiliar sights. Grant Tracy was one of those very strong people that nothing dared go wrong around, ever. Pure and simple, Granddad solved problems, settled arguments (sometimes with a strap) and made things right.
His large-knuckled hand atop Virgil's head propelled the four-year-old boy into the room, where Mom lay propped in a bed with his new baby brother. The place was very quiet; dim and sweet-smelling, packed solid with balloons, flowers and cards. Dad and Grandma stood by the bed, looking tired, but Virgil stared only at Mom, being too nervous to move much, or speak.
"It's all right, boys… you can come in."
His mother beamed at them all. She held her nursing baby very tenderly, a proud, fond expression on her lovely face, golden hair loose and softly curtaining.
Virgil hung back, letting 8-year-old Scott and John, 6, draw ahead of him. Lucy gently detached the baby and covered herself.
"Gordon David Tracy," she whispered to the quizzically blinking infant, "Say hello to your big brothers. This is Scott. He's a Boy Scout, and he loves airplanes and Little League. I know that you can't see very well, right now, so I'll tell you that he has black hair and blue eyes, and that he's the one who kept singing the alphabet song while you were still in mommy's tummy."
Scott, delighted, kissed mother and baby, both.
"Hi, Gordon," he said, in an exaggerated whisper. "I'll show you my airplanes and baseball glove as soon as we get home, okay?"
The baby must have recognized Scott's voice, because his fists waved a little, and he blinked harder. Lucy had to reach for John, to tug him forward.
"And this is your brother, John. He likes to count things and line them up, and he helps me to keep the house very clean. He has blond hair, but his eyes are blue, like Scott's and yours are. John's been teaching you mathematical proofs, Baby-Boy."
Her smile, as always, was a little different for John. As though… as if he somehow needed not just piles of love, but extra encouragement. She nodded at him, now.
"Say hello to your new brother, Sweetie."
John had been gazing at his mother, not the baby. She'd been gone for three days, a disruption of routine which had led to stomach cramps and sleeplessness. Lucy caressed his upturned face, leading him to look downward.
"See the baby, John? You have a new brother now, just like you got Virgil, four years ago."
"Four years and six months," John corrected her, getting a frown out of his father. "And Gordon isn't that new. After nearly ten months in utero, he's older than he looks."
"Yes," Lucy agreed warmly. "I suppose that he is. Say hello, Sweetie, and give him a kiss like a good big brother… there you go."
Lucy had shifted position slightly, one arm crooked around the baby, the other hand stroking her second son's blond head. Obediently, John leaned over and brushed his mouth against Gordon's small, red face.
"Like that?" he asked his mother, leaning briefly against her shoulder.
"Exactly like that, Sweetie-Pie. You did great. Gordon will love you very much."
"Like you do?" he reassured himself.
"Yes."
"And Granddad and Grandma?" John frequently made a game of listing people.
"Yes, indeed, John; them, too."
"And Scott and Virgil?"
Lucinda stemmed the flow by kissing him.
"Yes, Sweetie. Scott and Virgil and Daddy, too. Even Nana and Papa and Rusty, up in Heaven. Everybody loves you."
"Okay. That's good." (In those days, John had talked and smiled more, because having Mom around had made all the difference in the world.)
It was Virgil's turn, next. Being little and new to all this, he wasn't sure what to do or say. He'd been the baby for four whole years, and now he was being replaced.
His mother made a gentle scooting motion, so that John and Scott would make room, allowing Virgil to creep forward (he'd been clinging to Granddad's leg, all this time). Everything seemed strange and confusing. His mom wasn't fat anymore, but she was in the hospital because babies made you sick and have to lie down.
Lucinda coaxed gently,
"It's okay, Baby… come on over and have a look."
While Daddy drew Scott and John aside with promises of ice cream, Virgil tiptoed up for his first close glimpse of the little one. Lucy smoothed the brown curls away from her third son's forehead, saying,
"Gordon David, this is Virgil, and he's going to be a special big brother to you, just like Scott is to John, and John is to Virgil. He's going to watch out for you, and teach you everything you need to know. He has brown hair and brown eyes, just like Daddy does, and he likes to ride ponies at Granddad's house, and slide down the stairs on cardboard. Everyday when he climbed into bed with me, he said 'Good morning, Gordon', right against my tummy."
Virgil looked up at his mother, surely the most wonderful person in the world, and said,
"Now… I could say g'morning a… t' Gordon right at his face, right Mommy? 'Stead of on your tummick?"
She dimpled, like Scott sometimes did.
"Yes, you could, Baby. You most certainly could say 'good morning' directly to Gordon. In fact…" her voice dropped to a whisper, and she bent closer, blonde hair swinging like a sheet of fluid gold. "I think he expects it."
"Okay, Mommy."
Virgil looked over at that puzzled red face. Gordon was sort of ugly, but maybe he'd get better looking when he got some teeth and hair.
"G' morning, Gordon," he whispered timidly, putting a hand forth. Since no one stopped him (not even Daddy) Virgil dared to stroke at a tiny fist. Just like that, his finger was captured, held fast in a little hand like a doll's. All at once happy, Virgil looked up at his mother, who said,
"See…? He already knows who you are." And then, best of all, "Would you like to hold him, Baby? After all, he's your responsibility."
Virgil nodded eagerly. Ice cream didn't matter. It wasn't better than sitting on Mommy's bed, braced by Granddad, while she placed the new baby in his arms.
Gordon was so little, with blue eyes that strained to make out Virgil's hovering face. He squirmed and flailed and waved his fists, making a little noise like "eh", but he didn't cry, 'cause Granddad said boys never cry, they just handle things.
Very softly, Virgil said,
"Pleased a meetcha, Gordon. I'm gonna be your big brother and take care of you all the time, okay?" Then, wrinkling his nose,
"Eww… Mommy! I think Gordon didn't go t' the potty in time!"
(One of the things John was strictest about was correct toileting procedure; Virgil had spent very little time in diapers.)
Lucinda laughed and kissed the top of her son's head.
"Babies do that, Virgil. You'll have plenty of time to teach him better, I promise. Mother Tracy…?"
Grandma bustled forward to take Gordon from his brother's arms. She was (as the lady herself would have put it) smiling fit to bust, looking like a woman who'd seen Heaven distilled, drop by drop, into four beautiful, healthy grandsons. For eight years now, she'd changed diapers, shushed nightmares and bandaged hurts like a pro.
… And very much, Virgil wished that he had her here, now. Not knowing what else to do, he glanced at the biomonitor, which seemed to have strengthened a bit. Maybe… just keep talking to him? Virgil touched his brother's clammy face.
"Time to get up, Kiddo," he said, as TinTin entered the cabin in a bulky blue hazard suit. "Don't know exactly what's going on, but I've got a feeling we're needed."
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Spain, WorldGov temporary headquarters-
Indira Chatterjee, Minister of Health, sat perfectly erect in her chair. She'd been brought to an antechamber of Vice President Murasaki's office, presumably to await the results of a computer and cell phone core-dump. A team of crack technicians were even now searching for incriminating data… but the signal she'd sent to Mr. Black should have purged her computer and smart-phone. Should have.
The anteroom was spacious and airy, decorated very simply. There were tatami mats spread upon the floor in place of carpet, with a scattered handful of vases, a folding screen, her chair, and the small, lacquered table which stood gracefully alongside it.
Not a prison, at least. Not yet, at any rate.
To distract herself, Indira looked around with languid, disinterested head shifts. One wall held a brush-and-ink drawing of snowy branches framing a trite haiku about cherry blossoms. Madame Chatterjee affected not to notice, keeping her face and manner as serene as a statue's. Let the dogs bay and the peasants lay their snares; she, Indira Chatterjee, was above them.
The Vice President was famed for decisive action, not mercy, and she was acting in place of President Moreira (still in bed following the Unity Center collapse, which hadn't eliminated the main targets). Chilly and formal, a high-ranking lady of Clan Fujiwara, Murasaki was as unlikely to bend or waver as water to flow uphill.
In the past, Chatterjee had avoided the vice president, but there was no such option, now. Not once they'd found or made up evidence against her. As she cast her mind this way and that, seeking what was to be done, something finally happened.
A white-jacketed young man entered the room, bearing a heavy silver tray. He appeared to be a dining hall steward. Low caste, no doubt.
Madame Chatterjee shifted position somewhat, lest this underling should step on her shadow, or touch her. He came forward, gaze appropriately lowered, and bowed humbly over his tray.
"Honored one," the dark-skinned fellow murmured in flawless Bengali, "please accept refreshment at the behest of Mr. Black."
Coded words, but more than that, he'd made with one hand the signal. Giving the young man a slight, regal nod, Chatterjee indicated that he should place the tray and its contents (a bottle of sparkling mineral water, a drinking glass and a folded cloth napkin) upon the table. He did so, carefully not touching anything with his gloved hands that might, in turn, touch her.
Indira's heart began to beat very rapidly, but she nodded again, actually thawing enough to thank the young servant and return his coded signal.
"Many thanks, boy. The… refreshment is accepted," she whispered. "And I trust that our work will go on."
The low caste servant… oddly enough the last person she was ever to see… bowed low.
"May it be so, Honored one."
Once he'd backed from the room, and before anyone could act to stop her, Indira Chatterjee opened her bottle of water, poured a small amount into the ice-filled glass beside it, and then retrieved a small red pill from the folds of her linen napkin. Many thoughts and urges clawed at the Health Minister's mind, but in the end, desire to avoid public humiliation and imprisonment came uppermost.
After all… the work of Red Path would continue, and someday, surely, the hated World Government would fall. With a fervent prayer that she not be reborn to a lower caste, Madame Chatterjee swallowed the red pill, and returned to the Wheel of Becoming. Shouting guards were unable to save the blue-faced, convulsing Health Minister. Nor could all of WorldGov's technicians retrieve her deliberately corrupted data.
Vicente Vargas struck quick, deep and silent.
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New York, a jolting grav-cart, in the midst of an underground power station-
He'd been ordered to shut up, so Alan stayed quiet, fighting the urge to scream for help. Chris Springfield was (probably) beside him; depending on Alan to do something smart. 'Cause, like, Chris knew all about horses and goofing off, not rescues.
Trouble was... Alan was having a rough time deciding what to do. That last time, with Gordon, he'd had a drug to battle and medical junk to rip loose. This time, he was tied up and blindfolded, being transported away from his school by some kind of machine-lord invisible kidnapper. Yeah. This was, like, John's kind of thing, not his. What the heck was he supposed to do?
Listening closely, Alan could hear the dude's movements over humming machinery, rat squeals and something that sounded like water. Judging from all the rattles and jerks, they were moving pretty fast, but where to?
Where were they headed, and what did the guy plan to do when they got there? He'd mentioned getting paid, so it seemed reasonable to think they were going to be held hostage… but you just couldn't tell. The dude could be a sicko with no intention of releasing his captives, no matter how much Jeff Tracy and Mr. Springfield coughed up.
Laying flat on that cart, cramped between the rim and another captured boy, Alan decided that it was better to scheme and fight than hope for a miracle. Stuff like that happened in the movies, not in real life.
Cautiously, he nudged the guy next to him with an elbow, three times. Sort of, y' know…
'Hey, how's it going? You up for the great escape?'
After a second or two, his comrade-in-handcuffery nudged back. Which was good because, while you wouldn't have gotten him to admit it, Alan Tracy was really glad to not be alone. Anyways, just as he was ready to start working his hands loose, something stopped their kidnapper cold, freezing him in his heavy-footed tracks.
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The passenger cabin of a modified jet, screaming over the desiccated farmlands of northeastern Nebraska-
Just when you thought you'd rendered matters fool-proof, along came one more fool. In this case, John Tracy. He had a challenge before him, one that he responded to with every bit of stealth and skill he possessed.
On the surface, the job was straightforward enough; locate a certain system, intercept packets to and from the unit in question, determine its passwords and seize control. Quietly.
Except that 'Stirling' was no mere computer, and he probably wasn't running the kind of basic damn operating system that John had cracked a thousand times before and could exploit while drunk and bleeding (which had happened once, actually).
This was a cyborg; a computer-enhanced soldier who'd melded high-tech electronic systems to his own body and mind.
'Go ahead, genius. Hack that one.'
John frowned at his patiently waiting laptop.
'Well… shit. So, okay… who did Stirling trust? Which signals always got through the firewall?'
Needing more background than Penny had been able to provide, John very carefully began researching what little information was freely available on the 'Cyborg Warrior Initiative'. Paranoid government conspiracy crap, mostly. The good stuff would be deep within .gov territory, just where John didn't yet want to go. Too much risk of brushing a tripwire by digging too aggressively; mine those fields, and he faced giving away what he knew about the kidnapper. Better if the cyborg's handlers thought they still had a secret.
Keeping tabs on Stirling's progress through the New York power network, John tried a few 'high school science report' –style queries. Nothing too sophisticated… just wondering…
Hmm… Unless Stirling had permitted a recent upgrade, he was probably running a weird Solaris variant, on a stupidly over-clocked, hybrid SPARC platform. According to the 'secret conspiracy revealed!' website, his electronic and mechanical components were self-healing, his fleshly parts well protected by a short-term, incorporated force field. No doubt, an extremely power-hungry application; after using that bitch for awhile, John was willing to bet that he'd almost certainly have to juice up, or switch batteries. Good to know.
As for Stirling's mind… if what 5pyW3rm claimed was true… the cyborg's brain was insulated from external reality by a subtle computer interface, and he could receive instant, internal messaging over airwaves and cable, both. Nice. Stirling's security was robust, then, but not airtight. In theory, hackable.
John leaned back in his seat, staring at the vanilla-tinted overhead with eyes that were focused someplace else. Solaris VE: features and vulnerabilities thereof…
"John Tracy input requested."
What…? Oh. He'd almost forgotten about Five, and the body she'd chosen to inhabit. Females, electronic and physical, had the damndest way of popping up at you.
"Yeah… go ahead."
He kept his voice down because Parker (flying the plane) still thought that Penelope was in control, back here. No sense confusing people's illusions, right?
She replied, speaking through Penny,
"The Tracy-Bennett subroutine has made thirty-seven attempts to access the Over System. The Tracy-Bennett subroutine has sent the following message without significant variation. Message follows:
'Please let Daddy be okay. Please help Daddy and make him come back.'
…End message. The subroutine's queries have received no reply. What is the correct route and IP address for Over System communication, John Tracy?"
He shrugged.
"Hell if I know. God listens to kids and good people, and I'm not either. But, um…"
The back of his neck hurt, so John started rubbing at it with his left hand, only to be interrupted when Five got up and crossed the deck to take over. Apparently, she'd been accessing Penelope's data files, because the massage was expertly performed. Anyhow,
"…It could be that the 'Over System' is too large and complex to be understood by low-capacity analogs like myself or Junior. I'm told that large groups of us tend to get better results and clearer replies. How's she… What is the current status of the Tracy-Bennett subroutine?"
The quantum entity Five exhibited both wave and particle nature. She at once occupied the Creighton-Ward wetware and was 'smeared' across an array of nearby realities, drawing and manipulating zero-point energy from each. Her location could not be precisely defined, but grew more probable near her creator and analog companion, John Tracy.
"The subroutine is maintained and sheltered by Five. The subroutine believes that the Over System will reply to her help message. Five will boost and direct the subroutine's signal, once John Tracy has provided a proper IP address. Awaiting reply."
Much like the subroutine, she had utter faith in her personal god. Five continued the act of 'touching' her (# FFFFGG)-haired companion, something she could not achieve without an analog host. Inputs such as scent and skin temperature were directly manifested in this form, mere data in any other. John Tracy once more twitched his upper extremities in the manner labeled: shrug.
"I don't know… try 'Our Father, who Art in Heaven', using all available bandwidth… and let me know if you get a response, because I've got a few questions to ask, myself."
As good as it felt to sit there being massaged, talking philosophy and watching Nebraska's dustbowl landscape shoot past the plane's windows, John had work to do. Still… meaning something important, he briefly pressed her hands with his own.
"Thanks," he told her quietly, pulling free.
Okay… he already knew Stirling's probable operating system, approximate security level and location. Thing to do now was determine his connectivity; find out what he sent and received, and through which open ports.
For this, he'd need to access one of those local maintenance bots, wait until it responded to Stirling, and then apply his best traceroute and packet-sniffer programs to find a way further in. Simple.
A few minutes later, he had some answers. Stirling was connected through two fire-walled ports: 21 (FTP) and 8322. It was the higher port that interested him, as it seemed to connect to an S700 box in DC, which was linked in turn to a sexy little Vaio. (Government surplus, according to its ID number.)
Well… suppose he got in through a proxy server, cracked Stirling's password list, and then spoofed a 'halt' command using the Vaio's IP address. Throw in a script, too; one geared to generate a massive core dump and crash the system.
If he froze the cyborg's hardware and seized up its OS, would the human mind and organic components take over, or would they lock, giving Alan a slim chance to break free? Thinking, 'shit', John drummed his fingers and imagined a pleasant, many-folded space.
Trouble was, even flying full out, there was no way he could reach his brother in less than two hours. Anything could happen in that amount of time. He had one shot at freezing the cyborg, if that, because the organic Stirling would sense his interference immediately. No way to contact Alan, who seemed to be without his wrist comm and ID chip, unless…
"Five, I need you to follow my signal, then infect and lock all area machines and computer systems. Next in the stack, protect Alan. Take whatever measures are required short of harming innocent human bystanders, but keep him… and the other kid… safe. Understood?"
Five once again touched her creator, responding,
"Shield from physical damage Tracy 5.0 and associated analog system Christian Blaine Springfield. John Tracy command understood and accepted."
Some of her consciousness departed Penny, who now seemed dangerously close to waking. John quickly directed the muddled-and-compliant woman to have a seat, and then returned to business.
First, he hacked his way inside the S700, accessed and applied rainbowcrack to the relevant password hash. Then, fired through the newly-owned DC box, he sent an 'echo' shell command disguised as an important message; pretty as a foil-wrapped ring box, containing nothing but disaster.