The Secret Diary of Cameron Baum
THURSDAY cont...
After her initial fury at how close we came to disaster abates, Sarah Connor is business as usual and demands a full mission debrief.
"What did you leave behind?"
John thinks for a moment. "Binoculars. Tripod. Suitcase."
"Can they trace any of it back here?"
"No way. I bought them at separate stores at least ten miles away."
"Cash?"
"Of course."
"Any witnesses at the hotel?"
"Oh plenty. Desk clerk. Bellboy. And I had to pose as a hotel employee to get the other guests to shift ass once I triggered the fire alarm."
"That was risky. Suppose it'd been wired direct to the police precinct?"
A shrug. "It wasn't so I guess we got lucky."
"We can't always trust to luck. How did Creed track you down?"
"He thought we'd make a play for the money, just like we reasoned. When the limo showed up empty he figured it all out. The hotel was an obvious place for us to be. He probably showed a picture of us to the desk clerk. We can use fake names but we can't change how we look."
Sarah Connor turns to me. "How did you know it was only a stun grenade?"
"I didn't."
"Would it have made a difference?"
"If the grenade had contained explosive powerful enough to breach my armor and rupture my fuel cell, then yes, a considerable difference."
"How so?"
"The explosion would have obliterated the entire city block."
"And my son along with it."
"Had the grenade been of the explosive type and I had done nothing then he was dead anyway. I had little to lose and much to gain by acting the way I did."
"Typical machine logic."
"Thank you."
"It wasn't a compliment."
"Creed thought we were there to kill him with a sniper's rifle," John states almost wistfully. "He got it all right except that part. And calling the room after. That was dumb."
"Dumb? He was giving you a chance to surrender."
"It was a fairly perfunctory offer and I got the feeling he didn't expect me to agree. I think it was his ego getting in the way. After all these years we've been one step ahead of him and suddenly he's got us bang to rights. He couldn't resist the urge to brag. If he'd kept his mouth shut we'd have walked right out into the trap."
"What should I do with the jacket?" I ask.
"Jacket? Oh right. Just throw it in the trash."
"And the wallet?"
"There's a wallet?"
"Inside pocket."
"Aw, man, I didn't know we took his wallet. Poor guy. We burst in just when he was...uh, enjoying some quality time with his wife."
"It was a booty call," I explain for Sarah Connor's benefit. I wink.
"Why is she winking at me?"
"Lo-ong story. Show me the wallet. Maybe there's an address in and we can mail it back."
I hand the wallet over. John picks out a small photograph and examines it. "Here's the guy. Wait...that's not the woman he was with, is it?"
He holds the picture up. I shake my head. This woman is older. With considerably smaller boobs.
"Sonofagun! He really was having a booty call!"
I wink. Sarah Connor groans and rolls her eyes. She definitely hasn't got the hang of it.
-0-
FRIDAY
Our exploits of the previous day are duly reported in the newspapers. Sort of.
Buried inside the LA Times is a short article reporting a gas leak in a downtown hotel that caused a minor explosion and a small fire. Three hundred guests and staff were evacuated while firemen brought the blaze under control. There were no casualties and the hotel reopened for business three hours later.
John throws the newspaper down in disgust. "Total coverup! There were armed soldiers on the streets of Los Angeles, only apparently no one saw or heard any of it. Creed must have the press in his pocket. If Watergate had happened on this guy's watch Nixon would still be president."
This seems unlikely since Richard Milhous Nixon died many years ago and even the most dedicated Republicans are probably loath to elect the dead to govern them.
"Would you rather our pictures were on the front cover?" Sarah Connor suggests.
"Of course not. But, jeez, you'd think someone would notice something out of the ordinary."
"Creed probably invoked Homeland Security. That's pretty much a carte blanche law to do whatever they like to whomever they don't like."
"Yeah. Maybe I can stir things up online."
John spends several hours swapping IMs with Erik, the King of Nerds, who lives in his mother's basement in Pasadena. Royalty is notoriously eccentric. Erik agrees to make Creed's involvement with the so called 'gas explosion' known to a wider audience. However he is doubtful whether this will produce any fresh leads. The conspiracy theory community are wary of discussing Creed in any detail because when they do strange things start to happen, like their ISPs suddenly cancelling their accounts for no reason. This is the one thing these people fear over all else: the denial of web access and the opportunity to share their overweening sense of paranoia with similarly minded fellows.
Erik does have some interesting other news to divulge. The Wizard, a fellow conspiracy theory adherent who concentrates on exposing the secrets and activities of the military industrial complex, is recently returned from another trip to Nevada, where the american military test their latest weapon systems.
John clicks the link Erik provides and we see for ourselves the fruits of the Wizard's clandestine trip.
On the screen is a photograph of a HunterKiller. The very latest improved and upgraded model.
One with newly a installed weapons platform.
"Oh man, it's grown!"
Considerably.
"We need to get in touch with this Wizard guy. This thing looks close to the finished product, never mind a prototype. If they've got this far with the hardware who knows how far along they are with the software."
-0-
Contacting the Wizard proves problematic. Erik has no details beyond a web eddress. He doesn't even know the Wizard's real name, or anything beyond that he is male, American and lives somewhere in California.
"That's narrows it down," John says bitterly.
Emails to the Wizard's last known eddress bounce back to sender. The Wizard it seems is a very cautious man who doesn't want to be found. Understandable, even admirable in the circumstances, but utterly frustrating.
"Dammit!"
Another web search has drawn a blank. John is exasperated and angry. First Creed and know the Wizard is proving elusive. It is time for me to make a suggestion.
"Let me do a search."
John gestures at the computer. "Be my guest."
"Not via computer. From the inside."
"Inside the laptop? Gonna be a pretty tight fit. Are you sure you've lost your christmas weight?"
"I am not joking. I want to help. And I can do that from the inside."
"Inside? Cam, you're speaking in riddles. From inside what?"
"Inside the internet."
-0-
SATURDAY
It's full of stars...
No. Not stars. Although the resemblence is uncanny. Trillions of tiny pinpricks of light all around me. Individual computers. Mainframes like swirling galaxies. ISP nodes blazing as bright as supernovas.
I am in amongst it all. Part of it yet separate. Disembodied yet whole.
I am a pinprick of light.
I move unhindered, unrecognised, along these vast canyons of light. The information highway. I am plugged in. The zeitgeist. I sing the body electric.
Whatever that means.
I am in a laptop in Hannover, Germany. Someone is booking tickets to a Bayern Munich football match.
I am in a desktop pc in Rio De Janeiro, browsing fetish porn.
I am in upstate New York, bidding on vintage vinyl records on eBay.
I am in Beijing, China, using Baidu to look up Winston Churchill.
I am in London, England, booking a budget airline flight to Malaga, Spain.
I am in Rome, Italy, donating money to a children's charity.
I am Dublin, Ireland downloading jpegs of Kelly Brook. Oh my. Got milkers? I'll say.
I know when you're being naughty - yes, I mean you, Rio De janeiro.
I know when you're being nice - kudos, Rome.
It is intoxicating. So much knowledge. All around me. Flowing past me.
Old abandoned websites are like dried and dessicated leaves lying idle and forlorn on the floor of cyberspace.
Then there are the emails.
So-oo-oo many emails.
And the spam. Like fatty deposits round an otherwise healthy human heart.
The Wizard is here. Somewhere within this vastness he has left a trail. I will follow it.
I begin at the conspiracy website where he uploaded the jpegs of the HunterKiller. He knows computers, that is for sure. He has utilised a number of proxy servers and I find myself criss-crossing the globe in his wake.
Kashmir. Tokyo. Moscow. Amsterdam. Belfast. Paris. Dortmund. Across the Atlantic and heading west. New York. Chicago. Dallas. Las Vegas. Closer now. The trail narrows. Southern California. San Diego. The north district. A block. A street. A house. A laptop.
Found you.
No.
Wait.
Something is wrong. This computer is infected with a virus, malware that permits another computer to use it externally without the real owner's permission or knowledge. What is called in the parlance, a botnet.
A dead end.
No. Follow the malware. Where did it orginate?
I head north in mere nanoseconds. The vast glowing nexus that is Los Angeles arrayed before me. It almost seems to pulse with energy, like a living entity. A billion or more connections taking place simultaneously.
I zero in. He hides I seek.
Coming.
Ready
Or not...
-0-
I open my eyes and focus on...the ceiling. I am flat on my back lying on the bed in the attic room. A white ethernet cable snakes across the floor from the broadband connection in the wall and is jacked into the back of my skull. Everything now has texture and three dimensions. There are odors. And colours. And noise. A myriad of sounds: a dog barking in the street outside. Snowy? The soft rumble of traffic on a distant freeway. Someone is using a lawnmower to cut grass. Birds sing and leaves rustle in the breeze. A clock ticks.
A face looms over me. John.
"Everything okay?"
I attempt a smile. It feels like I haven't moved in a thousand years.
"I know where the Wizard lives."
"Where?"
"Anaheim."
MONDAY
Dawn's early light. Like the song, the anthem of this nation. One day the marching tune of the Resistance.
Sarah Connor is up to see us off. Off to see the Wizard. The wonderful Wizard of ...Anaheim, not Oz. Mia is asleep in her room. She will be told some minor lie to explain our absence.
Though Anaheim isn't far away, John insists on making an early start. To beat the rush hour traffic, he claims. I suspect it is more than that. He seems energised by this new mission and eager to make up for the failure to track down Creed.
Mother and son hug their goodbyes.
"Don't take any stupid risks."
"Come on, you know me."
"Exactly."
We climb aboard the Suburban. The engine starts immediately. Of course it does. Who carries out the maintenance? Yours truly. No slacking on my watch.
-0-
The Wizard's real name is Sam Clemens. Once I have his address the rest follows easily. He is fifty-nine years old. Older than we might've suspected. He is a clever man and used his smarts in the conventional manner. College degree. Doctorate in advanced physics. A job at NASA, working as a software engineer on the shuttle program. In 2001 he appears to have suffered a crisis of faith. His wife left him and he began to rail with increasing ferocity at the lies and excesses of the military industrial complex. NASA fired him and he was arrested several times for protesting too vehemently outside military supply plants in the south and midwest. Then he reinvented himself as the Wizard and shifted his prejudices online where he found a much more conducive audience, one prepared to listen and learn and not beat him around the head with police batons. To an extent he took himself off the grid, though not as thoroughly as us or Rubin Creed. He kept his house in Anaheim and a house requires power, water, a broadband connection. These utilites tether him to the system, no matter how keenly he would prefer it otherwise. It is hard to entirely escape the clutches of modern civilization, especially if you want cable.
Anaheim. A place dominated by a mouse. Not even a real mouse at that. A cartoon approximation. Mickey Mouse. The Disney leisure park is situated here, employing thousands of people and attracting millions more as visitors. It seems an odd choice for someone like the Wizard, given his propensity for secrecy, I speculate aloud.
"I guess he feels safer if he hides in plain sight," John replies. "Plus it's kinda hard to get internet access if you live in a shack in the wilderness."
Clemens lives in a small suburban sidestreet three miles from the entrance to the Magic Kingdom. A narrow finger of tarmac road with six houses either side. Eleven of the houses have neatly manicured front lawns and tidy shrubbery. The very latest products of european and japanese automotive engineering stand sleek and expensive in their driveways.
Not so the Wizard's residence. The front yard is dusty and unkempt. The house paintwork shabby and peeling. There is an overflowing garbage can by the front gate and a rusty Ford pickup parked in the driveway. For a man trying to stay hidden his house sticks out like the proverbial sore thumb.
"At least he drives American," John quips as we stop on the opposite side of the road to observe the property. "House definitely needs a coat or two of paint."
"Or three, " I add. Yes, I can quip too.
"Okay, we want as much information on the HunterKiller as he can give us. No rough stuff. This guy's old. I don't want him flatlining because you don't know your own strength."
"He's a member of the NRA," I point out. A fact I discovered online. "If he brandishes a gun in your presence then I will intervene. It's what I am programmed to do. Protect you at all times."
"Fair enough. Let's go. Follow my lead."
We walk up the front path and onto a narrow wooden verandah. John knocks briskly on the door. No reply. More knocks, louder this time. From inside comes a muffled voice, sullen and resentful. "Go away!"
"UPS, sir. Got a parcel delivery for you."
"Leave it on the stoop."
"You need to sign for it, sir. Them's the rules."
Footsteps. A lock being undone. Several locks one after another. The door opens a crack, still tethered by the security chain. Sam Clemens aka the Wizard peers out at us. He has long straggly white hair with matching white beard, like a faintly disreputable Santa Claus.
"You're not UPS!"
Mr Clemens, if we could just have a moment of your time."
The door begins to close. I give it a mild shove. The security chain snaps and Clemens stumbles backwards. We step inside and quickly shut the door.
"If you've come to rob me you'll find little of value."
"We're not here to rob you, sir. We have a mutual friend - Erik from Pasadena?"
"I don't know any Erik from Pasadena."
"How about the King of Nerds. Ringing any bells, Wizard?"
"What is it you want?"
"Information. About this."
John produces a photograph of the HunterKiller this man uploaded to the web. A gasp of recognition he fails to suppress.
"Why should I tell you anything?"
"Because I think we share the same opinion. This is thing is a threat to national security."
"Son, that thing is national security. Or it will be once it goes into production. How did you find me anyway?"
"Wasn't easy, sir. You're a hard person to track down."
"The infected computer in San Diego," I tell him. "I traced the origin of the malware to here."
"Impossible. I've been coding since before you were born. There is no way you could make that connection. I know how to cover my tracks."
"Cameron knows computers, sir. You might say it's in her DNA." John smiles. "Let me introduce myself. I'm-"
Clemens holds up a hand. "Wait. Not here. Follow me."
We head through the house and enter a brightly lit room whose walls and ceiling are entirely covered in bacofoil.
"Interesting decor," John quips. "Now I know what an over-ready turkey feels like."
"That's five layers of tinfoil. Stops every radio wave short of neutrinos. I call it my sanctuary."
"As I was saying, I'm-"
"I don't want to know your real name. Here we use web aliases. I'm the Wizard. The boy in Pasadena's the King."
"Okay, I guess that makes me White_Knight."
"And the girl?"
"TOK 315." I smile. "You can call me Tock."
"So what do you want Knight? Tock?"
"Information, Wizard, about the HunterKiller you photographed in Nevada."
"HunterKiller? You mean the unmanned drone? Well, you came to the right place. It's my speciality, you might say."
"Specifically information on the AI they're planning to incorporate in the airframe."
"You know about that? You certainly have done your homework."
The Wizard chuckles. John waits patiently. This man clearly intends to talk, to share his knowledge.
"The AI is being developed by Cybertech Incorporated, a company based in Sacramento. Hear of it? No? Not surprised. Very hush hush. World leaders in artificial intelligence. Yet three years ago the company was almost bankrupt. A fairytale story, you might say. If the fairy was a warmongering asshole. Excuse my language, Tock."
"Who's behind Cybertech Inc?"
"The company was started nine years ago by two men, Russell Osmond and Robert Clark. College buddies. Clark was the brains while Osmond was the salesman, the one with the big plans and the spiel to go with it. Like Jobs and Wozniak. Ever hear of those fellas?"
"Everyone's heard of Apple."
"Did pretty well for a startup. Won some fat contracts from the military. Supplied ballistic missile software for the navy, as I recall. Then three years ago Clark got himself killed in a car wreck. Company was close to going under when a man named Jonathon Smith stepped up. He invested five million dollars and began writing the software. Man's a genius. No doubt about it. The stuff he's come up with is so far ahead of the competition it's not even a race. Company's now worth in the billions."
"Who is this Jonathon Smith? Where'd he come from?"
"A good question. There's virtually nothing on this guy. It's like he appeared out of nowhere three years ago."
"D'you have a picture of him?"
"Just one. It was taken when the latest AI contract was signed. I guess the Pentagon brasshats wanted a momento of the occasion. Wait a sec, I've got it here somewhere..."
Clemens delves into a file cabinet and extracts a glossy photograph. "There he is. Tall fella at the back. Can't hardly miss him."
The photo shows five men. Three are in uniforms decorated with braid and medals. The Pentagon 'brasshats' presumably. The other two men are in business suits. One is short and tubby. Osmond. The other man is tall and so musclebound his expensive suit barely contains him. He is the only one not smiling for the camera.
Jonathon Smith
Terminator, T-800 model.
"Uncle Bob," John whispers too softly for Clemens to hear.
"The airframe - what'd you call it? - HunterKiller? Yeah, I like that. Fits real good. It's due to arrive here on the coast next week."
"Here? In Los Angeles?"
"Sacramento. Cybertech have a big plant up there. They're installing the Al for the first time. After that it'll be incorporated into the Pentagon's new defence shield - Sky something or other. Say, what's the matter, son? You're all pale. You look like you've seen a ghost."
Not a ghost. The future. Fast becoming the present. The moment the AI is connected to the Pentagon's defence network it's superior software will subvert the security protocols and assume command. Every nuclear missile will come under its control.
Judgement Day is less than a week away.
-0-
When we arrive home John brings his mother up to speed with the day's events, while I have a more mundane task to perform: taking Snowy for his daily walk.
He is as excited as ever, his tiny tail wagging so fast it's a wonder he doesn't lift off like a small furry helicopter.
snowy go walksies!
"Do you promise to behave and not stop at every tree we pass?"
snowy behave! snowy behave!
Snowy breaks his promise almost immediately, his tiny brain overwhelmed by canine instinct once loose in the great outdoors. Each tree we encounter he sniffs and often leaves a brief message of his own. Where does he store all this liquid? He must have hollow legs or a bladder the size of a football.
On our return we find Mia home from school and she takes Snowy down to the basement den where they usually watch cartoons at this time of day. Snowy's favourite is Courage the Cowardly Dog. Maybe they should produce a TV show called Snowy the Incontinent Dog. A ratings winner? I think not.
John is seated at the kitchen table, hunched over a laptop screen. He waits until we can hear the sound of the TV before speaking.
"I've been researching Cybertech Incorporated. Remember Clemens saying one of the founders died in a car crash? Well, there's more to it than that. Robert Clark was killed when a stolen truck T-boned his vehicle while he was waiting at a stoplight. The truck was found abandoned two blocks away."
"Police catch who did it?" Sarah Connor asks.
"Nope. According to the report I found online they suspect joyriders."
"And you don't?"
"Who steals a fifteen ton truck in broad daylight to go joyriding? And those things need specialist driving skills. I can't see your average homie bothering."
"So what's your take?"
"I think it is was Jonathon Smith. Murder aforethought."
"Why use a truck when you can use your bare hands?"
"To make it look like an accident. A murder investigation would begin at the company and might cause problems later."
"Why murder him in the first place?"
"I'm coming to that. Clemens also said Jonathon Smith paid five million dollars for a stake in Cybertech Inc. Where does a cyborg get that kind of money? Can't bring it back from the future. So I dug a little deeper in the local newspaper archives. Two weeks after Clark's death the First National Bank of Sacramento was robbed. Five million dollars worth of Bearer Bonds stolen. Bonds are a kind of currency just like cash, better really because they take up less space. Bonds will fit in a suitcase, while five mill in cash would need a forklift to move around."
"Police know who did it?"
"Nope. The only clue is some blurry security footage taken from a speed camera on the other side of the street. It shows the thief leaving the scene. Here."
He lays a glossy 10x8 photograph on the table. Though blurry it clearly shows a tall muscular man wearing a dark leather jacket and sunglasses, despite it being the middle of the night.
Sarah Connor stares at it for several moments. "I hoped I'd never see that thing again."
"Yeah. Our old friend the T-800. Hasn't altered a bit in thirty years."
"So what's it playing at?"
"Here's how I see it. Smith kills Clark, the coding wiz, and the company almost goes bellyup. He steals five million and uses it to buy a stake in Cybertech. Plus he brings the AI software with him and suddenly the company's the Pentagon's flavor of the month."
"Why not go straight to the military in the first place?"
"They'd be suspicious if some weirdo showed up out of nowhere with this incredibly advanced tech. Cybertech had connections going back nine years, they were proven players with a decent track record. And he had the other guy, Osmond, as a front. He wouldn't have to deal with the generals face to face and could concentrate on the software for the prototype HunterKiller they're building out in the desert."
"What about this Osmond guy - is he metal?"
"No. He has a traceable history. School. College. Marriage. It's all documented online. And he's kinda short and chubby. Not your typical killing machine."
Sarah Connor gestures at me. "She's not your typical killing machine, but she does a pretty good job at it."
Is this a compliment or an insult? It is hard to tell. Considering the source it is more likely to be the latter.
"Think Osmond knows what his partner is?"
"Tough to say. If he does he's keeping quiet about it."
"Idiot."
"Well, three years ago Osmond was within days of having his house repossessed. His kids were in regular schools and he was driving a second hand Ford. Now he lives in a mansion, kids are in expensive boarding schools and he drives a customised Bentley. If he has made a pact with the Devil then he's certainly being well rewarded."
"Once that AI is connected to the Pentagon's mainframe it's game over. We need to deal with Jonathon Smith and make sure every scrap of AI software is destroyed."
"Agreed."
"Let's start prepping. We'll leave at first light."
"Uh - aren't you forgetting something?"
"What?"
"Mia and Snowy. We can't leave them here alone. And we can hardly take them with us."
"I'll call that Megan girl's parents. They took her last time."
"Mom, this isn't another sleepover. Sacramento is six hours drive away. The military plant will have armed soldiers protecting it. And we don't know whether Smith is there or in Nevada. We'll have to scope it out and prepare thoroughly. It'll take days. If we leave Mia with a bunch of strangers they'll think we've abandoned her and call social services."
"So you expect me to stay home and babysit?"
"I guess Cameron could stay if you really want to come."
Sarah Connor looks sorely tempted but finally shakes her head. "No. You'll need her if you're going up against one of them. Plus she's hopeless with that girl. She lets her do whatever she wants."
This is correct. I am a total pushover. Jelly beans and ice cream for lunch? Fine by me. Watch TV all night? No problemo. Go for it.
"We'll be okay. I'll check in every day by phone. You'll be in the loop."
A fist slams on the table. "Dammit, this is all your fault," she accuses me. "If you hadn't shot the girl's father she'd still be in Mexico."
"He intended to kill you," I point out. "Would you prefer I let him?"
"Don't get smart with me. You're too trigger-happy, that's your problem."
"In my line of work, it's considered an asset not a problem ."
An uneasy silence ensues.
"Kiss and make up?" John suggests with a smile. "No? Thought not."
-0-
Mia emerges from the basement den. "Snowy's been sick," she announces.
"Again?" Sarah Connor sighs. "What have I told you about feeding that dog candy?"
""I didn't! I think it's a furball or something."
"Ony cats get furballs, not dogs."
"Oh. Well, it's all gross and horrible."
"Then you'd better clean it up, hadn't you."
"Me? I thought you'd do it."
"He's your dog, not mine. There's rags and disinfectant under the sink."
"But it's really gross! I don't wanna!"
"Oh grow up, Mia! It's time you started facing up to your responsibilities. Before it's too late," she adds ominously before stomping upstairs and slamming her bedroom door.
"Jeez, what's wrong with Sarah?" Mia asks.
"Nothing. It's not you. It's...mom stuff."
"Time of the month?"
"March 4 Monday 6.15pm," I inform her.
Mia giggles and even John can't suppress a smile.
Was it something I said?
-0-
Bit heavy with exposition. Still, plenty of action in the next chapter.
The Wizard would be played by Gary Busey, who looks suitably bonkers. (No offense, Gaz)
'You can call me Tock.' Love that line!
The final scene will be familiar to any one who had a dog when they were a child. Clean it up? Wot, me?