By way of explanation (things being clearer in my head than they are on paper) all this is happening just ahead of, to concurrently with, the arrival on Mars. Should have woven it in, but instead am 'catching up' the other story lines now. Thanks for the reviews, which I promise to return in kind, and soon. Been a very weird month...
54
Unanticipated difficulties arose. Gordon Tracy was not a computer. He had no hard drive to reformat; no code to patch. Just organic 'wet-ware' featuring 3-D wiring contacts more numerous than stars and worlds in all the observable heavens. Worse still, his logic and memory systems were partly electrical in nature, the rest chemical and quantum. It was far removed from her own system of coherent sodium atoms and super-cooled spintronics; slower, but with shades of nuance and emotion Five couldn't begin to approach without a human interface. Nor did the confusion end there.
Lacking John Tracy's rigid security protocols, 4.0 had allowed an unchecked chemical wave to do virus-like damage to internal data storage. Nevertheless, Five did what she could.
She certainly had precedent. Once, an 8-year old Gordon had been awakened by his mum in the dark hours before morning. Gathering him up in his blanket by the dim glow of the night-light, she'd started for the half-open bedroom door. He'd wakened just a bit, enough to shift and mumble in her slender arms. Desperately tense, Kathleen had attempted to shush her young son.
"Hush, Luv. Very quiet, now; we're leavin'."
Blurry and stuporous, he'd objected,
"But, Mummy... what about school?"
There had already been so many.
"We'll find you another one, Little Man," she whispered back, no more than a nervous silhouette and a choking-tight clutch. "Tomorrow, or the next day; m' word on it. Hush, now."
Out of the flat, then; through the main door, and on to the damp curb, where a car was parked, engine idling, headlamps off. He'd been placed in the back seat, buckled in, and told with a soft kiss to go back to sleep.
Too familiar with the routine to complain, he'd nodded off again, knowing that she'd drive whilst he slept, and that morning would find them somewhere new, and safer.
Spain, real time, some days later:
His teammates and coaches soon noticed a change in behavior. Gordon seemed much quieter, less prone to mischief and rebellion than usual. They put it down variously to jet lag, or the general 'flu-ish-ness' associated with gene-doping shots... except that the effects didn't seem to ebb.
Gordon's swimming and concentration improved tremendously. After viewing a number of recordings, and hearing McMahon detail all of the many deficiencies in his form, he hit the pool, and after two laps corrected each and every flaw. His times dropped, and so did the jaws.
His personality all but vanished, however, as did his interest in females, and ability to grasp the point of a joke. Just at the moment, nothing much was funny, and nothing seemed to matter but meeting his coach's expectations. McMahon was deeply gratified, and rather concerned.
Later that week, the men's swim team gathered with other European athletes in the main auditorium, to watch the first manned landing on Mars. They had more than a casual interest in the matter, as the European Union had a mission of their own on the launch pad, and Gordon Tracy's brother, John, was aboard the American ship; its pilot, in fact.
As WNN cut back and forth to Cindy Taylor in Houston, Poul Clarke on the International Moon Station, and a panel of space program experts in the studio, the massed coaches and athletes cast frequent, furtive glances at Gordon. The red-haired teenager sat still and quiet during the entry blackout, seemingly unconcerned by the crew's long silence.
Talking heads and reporters explained in detail how speed and super-heated gases interfered with communications, while an on-screen display ticked off the minutes. Finally, Commander McCord responded to NASA's hail, setting off cheers and celebrations the world over. WNN: Espana cut to an interview with Captain Irina Poriskova, Kuiper's mission commander.
The straw-haired, raw-boned Russian laughed aloud, congratulating NASA, and vowing that the European Space Agency would soon join their American comrades for phase two of the planned Mars colony.
"This is historic moment for all humankind, everywhere," she said proudly, grey eyes beaming through genuine, joyful tears. "On all three worlds that we have set our mark, Earth, Moon and Mars, there is no stranger now, no enemy. All have won 'space race' this day. And, to Commander McCord, I say; 'Piotr, I am very much owing to you that drink'!"
Irina Poriskova wasn't a conventionally pretty woman, or a young one, either, but warmth, charm and ease of command had made her extremely popular, even so. Like Pete, she had loads of personality and a certain fondness for alcohol.
Coverage shifted back and forth, but almost no one left the cavernous auditorium, not wishing to miss the first 'Mars walk'. With 20-minute transmission delays, there was a lot of dead air to fill, so experts and relatives were dredged up from everywhere, and common folk interviewed from Staten Island to Kinshasa. It was a giant, world-wide party, one Gordon Tracy seemed utterly oblivious of. Sitting in the front row, flanked by Royce Fellows and Coach McMahon, he was as calm and unmoved as though watching another tape of his own swimming performance.
His coach leaned over slightly, about an hour into the assembly, and murmured in a gravely, smoke-roughened voice,
"There's no one 'll think less o' you f'r crackin' a smile, lad... That bein' y'r brother up there, an' all."
Gordon turned his head to regard Kevin McMahon, something swift and unnameable flickering through his hazel eyes. He smiled once, saying,
"Hysterical joy often follows a period of uncertainty, and expressions of relief and happiness are expected. The reminder is appreciated."
Then, he gave his startled coach a very quick, rough embrace. McMahon pulled free and reached for his antacid tablets (never far away), wondering just how much odd behavior he was willing to tolerate in return for record-setting swim times. Medal count, or mental health?
Medals, he decided.
Swallowing three of the chalky, soothing tablets, McMahon turned his attention back to the view screen and swore off personal observations.
Royce was nowhere near as sanguine, though, nor Alan Tracy, either. Best friends and brothers were a lot less easy to fool.
Washington, D.C., a smallunderground survival bunker-
The senator might have hated technology, but he was wise enough to know that, applied properly, it contained the seeds of its own destruction. He was also wise enough to locate someone capable of manipulating the insidious tech; in this case, a very good, very expensive hacker.
The fellow was thin, brown-haired and pasty, with nervous gestures and a rather secretive, coded manner of speaking. His internet screen name (the one he admitted to, anyway) was 'Shr3ddr'.
He'd been hired by go-betweens, given encrypted orders from sources that changed every time. Very mysterious, and lucrative, too... if he could just come up with the required data.
His hidden employer needed a name, and identity. He (or she) wanted the leader of International Rescue, and was willing to pay handsomely for any information Shr3ddr could dig up. Only trouble was... there didn't seem to be any. One avenue after another was explored. Sendmail, FTP, trace routes, web searches and 'pinging'... he tried them all, running into one brick firewall after another. IR's system administrator was damn good, whoever he was. Finally, after the third sleepless night spent hunched over a greenish-pale computer screen, Shr3dder punched in a query that got a response, a swift and savage port scan.
Interesting. He backed off a bit, switched boxes, and tried another tack. This time, something seized his computer. A total systems crash occurred, hard drive frying beyond hope of repair. The screen went black, and then a single word appeared, in blinking white letters: ">Stop".
Angry now, the hacker tried hitting a few keys, mumbling curses under his sour breath. The word disappeared, only to be replaced by a single, chilling question.
">Would you like to take this outside?"
It was several seconds before Shr3ddr remembered to breathe. He'd been an MIT student, himself, but once, long ago, he'd gotten on a Princeton chat site and started messing around a little. Nothing serious, as he'd thought, just a few thousand repetitive emails and suggestions to some of the female screen names. One of them must have had a boyfriend, though, because he'd been hit with exactly the same warning sequence. Back then, he'd blown it off, even returned the challenge. But, outside turned out to be very serious, indeed. Somehow, a WorldGov security satellite had 'misfired', lasering a giant hole through his (suddenly uninsured) car. Other stuff, information about his many traffic violations and computerized grade altering scams had then become public knowledge. In effect, he'd been ruined; forced to leave school.
Shr3ddr sat back in the cramped, dark little survival bunker, thinking furiously. Same guy, had to be. Princeton... Around 2061... Male student, for certain... in the math, computer or science department...
Almost invisible in sudden near-blackness, with the ice-white query reflecting from the lenses of his round glasses, the hacker nodded to himself.
"You've just made your first mistake, friend."
With any luck at all, it would also prove to be the last.