The Secret Diary of Cameron Baum
TUESDAY (cont)
"Let's get this straight - you're saying someone laid a trap for you?"
"Yes. Someone learned I hacked the LAPD mainframe computer and knew which files I would attempt to access."
John, his mother and I are seated at the kitchen table. It is late evening. Mia is upstairs in bed asleep. Snowy lingers in the doorway staring up at us. He associates sitting at the table with the consumption of food and is hopeful of being tossed some tidbits. He is destined to be disappointed; no one is in the mood for eating. This is a council of war not a fast food franchise.
"How?" Sarah Connor demands. "You told us your spybot was undectectable."
"It is. Normally."
"Was it your kind?"
"No. The trap was too crude. I believe the enemy spybot was human in origin."
"Maybe our old friends at the NSA," John surmises with a grimace. "But how did they know what you did? Aren't we the only ones who knew about the hacking?"
I stay silent. This is not strictly true. There is one other person.
Eleanor Ryan.
Mad Ellie must have blabbed.
Fortunately Sarah Connor ignores my silence and asks, "How close did they come to finding us?"
"If the information was transmitted in real time then they reached the Santa Monica node and no further. "
"So they'll know we're back in town. We might have to move again."
"Santa Monica's a big place, mom. I doubt they have the resources to go door to door. Mia's settled in school and is making friends. It'll be a huge upheavel to move again. And they'll be looking for three people not four. And a dog," he adds smiling at Snowy who has finally given up any lingering hope of being fed and slopes off to join Mia upstairs, tail drooping forlornly.
"We won't be much use to that girl if we're all in custody. Can they trace us again once the system's back online?"
"You don't understand," I explain. "When I self-destructed my spybot it destroyed the entire system. The LAPD computer database no longer exists as a functioning entity."
"Oh man," John shakes his head. "That's a huge breach of security. They're not gonna be able to cover that up. It'll leak out for sure.
-0-
WEDNESDAY
John's prediction proves correct. The hacking of the LAPD computer system and its subsequent destruction is the lead item on most news channels - except E!Online which leads with some actress being photographed sans underwear. Priorities.
"Told you," John says as the drama unfolds. "I wonder who they'll blame?"
On CNN the Police Commisioner is shown arriving at City Hall to be instantly besieged by reporters yelling and demanding answers he is evidently ill-prepared to give.
"Commisioner, does this mean prisoners in custody pending trial will have to be released because the evidence to convict them no longer exists?"
"That's blatant scaremongering. The public can rest assured that anyone deserving of jail will stay right where they are. Backup procedures are in place. The wheels of justice will continue to turn, albeit more slowly."
"Commisioner, doesn't that leave the City wide open to wrongful arrest suits?"
"This is an unprecidented event. I ask for everyone's forebearance in these trying times."
"Commisioner, was this a deliberate cyber attack on the justice system?"
"The FBI will conduct a full and far-reaching investigation. I can't make idle speculation at this juncture."
"Commisioner, is it true the President has summoned the Chinese attache to the White House?"
"No comment."
"Commisioner, is this a escalation of what some sources are calling organised cyber-bullying by rogue states hostile to our country?"
"That's all, gentlemen. You'll have more when we know more. Good day."
The Police Commisioner heads inside City Hall and the scene switches back to the studio where myriad talking heads discuss what they know, which is very little, and what they think they know, which is a great deal. China appears the mosy likely culprit. China, the emerging superpower that is slowly and surely supplanting the incumbent, the United States. Envy and resentment stoke the rampant xenophobia. Both superpowers are unaware of a third, Skynet, which will ultimately crush them both.
"You've certainly put the cat among the pigeons", Sarah Connor comments wryly. She probably expects me to point out there are no cats present. Or pigeons. I remain silent. My database informs me this is an expression denoting chaos. Another would be a spanner in the works. A fox in the henhouse. The Pope in the woods. No, that last one means something else entirely. I delete it from the list.
"They know we're back in the city. And we've lost our first line of defence." John takes Cameron subprime's chip out and rolls it back and forth between his fingers. Lately he has begun carrying it around with him like a talisman. A version of my life is literally in his hands.
"I still think what's on this chip is important. Why elese would it be hidden? If we only knew someone we could trust who could help me break the encryption."
"I may know someone," I admit.
"You do? Who?"
"David Ginsberg."
"Ginsberg? The software billionaire?"
"He wasn't rich when I met him."
"When was that?"
"1969. At Woodstock."
"You were at Woodstock? The music festival?" The incredulity in Sarah Connor's voice is palpable. "Did you wear flowers in your hair?"
"Daisies. It was important to look the part. Humans put great stock in first impressions."
"Why Woodstock?" John asks.
"I required help constructing the spare time travel mechanism."
"How'd you know Ginsberg could help you?"
"Because you told me I would find him at Woodstock and he could help me."
"I did? But how do I..." John voices trails off. "I know because you told me. Right now. This is you telling me."
"It is the most likely explanation," I concede.
John taps some commands into his laptop. "According to Wikipedia, Professor David Ginsberg lives in Palm Springs, not some tax haven overseas. The bad news is he's a recluse; he sees nobody and no one sees him."
"I think he will see me."
"It's been 42 years, he might not even remember you."
"I think he will."
"How so?"
"I am hard to forget."
FRIDAY
"Wow. That dress is...wow." John grins broadly, examining at my new dress from top to bottom. This doesn't take very long since the hemline barely covers my hips.
"It is the type of dress I wore in 1969," I explain. "I thought it appropriate."
"It's many things but appropriate isn't one of them."
We are standing on the sidewalk outside the safe house. Parked at the kerb is a rented Mercedes sedan, ours for the journey to Palm Springs since the Suburban is required for the school run. It is just after sunrise. The intention is to make an early start.
Mia and Sarah Connor emerge from the house to see us off. Mia smiles gleefully at my attire.
"Look at Cameron's dress! You can almost see her noo-noo!" She giggles. "I said noo-noo!" She sniggers as is her wont when anything vaguely rude is uttered.
"No flowers in your hair?" Sarah Connor smirks.
"None. However, I could always pick some daisies if-"
"Joke."
"Oh. I see. You are mocking my garb because you feel it is anachronistic."
"What's anachronistic mean?" Mia asks.
"From another era," John explains. "Girls used to wear miniskirts like this back in the 60s."
"I wanna a miniskirt!"
Sarah Connor rolls her eyes. "Here we go..."
"I wanna a miniskirt so short it nearly shows my noo-noo!" More giggles. "I said-"
"We heard you."
"My friend Megan says if a boy sees your noo-"
"Yes, I think we've heard quite enough words of wisdom from your friend Megan."
"Megan's totally phat," Mia insists.
"That means she's cool not overweight," I explain for Sarah Connor's benefit. She ignores me.
"At school Megan was voted the girl most likely to get knocked up. What's that mean?"
"It means you should think about finding some new friends."
"What were you voted most likely?" John asks.
"Most likely to be a model. Though Emma Van Buren said I'm most likely to be a housemaid, then she and her snooty friends all laughed. Was she being mean? Is it because I'm latino? Should I pound her?"
"Yes. Yes. And no. She's a stupid girl. You don't need to get into trouble because of her."
"Anyway, I don't wanna be a model."
"Pleased to hear it," Sarah Connor says approvingly.
"I wanna be a gunrunner like Papa!"
"Oh dear Lord..."
"We'd better get going," John announces. He gets into the Mercedes. I join him. "Where's Snowy? Isn't he gonna see us off?"
"He's in the backyard," Mia explains. "He's having a staring contest with the cat next door."
"Mr Tibbles?" I ask.
"Yeah. Snowy says Mr Tibbles keeps cheating though."
"How does a cat cheat..? Wait. I don't want to know." Sarah Connor shakes her head ruefully. "Talking dogs and cheating cats. Please hurry back. Let's go inside, Mia."
"Why can't I go to Palm Springs?"
"Because it's a school day."
"Will you bring me back a present?"
"Sure thing, munchkin," John assures her.
"And Snowy? He doesn't like to be left out."
"Sure, Snowy too. Be good. And if you can't be good-."
"-don't get caught!" Mia finishes for him, laughing.
-0-
PALM SPRINGS (The Present
Palm Springs is located 110 miles from LA, a straightforward three hour journey on Interstate 10.
"Never been to Palm Springs before," John confides as he steers the Mercedes towards the off-ramp.
"I have."
"Yeah? How come?"
"Obeying your orders."
"Ah. The future..."
"The future," I confirm. "Palm Springs is a resistance stronghold, straddling the supply lines south and east. Many lives will be lost in its defence."
John doesn't reply. His hands grip the steering wheel more tightly and his lips compress to a thin line. He hates to be reminded of his future self: Judgement Day might be inevitable and he will have no option but to assume the mantle destiny has chosen for him - mankind's last and best hope.
This is a place of extreme heat and dryness, yet human skill and ingenuity have tamed the harsh landscape and transformed it into...golf courses. They line the freeway as far as the eye can see, and my eye can see a very long way. It seems an odd use of technology to cater to a pastime whereby a small rubber ball is struck by metal sticks into arbitrarily dug holes in the ground. Humans adept at this are rewarded with fame and great wealth, revered by the general populace above doctors, teachers, soldiers and scientists, who would seem more worthy of such largesse. Even John struggles to explain this to me, let alone justify it. Humans are just too weird sometimes.
Something about the topography of the landscape, specifically one of the golf courses and the trio of sandtraps that guard one of the holes, triggers my memory retrieval software. I extract the kernal and the memory begins to playback in my sensorium.
PALM SPRINGS (The Future)
I am in the central sandtrap. The sand is long gone, as are the lush green fairways and carefully mown greens. The desert has returned to Palm Springs with a vengeance. The traps have been excavated so they are now many meters deep. They are caverns replete with a bofors gun anchored to the ground and pointing skywards. Tunnels connect the caverns to each other with room for living quarters and a well-stocked arsenal.
"Stretch it taut, dammit! Anything loose will flap around. The recon birds can detect the slightest movement."
I am working on the control panel of one of the bofors guns. The voice comes from above me, where resistance fighters struggle to erect camuaflauge netting in the fierce desert heat.
One of the men jumps down into the cavern, landing surprisingly lightly on his feet for such a big man. I recognise him as the platoon leader. Data on him scrolls down my HUD.
MIKEL OLSEN
AGE 28
RANK: MAJOR
PROMOTED IN THE FIELD DURING THE FIRST BATTLE OF SERRANO POINT
DECORATED FOR BRAVERY UNDERFIRE DURING THE SIEGE OF VAN NUYS
I know that John thinks highly of this man and has entrusted him with the Palm Springs command. This is a tough assignment. Conditions are harsh and the prospect of being bombed by the HunterKillers is everpresent.
Olsen is bare-chested, his upper torso bronzed by the sun and daubed with ink. Tattoos. I have overheard the female soldiers at HQ speculate that the more tattoos a man has the smaller his tool. This man has many tattoos yet the size of his tool is not in doubt. He holds it in his hand. A twelve-inch spanner.
"Man, that heat is something fierce!" he exclaims. "Don't think I'll ever get used to it. Summer's were never like this back in Maine."
"Actually, it's Fall," I point out. "The date is October nine."
"Yeah? Hard to keep track of the days. And there aren't any trees to speak of."
I decide against mentioning the equinoxes, the lowering arc of the sun through the sky, the changing starscape at night. For humans the passing of time equates to the ticking of a clock and the turn of a calendar page.
"What are you doing exactly?"
"Upgrading the targeting software," I explain. "Human reactions are insufficient to bring down an HunterKiller in attack mode."
"Takes a machine to kill a machine, huh?"
"Affirmative."
Another man emerges from the connecting tunnels. "Hey, Major, heads up. Word is HQ are sending us a tame tincan to teach us how to fight." He notices me and his voice changes, becoming more husky. "Well, hey now, lookee here. Who's this little cutiepie?"
"The tame tincan," I reply without looking round.
"Oh. Speak of the devil. No offence," he adds hastily.
"None taken."
Other men join us. Someone whistles. At me? Presumably. There is a whispered conversation. My presence is being explained. Why I'm here. Who I am.
What I am...
"Back in Kansas one of your kind infiltrated our tunnels. Killed thirty of us before we took it down."
"It's what we are designed to do." Again I don't bother looking round.
"You based on an actual person?"
"Yes."
"What happened to her?"
"She died."
Someone spits on the ground close to my boots. Deliberately close. I elect to ignore it.
I input instructions and the bofors cannon swivels round. Several of the men gasp in surprise.
"Please remain calm, " I announce. "I am merely running a simulation."
The barrels track a non-existent HunterKiller across the sky. I make further minor adjustments then end the program and reseal the control panel.
"My work here is done. I will return to HQ. The General has duties for me to perform."
"I bet he does!"
A whispered aside that provokes laughter. Finally I turn around and face the men. They fall silent. Should I administer discipline? Technically I outrank the Major since I am subordinate only to John.
The Major seems to sense the threat and places himself between me and his men. "Tell the General we'll hold the line. His southern flank is secure. We won't let anyone down."
He thrusts out his hand. The handshake ritual, used for farewells as well as greeting. John is an expert on these occasions: a firm grip, a shoulder clasp, a smile, encouraging words for the battles ahead. I attempt likewise.
"Fight bravely and die if necessary."
The Major grimaces. Several men groan. I have not found the right words. I do not have the knack.
Without further ado I climb the rough steps carved in the cavern walls and emerge into daylight. The sun is low in the west and behind causing my shadow to precede me.
I don't look back.
-0-
PALM SPRINGS (Present)
The memory playback ends. Present reality reasserts itself, supplanting the Past. Or the Future, depending on your POV.
The trio of sandtraps recede in the distance, offering no more danger than a dropped golf shot. A pair of brightly clad golfers stand in the middle of the fairway, smiling and high-fiving each other, a typically tactile human response to some small triumph. It reminds me of my botched handshake. In this timeframe the Major and his cohorts are mere children. Machines and computers are their servants and playthings. They will come to know differently.
In time...
-0-
The Ginsberg estate occupies several acres in the richest, most exclusive part of town. the streets here are wide - boulevards named after famous people I have never heard of - and lined with mature trees offering shade for the non-existent pedestrians. Anyone found loitering in this enviroment would be easy prey for the regular security patrols. The wealthy take their well-being very seriously indeed.
A sports convertible passes us, driven by a brunette chatting on a cell. John's head swivels as she goes past.
"I think that was Julia Roberts!"
"D'you know her?"
"Hardly. She's a movie star."
Good. She seemed attractive. Too attractive for my liking. With too many teeth. If Skynet had given me that many teeth I would barely be able to close my mouth.
We pull up at the entrance gates to the Ginsberg property. John rolls down the window, wincing as the furnace-like desert heat invades the Mercedes airconditioned cocoon. He depresses the intercom button set into a stone pillar. Above, a CCTV camera records our every move to unseen eyes in a building glimpsed in the distance through a shield of poplar trees.
"Hi, my name's John. I'd like to speak to Professor Ginsberg, if I may."
The reply comes immediately and isn't encouraging:
"The Professor isn't receiving visitors. Please leave at once."
John persists. "I have an old friend of his with me, if I could just-"
"No exceptions. Leave immediately or the police will be notified."
I lean over and depress the button. "Please inform Davie that Cameron Phillips is here and would like to know if 'Foxy Lady' is still his favourite song."
No answer. Is this good or bad? It is hard to tell.
"Foxy Lady'?" John asks.
"By Jimi Hendrix. It was his favourite song. He called it our song since it was playing when we met and many subsequent occasions."
"You called him Davie."
"He liked me to."
"So you must've gotten pretty close?"
"We shared a house for six weeks."
John's hands flex on the steering wheel. He seems oddly discomfited.
"So you must have...?"
"Often. It was a means to encourage him when his energy levels flagged."
More flexing, his knuckles show white through the skin. "Is something wrong?" I inquire.
."You did what you had to do. And I wasn't even born then. It's just...I hate the thought of you having sex with someone else."
"You misunderstand. I merely danced for him."
"Danced?"
"To 'Foxy Lady'."
"So there was no sex?"
"He tried once. He encountered difficulties."
"What difficulties?"
"I knocked him unconscious."
Suddenly the massive wrought iron gates begin to swing open. The driveway leading to the house lies before us.
"Guess he remembers you after all."
"I told you, I am hard to forget."
-0-
Three years ago to the week I posted the first chapter of this, thinking it would be a mildly entertaining one-off. Forty-nine chapters later...
Next: Billionaires, Woodstock and Jar-Jar Binks.