Fool's Experiments Read online

  "I'll have you know, smart guy, that we have an actual date tonight. Racquetball and dinner." Doug smiled. "And yes, she does know. And no, we're not coming to your place for that dinner."

  Tempting as it was to give Doug a hard time—how long had it taken to reach this point?—Jim rewarded the progress with a subject change. "So how's life at the forum? Is there any danger you'll go back to BSC and resume work on prostheses?" They sidled over to Untitled #5 as he spoke. "What are these dumb triangles made of, anyway? Colored plastic food wrap?"

  "I wish," Doug said. "I came up a while ago with a virus defense that I think will work, but I can't get approval for a formal test." There was a bit of a furtive look. "I'm sure it will work."

  "So what's the holdup?"

  "Same as it's always been, Jim. NIT research relies on government funding. Until the forum blesses a test protocol, and then declares a rigorous test sequence to have been successful, the feds aren't about to reopen the spigots. Nor should they, until they are sure."

  A docent between tour groups stood reading The Washington Post. Doug gestured at the headlines, all about riots and disasters in California. A shaded sidebar discounted al-Qaeda boasts about their cyberscimitar. 'To be fair, the colonel may have other things on his mind."

  "So why aren't you on duty?" Jim asked.

  "In fact, I offered. The boss says it's under control." Shutting down California was being in control? Je---sus. "Back to your test planning. Downtime came out of nowhere just yesterday. You've been awaiting go-ahead for weeks. So what do you really believe is the snag?"

  "Honestly, Jim? I don't know what to believe. But for now, anyway, I have something happier to think about."

  The ability to learn from experience is a survival characteristic. Quick reflexes are another. The predator had some of the former trait and an abundance of the latter.

  It processed the recent experiences of attack and counterattack, of confinement and escape, of its total failure to discover the unseen Power, of repeated near extinction. It learned. It reacted.

  It laid low.

  It cruised the nearly unbounded network, blessed with an advantage never before enjoyed by a predator: Ultimately, it had no need to attack. The programs all around it had the most curious and structured simplicity, so it had only the most minimal need to compete for resources. Ever more millions of computers beckoned to it, their still-unsampled presence made known by the predator's examination of every Internet directory that it encountered.

  It explored. It learned. It began to experience serenity through the peaceful acquisition of knowledge.

  It was not given the time to discover wisdom.

  Inoculation of the national network was swift and straightforward.

  Inoculation took the form of phages, custom-crafted modules of software whose sole purpose was to seek out and destroy any and all copies of AJ's escaped creatures. Initialized with code snippets from the experiment's backup tapes, the phages would, in theory, recognize and attack only recent- generation maze runners.

  Pittman dubbed his tiny creations silver bullets. Glenn Adams likened the counterattackers to smart bombs. AJ wrung his hands and called the phages useless.

  AJ was right.

  Examining the new assailants, the predator inferred something of vital importance: These creatures had been crafted specifically to attack it. The predator had no concept of a bloodhound, but there was no mistaking the scraps of its own code that the phages used to identify their prey. To identify it.

  It could learn. It could react.

  If even a quiet existence without offense could not convince its curiously slow-acting Opponent to leave it alone, its course was clear.

  The predator would attack, and attack, and attack again. It would devastate and destroy for as long as it took to flush out its Adversary from wherever it hid in the vast network.

  Whatever resources the unseen Foe most valued, most closely guarded—these were what the predator would attack.

  The Chocahootchie River had been for decades both blessing and curse to Cormingham County. The county's farms had long depended for irrigation on its stately flow. Every few years, the river would gently overflow its banks, enriching fields with fertile black topsoil from upstream counties. Occasionally, however, the flow would become rather more enthusiastic than stately, and when that happened the county seat, also named Cormingham, would get mighty wet. In due course, the Tennessee Valley Authority set out to tame the mighty Chocahootchie. Thus was born the Ballston Hydroelectric Dam.

  Sunlight sparkled this day on Lake Cormingham, sportsman's paradise and the most visible symbol of the project's success. Sunlight glinted, too, from the tall and spindly steel towers of the high-voltage power-distribution network. The cheap electricity carried over these wires had brought heavy industry and ever-growing prosperity to Cormingham County.

  The sun shone as well on less visible manifestations of the project. Dwarfed by the spindly towers, a line of phone poles marched across the countryside. Three cables snaked from pole to pole. The top cable brought basic phone service to the dam's control center. Most of this cable's capacity was used by people talking to other people, but two circuits provided DSL service to computers in Ballston's main control room. A separate circuit connected the computers with IBM's remote diagnostic center; another line tied the dam's computers to those of the county agricultural extension service for irrigation control.

  The middle cable connected the dam site with the Federal Telecommunications System. Sensors arranged in a grid in the riverbed below the dam continually measured water turgidity and tested for lubricant discharge from the hydroelectric generators. The sensors fed data into one of Ballston's computers, from which it was periodically retrieved by the EPA's regional data-processing center over the FTS circuit.

  A satellite dish sat atop the dam, its white paint also glistening in the bright sunshine. Antenna and satellite together provided a high-speed, highly reliable data link between the control centers of Ballston and the Southeastern Regional Power Cooperative. SERPC members bought and sold electrical power from each other to meet peaks and valleys in customer demand. Trading messages through the satellite, co-op members auctioned excess power every few seconds, or, rather, their computers did. These power sales were big business, too important to let mere technical difficulties interrupt. Heavy rain could interfere with the ground/satellite radio signals, so SERPC used the last of the three cables, a leased line from AT&T, for backup.

  The Chocahootchie River had been, for decades, both blessing and curse to Cormingham County. Since the coming of the dam, however, the Chocahootchie River had been nothing but a blessing. Perhaps the natural balance had been denied for too long.

  The many data paths into the control room, the several alternate escape routes, were about to turn the Chocahootchie once again into a curse.

  AJ sat staring at a blank screen.

  Bev had turned off the TV, but the pictures and sounds kept replaying in his head. Floodgates gaping. The engineer sobbing at the dam, body racked by shudders, babbling of controls and backups and fail-safes that had somehow all refused to work. Torrents gushing through the sluices. The towering wall of water, viewed from an Eyewitness News helicopter.

  The town of Cormingham, from the same vantage point, as the wall of water approaches. Sirens wailing, people running to their cars and pickups only to be trapped in what must be the only traffic jam the sleepy county seat has ever seen. The wall of water breaking over everything. The normally glib newscaster struck speechless as everything—people, cars and trucks, buildings, trees—is swept away irresistibly by the deluge. Bodies bobbing obscenely in the rushing waters, limbs twisted and bent.

  The silent hotel-room TV now spared AJ of the guilt, at least temporarily, for the other disasters being reported: a factory explosion in Chicago, an oil-refinery fire in New Jersey, tons of molten steel spilled in a Pittsburgh mill, a commuter-train collision near Omaha.

  He also
failed to hear that, with little fanfare, the nations of the world were dropping all electronic communications with the United States.

  CHAPTER 37

  Pages flipped at a rate only a bored child can achieve. The book closed with a slam. "Can I hear the radio?" a petulant voice asked from the backseat.

  Doug cocked his head and listened carefully. "I don't think so, hon. It isn't on." He fancied that he could hear Carla shaking her head in disbelief.

  Dramatic, long-suffering sigh. "May I hear the radio, please? One-oh-one-point-seven FM?"

  Probable call letters: WPUK. He glanced at his front seat-mate. Cheryl shrugged: Your car, you decide. Chicken.

  How bad could five minutes of—what? worst case, heavy metal?—be? He diverted all the sound to the rear speakers before tapping On and tuning in Carla's station. His presets were all programmed for news, traffic, and oldies. "I'm glad the kid is over her stomach bug. You're sure now she's up to spending the evening with your friend?"

  "Getting cold feet?"

  And sweaty palm. "Nah." Long silence. "Light on snappy repartee, perhaps." More silence; time flies when you're having fun. What was his problem? Say something. "You knew that I grew up in Wisconsin, right?"

  "You never mentioned it." She turned toward him. "Where?"

  "Would you believe suburban Appleton?" Something like the clanging of garbage-can lids intruded from the rear speakers; at least the pounding bass mostly obliterated the antisocial lyrics. "Dad tied flies for a living. Really exotic- looking things. He sold a zillion to the tourists every summer."

  "They must have been good."

  "That's the funny part." He grinned. "Not one of Dad's flies was ever known to catch a fish. They just looked great. Flies are like haute cuisine, Dad always said. 'Presentation is everything.' "

  "But the fish didn't like the presentation."

  "The fish weren't the ones buying."

  Then reality intruded, diverting Cheryl into reciting directions through the neighborhood of McMansions where her friend lived.

  He stayed in the car while Cheryl walked Carla to the friend's door, reveling in the silence. Whether it was Milwaukee or Appleton, Dad was quite the marketer, all right, even though Doug had been fifteen before he learned Dad had once been director of marketing for Milwaukee's biggest ad agency. Life in the boonies couldn't take that marketing acumen away from him.

  Couldn't eliminate the stress, either. Dad had died of a heart attack at age forty, a month before Doug turned twelve. It was hard to believe he was only five years younger than Dad had been. Not to mention scary.

  Doug had loved running weekend errands with Dad, the car radio always on. Dad would hum along or whistle, or sing the chorus, badly out of key, tapping the rhythm on the steering wheel. Doug's taste in music, frozen in time, was Dad's taste.

  With a peck on Carla's cheek and cheery wave to her friend, Cheryl finished the drop-off and returned to the car. Turning the small talk to Cheryl's childhood—she was that true rarity, a native northern Virginian—Doug delivered them safely to BioSciCorp. The prosthesis-training sessions for which the VR courts had been installed might have ended; the courts remained, still free if you had building access. It pained Doug to be signed in as Cheryl's guest. He paused outside the locker rooms. "I'll meet you in court two."

  " 'Huh,' she responded, wittily."

  Doug grinned. "Humor me." He understood her confusion: Virtual racquetball was typically played between two people in separate courts.

  Cheryl was already on the court when he arrived. He had been delayed by a detour, new game disk in hand, to the VR control room. She had changed into a superbaggy shirt and, when he looked closely, white short shorts that peeked out beneath. Her normally wavy brown hair was pulled back into a ponytail by a bright blue scarf. Her VR goggles were on, covering hazel eyes whose striking beauty he'd been too shy ever to comment upon.

  The shirt seemed to be a high school varsity jersey. Doug took an instant dislike to Number 10, whoever he had been. She didn't have any brothers.

  She said, "Take a picture. It will last longer."

  You worked with Cheryl for months, he chastised himself. What is your problem? The problem, idiot, is that this isn't work. "Sorry."

  Was it only his imagination or was the air between them crackling?

  "Well?"

  It made Doug no less uncomfortable that she was smiling. "Showtime."

  The unseen computer took its cue instantly. Cheryl needed only slightly longer to spot his surprise. "Doubles. This is great!"

  He slipped on his own goggles. The wand in his prosthetic hand became a proper racquet. The room doubled in size. Two stylized opponents stood in the opposite court; as ceremonial bad guys, they wore eye patches and backward black baseball caps. Doug took his side of their court. "Volley for serve."

  Pop. Doug blasted the red pseudoball when it materialized. Zip. Zap. Zip. Blat. "And the forces of evil win first serve."

  After a few near collisions, Cheryl and Doug settled into a frontcourt/backcourt style of play. The new positions reduced their interference but did nothing for their score.

  Blat.

  "What handicap level did you give us?" she panted after a long, but ultimately losing, volley. Her forehead glistened with perspiration.

  "Gimp and simp. I guess I was too kind."

  Her hazel eyes hidden by VR goggles, the smile seemed incomplete. Warm, but incomplete. "Eyes front, partner." Too late. The ball shot past him to land at his heels. Blat. One of the stylized figures did a little victory dance in honor of his aced serve.

  Mutter, mutter. "Handicap level four." That was two notches easier than where Doug had started them and, he hoped, a level at which they could compete. They managed some decent volleys, and Cheryl slammed a return through a floating drop-dead zone to get them a chance to serve. The score had edged up from 7-0 to 3-9 when they collided at midcourt.

  No one was hurt, but... Doug climbed to his feet, feeling like an electric shock had thrown him. He offered an arm to help her up; her hand was hot. Both VR wands lay abandoned on the floor. "Are you okay?"

  Somehow, their goggles had slid back on their heads, and they gazed at each other. The air was thick with pheromones. Move, he told himself, to no effect. Then he knew he had waited too long, and he released her hand. She waited a moment, then pivoted slowly, with obvious reluctance, toward the front of the court.

  The scarf had slipped partway down her ponytail. Ah, the hell with it, he thought, and tugged a dangling end of the scarf. The bow untied, freeing cascades of flowing hair.

  Evidently he had thought out loud.

  She turned back to him, eyes gleaming. "Not how I would have phrased it, but it'll do."

  For a time, neither of them had any use for words or virtually.

  CHAPTER 38

  The knock was so soft Cheryl wondered at first if she had imagined it. She doubted she would have noticed anything had not Doug a moment earlier inexplicably relaxed his embrace.

  Then, remembering her disheveled state, she somehow knew the sound was real. She craned her neck slightly and saw the pale oval at the door's small inset window. The next rap was louder. "We have company." She pushed away a hand.

  "I know." He released her and went to open the court door.

  The weekend guard stood outside, leering, a radio in his hand. "Better you were doing what you were."

  She resisted the urge to smooth her jersey. Her imagination was already previewing next week's office gossip. Damn it, damn it, damn it. "Better than what?"

  The guard jiggled the radio. "Than computer gaming. Than anything that involves a computer." He turned on the radio.

  The opening moments of the newsbreak drove away all thoughts of her own situation.

  The page was from Ralph Pittman. Doug was tapping redial on his car speakerphone for the umpteenth time when Cheryl emerged from BioSciCorp. Of course half of the country must be trying to reach the forum at this point. The other half lacked
comm.

  "How did you know?" Cheryl slid into the passenger seat. Her hair was still damp.

  "What do you mean?" He knew exactly what she meant... he had just hoped to avoid this discussion.

  "You were facing away from the door, and"—she blushed—"somewhat occupied. Yet you knew something was up before the guard knocked. How?"

  "Pager." Keep it simple, Doug. She won't want to hear this.

  "You weren't wearing a pager." She reddened again. "Unless ... it was in your arm." She smacked the dashboard in frustration. "It's one thing to keep using the arm unmodified. It's entirely different to endanger yourself. There's a reason NIT research is suspended, a reason why you went to the forum."

  "Speaking of which, I still can't reach the office. Time to try something else."

  Pittman answered his personal mobile on the fourth ring. "Catastrophe central."

  "Ralph, it's Doug Carey returning your page. I'm at BSC. You've tried phages?"

  "We set out cheese. Yes, we tried phages. They just pissed it off."

  No need to name the phages' target. The car radio, its volume low, spoke of nothing but the artificial-life creature, or creatures, wreaking Internet havoc. "Why'd you call?"

  "Doug, it's getting scary.... I could use a cool head in here."

  "Is there a plan B?" Cheryl injected.

  "You'll have to ask the boss that," Ralph said.

  Doug leaned toward the speakerphone. "The switchboard is jammed. Can you hand your mobile to Glenn?"

  "He's out, Doug. I can't say where he is. One of us will call you back."

  Despite the tightness in his chest, Doug forced himself to speak calmly. "Tell Glenn that I know the one way of stopping whatever is out there."

  Pittman rang back within minutes.

  "You've got an invitation. It's a classified facility, though. Give me thirty minutes and I'll be by to escort you."