(6)
Collinwood faded, its gloomy interior giving way to the stark confines of the Imaging Chamber. Al blinked, orienting himself, then hurried through the narrow passageway formed by the encircling Accelerator, and down the gently sloping ramp. He surrendered the handlink to Gooshie at the central console. "All right, I'm here. What's the disaster of the hour?"
The programmer's anxious gaze darted from Al to the slowly spinning orb above them. "Uh, no disaster, Admiral--not exactly. I just, uh, need to talk to you for a minute, if that's okay."
Puzzled, Al frowned at him, then nodded sharply. "Fine. What's on your mind, Gooshie?"
"Not here." The head programmer shot another nervous glance at Ziggy's orb, then jerked his chin in the direction of the door. "Could we, uh, go outside, sir?"
"It isn't polite to talk about people behind their backs," Ziggy said, with a petulant sniff.
Gooshie's broad face flushed even redder than usual, and the pleading look he turned on Al made the admiral heave a long-suffering sigh. He'd never understood why Gooshie let the computer intimidate him. No matter how sophisticated it was--and, with its neuro-cell chips and quantum processors, Ziggy was the most advanced computer on the planet--it was still just a machine. Al Calavicci didn't allow other people to intimidate him; he'd be damned if a computer was going to do it.
Now, he shook his head at Gooshie's timidity and said firmly, "Nobody's talking about you, Ziggy, behind your back or otherwise. Besides, you don't have a back. And you're not exactly people, either."
"Hhmph!" Ziggy's speaker clicked emphatically.
Ignoring this latest fit of pique, Al herded Gooshie out into the corridor and then onto the elevator. The programmer promptly slumped in one corner of the car, jammed his hands into the pockets of his lab coat, and stared glumly at the floor. Al stood at parade rest in the opposite corner, as far from Gooshie's halitosis as the space allowed, and watched the indicator lights as the elevator toiled its way to the surface. Neither spoke, all too aware of Ziggy's ubiquitous sensors.
The elevator disgorged them on the uppermost level, opening onto the cafeteria. They received only a few disinterested glances from the few people who were brave (or just hungry) enough to make use of the facilities. Al's nose wrinkled at the unappealing smell of microwaved lasagna. He'd sooner eat the cardboard container the stuff came in; it would probably taste better.
At the guard station, a Marine corporal checked their I.D. badges, then logged their departure in her book before buzzing them through the thick outer door. Once upon a time security hadn't been quite so tight, but a too-close call with an escaped Visitor had taught them a hard lesson. Now it was almost as difficult to get out of the complex as it was to get in.
Outside the climate-controlled confines of the Project's underground complex, the desert heat was like a sudden slap in the face, literally taking his breath away. It might be early spring in Collinsport, but it was mid-August in New Mexico and heat shimmered across the dusty landscape. In the distance, the purple outline of the Sandias danced on the horizon like a poorly-projected hologram.
Already sweating, Al grimaced and fixed Gooshie with a severe look. "All right, Ziggy can't eavesdrop on us here. Care to tell me what this is all about?"
"It's Ziggy." The programmer blinked uncomfortably in the bright sunlight; he was definitely not the rugged outdoors type. "I'm worried about her, Admiral. All this...supernatural stuff she's coming up with... She's not programmed to deal with that sort of thing!"
"Neither am I," Al retorted, unsympathetically. He lit a fresh cigar and savored the taste; might as well get some good outta sweating his ass off.
Like all government buildings, the Project was technically a smoke-free zone. Al bent the rules a bit, smoking in the confines of his own quarters or the Imaging Chamber, but the Director was well-known as a stickler for certain regulations. Al glanced at the cigar in his hand. Sam would no doubt have his head when he got back...Of course, if it'd bring Sam back, he'd gladly give up his Chivellos on the spot.
He pulled his attention back to the problem at hand. "So Ziggy's hung up on spooks and specters. Tell her to stop worrying about the afterlife and get on with analyzing this Leap. Sam needs concrete information, or at least some good guesses about what he's there to change, not messages from the Twilight Zone."
"That's just it," Gooshie said miserably, wringing his hands. "She won't stop thinking about all that...stuff...and I don't know how much confidence we can place in her predictions."
"Exactly what are you trying to tell me?" Al demanded, sudden fear sharpening his voice. "Are you saying we can't trust her? At all?"
The programmer dug the scuffed toe of one loafer into the dirt. "I'm saying I don't know, sir."
"Well, can you fix it?" Al demanded, impatiently.
Gooshie stared at his feet, digging the toe of his shoe deeper into the sand. "I don't know."
Al froze, suddenly cold despite the blistering sun directly overhead. It was one of his more persistent nightmares--Ziggy off-line, no way for him to reach Sam, his best friend stranded in a hostile past. Alone.
He aimed his cigar like a loaded weapon, pointed the smoldering tip at Gooshie's nose and, in the voice that had put the fear of God into ensigns throughout the Sixth Fleet, snapped, "Then find out! And do it fast, because I want this thing taken care of ASAP. Do you read me, mister?"
"Yes, sir!" Gooshie came as close to 'attention' as years of physical inactivity and his stocky build would allow, and very nearly saluted. "I'll get right on it."
"Good." Al lead the way back inside, his mind churning. If they lost Ziggy, they lost their only link with Sam. That was not an acceptable option, therefore Ziggy would simply have to cease this ridiculous obsession with the supernatural and get back on track. Al's jaw tightened. Maybe he should see what he could accomplish.
After an hour of alternately cajoling and bullying the supercomputer, Al was forced to admit temporary defeat. Ziggy refused to listen to the voice or reason, and not even the admiral's considerable powers of persuasion would convince the machine to abandon its supernatural obsessions and concentrate on the Leap. Ziggy insisted that its theories did pertain to the Leap and it wasn't her fault they wouldn't listen to her. Lack of success had done nothing to improve Al's temper, and, at this last pronouncement, he slammed a fist down on the console. "Now you listen to me you--"
"Uh, Admiral--" Gooshie interposed his body between the irate Observer and the defenseless machine. "I really wish you wouldn't do that, sir, especially not with...I mean, it's a very sensitive piece of equipment, and--"
"It's an insensitive hunk of scrap iron," Al growled through tightly clenched teeth, "and I really wish you'd get it to do what it was designed to do!"
"I have provided you with all the data at my disposal," Ziggy said, with a sniff. "It is up to you to make the proper use of the information."
Al really wished it hadn't reminded him of that. His shoulders slumped a bit beneath the bright jacket, then squared again. Al Calavicci did not go down without a fight. "All right, Ziggy. Let's try this again..."
***
Collinwood faded, its gloomy interior giving way to the stark confines of the Imaging Chamber. Al blinked, orienting himself, then hurried through the narrow passageway formed by the encircling Accelerator, and down the gently sloping ramp. He surrendered the handlink to Gooshie at the central console. "All right, I'm here. What's the disaster of the hour?"
The programmer's anxious gaze darted from Al to the slowly spinning orb above them. "Uh, no disaster, Admiral--not exactly. I just, uh, need to talk to you for a minute, if that's okay."
Puzzled, Al frowned at him, then nodded sharply. "Fine. What's on your mind, Gooshie?"
"Not here." The head programmer shot another nervous glance at Ziggy's orb, then jerked his chin in the direction of the door. "Could we, uh, go outside, sir?"
"It isn't polite to talk about people behind their backs," Ziggy said, with a petulant sniff.
Gooshie's broad face flushed even redder than usual, and the pleading look he turned on Al made the admiral heave a long-suffering sigh. He'd never understood why Gooshie let the computer intimidate him. No matter how sophisticated it was--and, with its neuro-cell chips and quantum processors, Ziggy was the most advanced computer on the planet--it was still just a machine. Al Calavicci didn't allow other people to intimidate him; he'd be damned if a computer was going to do it.
Now, he shook his head at Gooshie's timidity and said firmly, "Nobody's talking about you, Ziggy, behind your back or otherwise. Besides, you don't have a back. And you're not exactly people, either."
"Hhmph!" Ziggy's speaker clicked emphatically.
Ignoring this latest fit of pique, Al herded Gooshie out into the corridor and then onto the elevator. The programmer promptly slumped in one corner of the car, jammed his hands into the pockets of his lab coat, and stared glumly at the floor. Al stood at parade rest in the opposite corner, as far from Gooshie's halitosis as the space allowed, and watched the indicator lights as the elevator toiled its way to the surface. Neither spoke, all too aware of Ziggy's ubiquitous sensors.
The elevator disgorged them on the uppermost level, opening onto the cafeteria. They received only a few disinterested glances from the few people who were brave (or just hungry) enough to make use of the facilities. Al's nose wrinkled at the unappealing smell of microwaved lasagna. He'd sooner eat the cardboard container the stuff came in; it would probably taste better.
At the guard station, a Marine corporal checked their I.D. badges, then logged their departure in her book before buzzing them through the thick outer door. Once upon a time security hadn't been quite so tight, but a too-close call with an escaped Visitor had taught them a hard lesson. Now it was almost as difficult to get out of the complex as it was to get in.
Outside the climate-controlled confines of the Project's underground complex, the desert heat was like a sudden slap in the face, literally taking his breath away. It might be early spring in Collinsport, but it was mid-August in New Mexico and heat shimmered across the dusty landscape. In the distance, the purple outline of the Sandias danced on the horizon like a poorly-projected hologram.
Already sweating, Al grimaced and fixed Gooshie with a severe look. "All right, Ziggy can't eavesdrop on us here. Care to tell me what this is all about?"
"It's Ziggy." The programmer blinked uncomfortably in the bright sunlight; he was definitely not the rugged outdoors type. "I'm worried about her, Admiral. All this...supernatural stuff she's coming up with... She's not programmed to deal with that sort of thing!"
"Neither am I," Al retorted, unsympathetically. He lit a fresh cigar and savored the taste; might as well get some good outta sweating his ass off.
Like all government buildings, the Project was technically a smoke-free zone. Al bent the rules a bit, smoking in the confines of his own quarters or the Imaging Chamber, but the Director was well-known as a stickler for certain regulations. Al glanced at the cigar in his hand. Sam would no doubt have his head when he got back...Of course, if it'd bring Sam back, he'd gladly give up his Chivellos on the spot.
He pulled his attention back to the problem at hand. "So Ziggy's hung up on spooks and specters. Tell her to stop worrying about the afterlife and get on with analyzing this Leap. Sam needs concrete information, or at least some good guesses about what he's there to change, not messages from the Twilight Zone."
"That's just it," Gooshie said miserably, wringing his hands. "She won't stop thinking about all that...stuff...and I don't know how much confidence we can place in her predictions."
"Exactly what are you trying to tell me?" Al demanded, sudden fear sharpening his voice. "Are you saying we can't trust her? At all?"
The programmer dug the scuffed toe of one loafer into the dirt. "I'm saying I don't know, sir."
"Well, can you fix it?" Al demanded, impatiently.
Gooshie stared at his feet, digging the toe of his shoe deeper into the sand. "I don't know."
Al froze, suddenly cold despite the blistering sun directly overhead. It was one of his more persistent nightmares--Ziggy off-line, no way for him to reach Sam, his best friend stranded in a hostile past. Alone.
He aimed his cigar like a loaded weapon, pointed the smoldering tip at Gooshie's nose and, in the voice that had put the fear of God into ensigns throughout the Sixth Fleet, snapped, "Then find out! And do it fast, because I want this thing taken care of ASAP. Do you read me, mister?"
"Yes, sir!" Gooshie came as close to 'attention' as years of physical inactivity and his stocky build would allow, and very nearly saluted. "I'll get right on it."
"Good." Al lead the way back inside, his mind churning. If they lost Ziggy, they lost their only link with Sam. That was not an acceptable option, therefore Ziggy would simply have to cease this ridiculous obsession with the supernatural and get back on track. Al's jaw tightened. Maybe he should see what he could accomplish.
After an hour of alternately cajoling and bullying the supercomputer, Al was forced to admit temporary defeat. Ziggy refused to listen to the voice or reason, and not even the admiral's considerable powers of persuasion would convince the machine to abandon its supernatural obsessions and concentrate on the Leap. Ziggy insisted that its theories did pertain to the Leap and it wasn't her fault they wouldn't listen to her. Lack of success had done nothing to improve Al's temper, and, at this last pronouncement, he slammed a fist down on the console. "Now you listen to me you--"
"Uh, Admiral--" Gooshie interposed his body between the irate Observer and the defenseless machine. "I really wish you wouldn't do that, sir, especially not with...I mean, it's a very sensitive piece of equipment, and--"
"It's an insensitive hunk of scrap iron," Al growled through tightly clenched teeth, "and I really wish you'd get it to do what it was designed to do!"
"I have provided you with all the data at my disposal," Ziggy said, with a sniff. "It is up to you to make the proper use of the information."
Al really wished it hadn't reminded him of that. His shoulders slumped a bit beneath the bright jacket, then squared again. Al Calavicci did not go down without a fight. "All right, Ziggy. Let's try this again..."
***