Wrote moving introduction first three times; got kicked off,
keeping it short now. Thankyou to Tikatu, Trekker,
Varda's Servant, Agent Five and I'mpekable. Always glad of
input. Yes, will soon be done, hopefully not "TBC" mode. Reading
and reviewing others straightforwardly, I promise!
57
The problem was a missing computer intelligence, one that must be lured forth and contained, before she could be reasoned with. So, second stage planning went something like this:
At breakfast the following morning, in the underclassmen's dining hall, Fermat, Daniel and Sam agonized their way through the headmaster's long, droning prayer (gratitude, basically, and the importance of hard work). Finally, they mouthed their 'amens', sat down in precise unison with 422 other boys, and returned to the problem of Five.
"As... I s- see it," Fermat whispered, leaning over so far that his glasses steamed, and the end of his red silk tie dangled in his scrambled eggs, "It's mostly... a... a matter of verisimilitude."
"Explain," Sam demanded, keeping his voice as low as possible. The elegant, wood-paneled dining hall was quite crowded, but conversation the merest low buzz. No one raised his voice at mealtimes. Proctors and tradition made certain.
Daniel, diverted by the meticulous construction of a toast and bacon sandwich, seemed hardly to be listening.
"If... we c- can... can come up with a scenario that... that seems perilous enough, involving... someone sh- she simply won't... won't allow harm t- to come to, Five will... rise to the bait, Sam."
"It's a computer," his friend grunted, around a mouthful of cantaloupe, "It'll accept as fact whatever scenario we input."
"Y- yes," Fermat agreed, "For... about an attosecond. She's t- too smart to be... be fooled for... long."
"Why 'Five'?" Daniel wondered aloud, suddenly, eyes on his masterpiece. "Boring name for a computer, isn't it? Why not 'Steeler', or 'Hal', or 'Braniac', or 'Uniblab', or 'Hactar', or... 'Deep Thought', for that matter? Why just a number? Not very imaginative, as far as I'm concerned. I mean, the list of potential names goes on and on, so why...?"
The answer was quite logical, but Fermat couldn't reveal it without heavily compromising IR security. Fortunately, Sam thought he already knew.
"Version Five, Smart One! Not everyone names their computers after sports teams and sci-fi characters. Think about it."
Short and sharp, but Daniel seemed satisfied, taking an enormous bite of his bacon sandwich by way of reply. Fermat's sigh of relief was lost amid the chink and clatter of silverware on Spode China. He plunged on, murmuring a quick 'thank you' when Will Lattimer passed him the juice pitcher.
"At... any rate, w- what we have to do is... confuse and a- alarm her, just... long enough to m- make Five investigate our c- containment unit."
As Fermat had explained, the computer's original 'housing' had been destroyed some time ago. That should have been the end of Five. Should have been. But John Tracy had written a subroutine that allowed his computer to parse herself to many different locations, just in case. The instant before the space station disintegrated, John had signaled her remotely, permitting Five to seek refuge elsewhere. Now, though, she'd simply vanished, and the trick would be getting her to show herself, recombine and enter the rigged computer. Once located and 'pinned', her actual reprogramming ought to be trivial. In theory, at least.
"Sam, if... you c- can... juice up a computer, and... pack it with... all the storage c- capacity... known to... man, we'll have our... 'container'. Daniel... make up some kind of... v- video game apocalypse s- scenario... involving John Tracy, and a really... nasty b- bad guy. We're going for... s- seamless illusion and... maximal drama, here. C- can't give her... time to th- think. She's never r- run a game, th- that I know of, so... she shouldn't immediately... de- detect the... fraud."
"How about the Hood?" Daniel offered, eyes lighting up at the prospect of a true design challenge. "He's a back-orifice-and-a-half! No one's seen him in awhile, either, so I could work up a really sinister revenge plot, kind of like when he took those Rescue guys hostage. Remember that? Question is..." he trailed off momentarily, troubled by a possible logic flaw. "Why would the Hood pick on a harmless astronaut/ hacker guy?"
Choosing the better part of valor, Fermat gulped a mouthful of bland eggs (oh, for Kyrano, or Grandmother Tracy...!) then resumed talking.
"You'll th- think of something, Daniel. Whenever it's... good enough to...fool a really smart computer... load it on flash-drive and g- give it over. I'll code it. We... can upload f- from Sam's 'container' PC, then yank internet access when... when she bites. And p- presto, one... bottled genie!"
Pleased with their game plan, the boys slapped palms over the elegant table settings in a boisterous, three-way salute.
Will Lattimer glanced over, pale-haired and scornful. To his own old-money friends he muttered,
"Computer geeks... what else would you expect?"
He and several other boys snickered loudly, until Sam leaned over and stage-whispered,
"If I were you, Will, I'd be worrying about Lacrosse. I hear that St. Peter's has snared an Olympic champion to coach their team this year. But, hey, it's all about good, clean fun... not winning. Right?"
Sam had hardly finished speaking before Will (and every other lacrosse player within earshot) hauled out his cellphone to call 'daddy'. If St. Peter's could hire an Olympian, then, by God, Wharton should have twenty!
Smiling quietly, Sam lifted his hands, intoning,
"My work here is done. Go wield your netted sticks in peace, larval ones."
Fermat stifled a grin. With just seven minutes of morning break remaining, he had to eat and talk. Fast.
"W- we'll... split up after... after last session, to w- work on our... separate projects. Then... d- dinner together, and... a meeting 'below'. Sound like a... plan?"
The other two nodded, Daniel Solomon taking a giant swig of milk and concluding with,
"Just wait, guys. It's going to be exponentially cool. I'll have that computer absolutely convinced that John Tracy is back on Earth, and in the deadliest trouble anyone's ever seen. She'll spit her chips, guaranteed."
Madrid, Spain-
For a time, he wandered aimlessly, passing along the Prado, the broad plazas and museums, Mare Nostrum, and about twenty open-air markets. Narrow, tree-lined streets boasted dance clubs, stores and outdoor cafes in plenty, but none of these held much interest, at the moment.
Instead, as clarity and purpose returned, Gordon found his path gradually turning back 'round. Not to the water sports area, though. His walk ended west of the natatorium, by a set of sweeping steps leading to the gymnastics center, at the sunny corner of San Isidro and El Salvador. Big building, it was, fronted in pink granite and draped in colorful flags.
For just an instant, the image of TinTin Kyrano came to him, wearing a necklace he vaguely recalled giving her. But... they were just good mates, weren't they? Why would TinTin care if he called on another lass? Why should it mattter if she did?
The young swimmer hesitated, fists shoved deep in the pockets of his blue-and-gold team jacket. Ought he to go in? And would she be happy to see him? (More likely heave something hard and heavy at him, but he'd never learn which, just standing there.)
The gusty breeze, dancing leaf shadows and car horns provided no insight. Someone bumped him in passing, muttering,
"Yo ciento,"
...an apology Gordon returned without even looking around. The hurried pedestrian had knocked him slightly toward the gymnasium. Taking this for a sign, the teenaged boy squared his shoulders and started on up the stairs.
Through two sets of doors he went, showing a highly suspicious guard his athletic pass (and his limited command of Spanish). Fortunately, the fellow recognized him. For an autograph and a team pin, he let Gordon through.
After the dazzling light and noise of the street, the gym's interior seemed cool and dim, though far from quiet. Very different, it was. Very alien. Instead of shouts, whistles and splashing, there were clipped commands and the constant, wince-inducing slap of flesh against mats and bars. (Like a non-stop chorus of belly flops...)
The smell filling the chilly air was that of chalk dust, perfume and sweat, rather than chlorine and zinc oxide. The coaches seemed quiet and intense, hardly shouting at all, except to make themselves heard.
The building consisted mainly of one vast room, with a row of office doors just visible on the brightly-painted far wall. Flags swayed from the high ceiling (one twisting by a single support), and busy, ant-like activity was everywhere.
Gordon stepped further within, looking about at the many slim, athletic figures that leapt, twisted and bounced from equipment as varied as their exercises. Besides the floor mats, there were rings, balance beams, and the uneven bars (at the lasses' end, at least; Gordon had very little interest in what the men might be about, or what they were doing it on).
He was looking for a female gymnast, one he'd met in Portland, what seemed like decades ago. Unfortunately, he had no assurance that she'd be practicing today. Entire visit might be a bloody waste of time, for all Gordon knew...
Then he spotted her, working at her floor exercises on a big, square mat. Small and pretty in a blue-and-gold leotard, Anika Peralta flitted like a swallow. She skimmed the red mat rather than touched it, turning flawless handsprings and mid-air somersaults. It was flight and dance, together, like synchronized swimming without the water, and Gordon was as transfixed here, as he had been at the Portland Olympics.
Music transmitted through a small ear-piece provided her rhythm, but the rest was pure, athletic poetry. Anika was grace personified; lovely as a snowflake. Gordon watched for awhile, quiet and unmoving. Then, at the finish of a leaping split, she noticed him. Immediately, the exercise changed, as the girl shifted from practice to performance. Saucy head tosses, swift, over-the-shoulder smiles and redoubled energy (all directed at him) won the lithe young gymnast much more than a gold medal.
She ended the exercise at the exact center of the mat, arms dramatically raised, head lifted proudly, then bowed once, in Gordon's direction. He applauded, not sure if she could hear him over the ear-piece.
Not important, as it turned out. Smiling excitedly, Anika scampered over, pulling up short directly before him with a deep breath and a joyous bounce. She'd made her flying dance seem effortless on the mat, but, up close, Gordon could see perspiration beading her forehead.
Big, clear green eyes filled with light and mischief, wavy, pale-brown hair caught back like a ballerina's, and a sinewy-slim body completed the picture.
"Gordon!" She exclaimed, mispronouncing his name (too much emphasis on the first syllable, but he didn't really mind). "You didn't say you are going to come!"
She made a little phone gesture with one hand at the side of her head. She was always talking with her hands that way, rapidly and excitedly. Rather charming, that.
"Um... well," (He hadn't known himself, until a few minutes before, but it seemed wiser not to say so.) "...I thought I'd just... surprise you."
"Then, you have done well, because I am very surprising... surprise-ish?" Anika trailed off, confused.
"Surprised," Gordon helped out. After all, considering that most Madrillenos would happily have paid him off not to speak their language, he had no right to feel superior. Anika darted forward, giving him the swiftest and tightest of hugs, and unleashing several, very pleasant, memories.
She'd medaled twice at the Portland Olympics, and Gordon had been at the sidelines both times; her 'luckiness', as she claimed... and afterward, damn, but it had been a trial, finding a private spot.
It was at this point, precisely, that Gordon noticed someone else. A man. Though, on second look, how he'd missed the fellow in the first place, he had no idea. It was a coach. A big one. Like a dockside warehouse with fur, or a grizzly bear with a whistle, blue eyes and a migraine. There was something familiar about him, but...
"Bela!" Anika chirped at the hairy mountain, as it lumbered up. "Look! Here is Gordon!"
Then, turning back to the nervous swimmer,
"Gordon, you remember Bela Stepanovic, yes? My coach?"
Ah, yes. Bela. He'd put on a few (hundred) pounds. Steroids, maybe? Gordon was in the habit, on meeting another man, of sizing the fellow up, determining before hand how hard it would be to take him down, and whether a teammate or two might be required to get the job done. This guy... tranquilizer gun, from about 150 meters, and deep cover.
Bela scowled, staring hard at Gordon, who felt extremely compact, suddenly, and very respectful.
"This is boy, from Olympics?" The dark-haired titan demanded. He spoke to Anika, though his eyes never left Gordon's face.
"Yes!" she replied, seemingly oblivious to the tension between the coach, and Gordon Tracy. "He has come for the practice, for surprising me, and I am..."
"You cry for three months after Olympics," Bela cut her off, his scowl deepening, his heavy dark brows colliding like thunderheads.
Yes, well... he'd meant to call, but matters had quickly become more convoluted than Gordon could possibly explain. Perhaps this was all a giant mistake? But Anika put a hand on his arm, shooting her coach a fierce look.
"Bela, stop!" Giving his arm an apologetic squeeze, she continued, "I was not crying after the Olympics! I was... I had... allergies!"
Stepanovic mumbled something dark and unfathomable in his own harsh language. Might have been just a recipe, or an invitation to tea, but it certainly didn't sound that way.
Elephant gun, Gordon amended his earlier assessment, from Thunderbird 2.
Anika pulled him slightly away from her suspicious coach, attempting to change the subject.
"You came only for to see me?" the girl asked, gazing at him with as hopeful a pair of green eyes as Gordon had ever seen. Her heart-shaped face, with its broad forehead, kittenish chin and full lips, just about glowed.
"Yes, actually. I've a bit of time t' myself today, and I... wondered whether you might not, after practice, want to... see a film, or something? Together, I mean. With me."
Must've said something right, because he got a quick kiss for it. Then, the girl made a sudden leap and whirl that left her facing the smouldering coach.
"Bela...?" she pled, tipping her head up to regard her massive guardian.
It was to Gordon he spoke, rather than Anika. Leveling a huge, hairy-knuckled finger at the swimmer's broad chest, he snapped,
"You are returning her by curfew, or swim team is finding new boy! And then, you are remembering to call. If Anika is made once more to cry, I will be tearing you in small pieces, to step on and sweep in gutter."
Wonderful gentleman. Salt of the Earth.
"Bela...!" The gymnast raged, face red as the floor mat.
Surly and suspicious, her coach muttered further imprecations into his dense walrus mustache, but relented. He knew when he was beaten.
Sensing victory, Anika seized Gordon's right hand in both of her own, and tugged him off. Energetic as a cricket, she made him feel positively sedate.
"I will go now, for a shower, and to get painted and dressed. Wait here. Right here. I am running, see?"
This last, delivered over one shoulder as the girl sprinted her way to the locker rooms. Anika was a typical Catalan, by turns imperious, quixotic and tender. He wasn't quite certain what his feelings for her were, not yet; but, Gordon very much looked forward to finding out.
Washington DC, far below ground-
Shr3ddr checked the steel door again, then crossed the bunker to his computer station, troubled by circular, worrisome thoughts. He'd made further progress, but the going was tough, the data difficult to extract. Quietly, anyhow.
What he'd taken to calling 'the Princeton Gang' had started out innocently enough; mischievous exploits launched against Harvard, Yale, MIT and Empire State University. The sort of prank that resulted in Harvard's carillons being reprogrammed to play the Princeton fight song, for instance. Or the office lights on all four sides of MIT's administration building being tampered with, so that the pattern of lit and dark windows formed the image of a tiger (Princeton University's mascot). Annoying, but relatively harmless. Then, something had happened.
The group had become quieter, their 'steps' much harder to trace. And the thrust of their exploits shifted suddenly from dumb pranks to high-tech international data-mining, and industrial espionage. Then, less than a year later, it was all over. Their apparent leader had fallen to the feds, while the rest of the group ceased operation, but remained free, all but disappearing from the web.
Not a very tight-knit bunch, were they? To not even set up a 'Release Racer X' site? Damn disloyal, in fact. And the $64,000 question was, why?
After probing Princeton's admin files, scouring the freshman 'Face Book', and sifting through Campus Security's secret archives, Shr3ddr began to develop a theory.
One of their professors (this 'Racer X') must have singled out his most gifted students, then spent some time gathering information on their backgrounds and activities; enough, the hacker assumed, to blackmail them into doing what he wanted. Having put them in harness, he'd then used his 'captive' students to steal valuable data for him, until, somehow, he got caught.
In the aftermath, the group had evaporated... almost. One of them was still active, his exploits grown so quick and powerful that he could scarcely be detected, much less caught. Whoever he was, he'd somehow gone on to land a position with International Rescue. Obviously well versed in avoiding detection, he was cagey enough to operate out of many different computers, and mask his identity. Under stress, though, he'd reverted to his college MO, delivering a serious threat, and what should have been a clear 'finger print'. No such luck.
Swigging a power drink, and plucking at his lower lip, Shr3ddr slumped deeper into the padded computer chair, and tried to think matters through.
Did he really want to strap this guy on, again? Another glance at the locked doors answered his question, hard and swift as a fist. For two days now, the usual supplies had failed to come. Nor had he been allowed out of the bunker.
Shr3ddr wasn't a fool. The implication was clear; cough up the goods on International Rescue, or rot here, alone and forgotten. That morning, obviously intended to heighten his concerns, the power had cut out, leaving the hacker in absolute blackness for over 30 minutes. He'd spent the next hour and a half bringing his computers to life, again, and jacking back in. His employer, it seemed, was becoming impatient.
And so, back to business. He returned to clicking through the Face Book, aggravated to think that one of those smirking, secure bastards was his quarry. Daddy's pampered little Ivy League boy... But, which one?
There were two obvious solutions to the puzzle. Racer X was one of them, but with Interpol now holding the other end of the man's leash, Shr3ddr chose to inquire elsewhere.
The other possibility, that of identifying one of the group members, then finding the rest by association, would be much harder. Safer, though. And, ultimately, the hacker preferred to come out of all this rich, free, and alive.
W3bh3ad... DNC... Backslash... Anarchick... Razr404... Kryptoni3n... D-Day... One of them held the golden ticket to International Rescue's leader, and the hell out of this underground cell.
"Sorry, Thunder-kiddie," the hacker mumbled, though he wasn't. Not really. "Even if you didn't deserve 100 percent of what's coming to you, you're standing between me and the door. Let's play, little fellow."
Elsewhere:
It was a nice day for a yellow-brown, Martian sunrise, and a trip out of doors. Grocery shopping, the NASA way...