Cyber Rogues (14 page)

“Mmm . . .” Chris was staring absently through the side of the holo-tank. “Suppose it gets to the point where it won’t let you pull the plug,” he said in a faraway voice.

“That’s what I was getting at,” Dyer nodded.

“Oh, I see. The unpullable-plug argument,” Ron said. “The only way I can see, if somebody was really worried about it, would be to pre-empt it. Power the net through manually controlled switching stations that are isolated from the distribution grid. That way you’d always have a plug that the system’s got no access to.”

“Too messy.” Dyer shook his head. “You’d have to rewire the whole planet and it’d cost a bomb. Think of something else.”

That issue had been debated
ad nauseam
at Washington and rejected or relegated to the category of last resort for a whole list of reasons of that kind. Dyer didn’t mention the other reason that ruled out an approach of that type. A decision to go ahead with a program of precautionary engineering on a scale that vast would equate to a public admission of a real danger that the world could go out of control; the alarm that would undoubtedly follow ruled it out. It would be like passing legislation that required surgeons to administer last rites along with anesthetics.

Similar considerations ruled out putting remote-triggered destructive devices into the primary node centers of the net, devices to cut the trunk data links, reconfiguring the net into segments that could be easily isolated and other such possibilities that had been discussed at the meeting. In every case too many people would have to know what was going on and why. Sooner or later the media would find out about it and once that happened the dust wouldn’t settle for years.

“What you need is a supersimulator,” Chris said at last. He gestured toward the miniature landscape inside the holo-tank. “Something like that but big enough to simulate the whole world. Then you’d need a supercomputer connected to it, large enough to run the whole TITAN system. Give it the equivalent of a couple of centuries of accelerated evolution, and if it doesn’t do anything nasty with that world plug the real one in. Simple.” He kept his face absolutely serious, which usually meant that he’d given up looking for a serious comment to offer. The suggestion was, of course, ridiculous. There was no computer even remotely conceivable with the capacity to simulate the billions of operations being performed every nanosecond, day and night, throughout the TITAN complex. In terms of representing the real thing, Hector’s simple world came about as close as would a child’s sketch of a pinwheel to conveying the molecular structure of the Milky Way Galaxy. The question of simulation had also been examined in Washington but dismissed as being totally impracticable.

“Why wait for it to go its own way anyhow?” Ron asked. “Why not plant some instincts in it to start with that will make it want to do the kinds of things you’re happy with . . . like Kim’s doing? Why be passive about it?”

“What kind of instincts?” Dyer inquired, although he thought he already knew the answer.

“Tell it that it has to love people,” Ron said.

“What if it doesn’t know what people are?”

“Tell it.”

“How?”

“Hell, if it was as obvious as that we’d be out of a job,” Ron said defiantly. “If FISE thinks he’s Hector, why can’t a super-FISE think it’s people?”

“Oh come off it, Ron,” Chris chipped in. “It’s not as simple as that and you know it. FISE can associate with Hector because Hector is really only a load of program code running inside FISE. The visuals are just by-products for our benefit. How are you suggesting we turn the whole population into program code?”

“If super-FISE associated with anything, it’d associate with something running inside itself,” Dyer added, elaborating the point further. “And people are outside, not inside.”

“So even if you did give it some instincts regarding people, it’d be just as likely to evolve new ones of its own that overrode them,” Chris pointed out.

“So it goes its own way,” Dyer completed. “Which brings us back to my original question.
If
it was going to do that, how would you find out about it,
before
it did it?”

Ron scowled and stared into the display, which had suddenly become active again, He propped his chin on his fist and glared over the top of the console housing.

“Ray, why do you always have to come up with things like this just before weekends? That neat idea you had for a new default-weighting algorithm cost me all of last Sunday and half of Saturday. I’m not even gonna think about this until we come back next week.” With that he returned himself fully to Kursk, 1943, swiftly assessed the latest developments and began hammering in a sequence of responses.

“Our patrol’s getting near the top of the ridge,” Chris observed casually. “Are you in a mood for taking bets, Ron?” Then he became more thoughtful once more and looked back at Dyer. “Why are you taking the pessimistic view anyway, Chief? Why does TITAN have to go the wrong way? It might go the other way. Suppose a mob of mean green things in UFOs decided to move in to stay one day. We could end up finding that TITAN was the best insurance we ever bought . . . It could turn out to be a bloody good general. As far as I can see, the whole thing could just as easily turn out to be for the better as for the worse.”

While Dyer thought the proposition over, the small red square reached the crest of the ridge. Immediately a mass of tightly clustered blue symbols appeared on the previously empty stretch of terrain beyond.

“Bloody hell!” Chris exclaimed. “What did I tell you! They’ve got a whole army there! We need a new fire plan—fast!” Ron went frantically to work on the console. Chris studied the position for a few more seconds and changed the subject back again without looking up. “It’s fifty-fifty, isn’t it, Ray?” he said.

“Probably,” Dyer agreed. “But the stakes are a lot higher than when you’re betting on what’s over the ridge, aren’t they.” He paused. Chris caught the tone of his voice and looked up curiously. “Look at it this way,” Dyer suggested. “You’ve got a house full of young kids and somebody’s just given them a one-month-old animal from some other planet as a pet. Right now it’s cute and cuddly but nobody knows what it’s going to grow up into. And since you don’t know anything about it, it might grow up overnight for all you know. Now . . . it’s a fifty-fifty risk, but would you be prepared to take it?”

Chris pondered on the problem for a long time.

“There’s only one safe way,” he said eventually. “You have to take it out of the house and let it grow up somewhere else . . . in a zoo maybe.” He shrugged. “It’s the only way you can avoid having to take the risk.”

“Oh, I forgot to tell you,” Dyer said. “There isn’t any zoo. Your family lives on a tiny island in the middle of the ocean. That’s all there is. There isn’t anywhere else to take it.”

“Then you have to get rid of it. There’s no other way.”

“Not so easy. The kids wouldn’t stand for that.”

Chris gave a long sigh and shook his head slowly.

“In that case, if you want to be sure they’ll be okay, you’d better make damn sure you teach them how to look after themselves before it grows up,” he offered. “Just in case it comes to the worst . . .”

CHAPTER TEN

Dyer hoisted his feet up onto the couch and relaxed with one arm draped loosely along the backrest. The sun lay dying on the shore across the river from Irvington, spilling its lifeblood into the rippling water and throwing a soft orange glow up onto the walls of his apartment. Surely nothing could more aptly express the ending of an eventful day than a sunset, he thought to himself. This was the time to sift through the litter left along the trail of another day’s living for things worth filing permanently under
Accumulated Experience.
After a night of unconscious data reduction, the sharp detail would be gone forever. Chris had made one of his profound observations about sunsets once. What was it? He smiled faintly to himself as he remembered: “Pronounced atmospheric scattering of shorter wavelengths, resulting in selective transmission below 650 nanometers with progressively reducing solar elevation, produces a tendency toward irrational euphoria among primitive herders of domesticated ovines.”

Sharon came out of the kitchen carrying a couple of glasses and swaying her body to the music drifting out from the speakers concealed in the walls. She crossed the room, pushed a beer into Dyer’s hand and oscillated away again toward the window.

“I really can’t understand why you’d rather stay in,” she exuberated over her shoulder. “On an evening like this? . . . And it’s Friday. The whole city’s out there waiting to be lit up. Why d’you want to stay here?”

“Aw, I’ve seen enough of the goddam city.” Dyer stretched himself back luxuriously and sipped his drink. “Why don’t we relax for once. How about a really nice meal, cooked in for once, open a few bottles, turn on some nice music . . .”

“Then what?” Sharon asked suspiciously.

“Then nothing. Just enjoy it.” He downed half of his beer in a long smooth gulp and wiped his moustache with the side of his finger. “We could have a philosophic discussion about cabbages, kings and the meaning of the universe.”

“Philosophy always turns out to be a fancy word for something shorter.” Sharon twirled between the couch and the window, at the same time throwing out an arm to wave vaguely in the direction of the door leading to the bedroom. “Tonight I feel like being friendly.”

“So, what could be friendlier?”

“I mean friendly to everybody . . . people. I feel like being with people. How about going back into town and trying the Cat’s Whisker or the Marquis—someplace we can dance. It’s Sue’s sister’s birthday today. There’ll be a good crowd in the Marquis tonight. I told them we’d most likely show up.”

Dyer frowned at the bubbles streaming up through his beer.
That
crowd—the fun people—walking examples of what survived when minds became victims of infant mortality. He didn’t think he could stand that. The problem with women like Sharon who had been told that they looked like Venus was that they sometimes developed an addiction to pedestals. The picture of himself as an incidental accessory to satisfying Sharon’s need for public admiration caused his expression to darken.

“Philosophy’s out, so is tribal anthropology,” he said. “How about a compromise? I’ll take you out to dinner.”

Sharon pouted. “But I’m not in the mood for a quiet cozy evening for two,” she insisted. “I need some fun,” she said. “How about a compromise? I’ll take you out to the party.” As she spoke her voice rose and fell with an exaggerated slur, as if she were already delirious, but beneath it her tone was an ultimatum. If he didn’t agree to enjoying a lousy evening he’d end up having a lousy evening instead. Dammit! He wasn’t going along with it. The tightening of his mouth telegraphed his mood across the room.

“Uh, uh,” Sharon said. “I can feel black clouds looming somewhere around here.” Her gaiety evaporated while she waited a few seconds for a response. She sipped her drink and stared expectantly over her glass at Dyer’s sprawled and seemingly unhearing form. “Anyhow,” she went on, “let’s put it this way.
I’m
going. You can decide whatever you want.” No visible reaction. “Well, don’t just lie there swigging booze like Julius Caesar or somebody. Say something. Are you coming or not?”

“This organization does not negotiate to terrorist demands,” Dyer informed her, keeping his eyes fixed on the ceiling.

“What are you talking about? Who’s terrorizing anybody? I just said what I’m doing, that’s all.”

“Blackmail then,” Dyer told her with a sigh.

“I don’t understand,” she answered. Even as she said it, the insinuation that she was being slow on the uptake about something irked her further. She countered instinctively. “Well, if that means you’re opting out, that’s okay by me. Bill and Lee will be there for sure.
They’re
always good fun to have around.”

“Screw all of you! I’ve had it!” Before he realized what he was doing, Dyer jumped up off the couch and stormed through into the kitchen. He tore the top off another beer, refilled his glass, and swallowed enough to empty the can, which he hurled into the waste-disposal hatch. Implied blackmail, probably unwitting, was one thing; overt threats was another. Why
did
people who had to have everything spelled out in three-letter words infuriate him so much? The damn woman was about as perceptive as a stampeding rhino.

He took another long draught while he brought his feelings under control again. He didn’t give a damn about Bill and Lee, or anybody else for that matter, but the remark had been typically tactless and totally pointless; that was what had incensed him. This was the time to see the whole thing through once and for all, he decided. He composed himself, thought about how he was going to broach it, and tried to anticipate the probable reaction. Tears? He’d be flattering himself if he thought that. The yelling-and-screaming routine? Might cost a few bits of china but he could handle that okay. The icy walkout with head held high? Oh well, it wouldn’t be the first time.

The problem was solved for him by the words that blasted in suddenly from beyond the doorway. “I’m not as dumb as you seem to think I am. The real problem is you think you’re too goddam smart! You’ve had it?
That’s
okay by me too!” An instant later the slam of the outer door echoed through the apartment.

Dyer emerged from the kitchen, still drinking casually from his glass, and looked around him in surprise. Christ, was that all there was going to be to it? He felt mildly insulted. So, after all his thought and gentlemanly concern, he wasn’t worth even a few heartfelt insults and choice obscenities, eh? Shaking his head sadly at the fickleness of human nature, he moved over to the room’s wall panel, killed the incessant pounding rhythm that Sharon had selected and replaced it with the Brahms violin concerto. A sense of airy lightness gradually permeated his being. Humming softly to the music, he poured himself a large brandy, lit a cigar and strolled over by the window to watch the sun dissolving away into the Hudson.

An hour or more later, after he had keyed his orders for the weekend shopping into the viscreen touchboard and primed the apartment’s computer to handle his intended schedule, he called Laura. He didn’t really know why he was calling although he had thought of a number of excuses, managing to convince himself finally that he wanted somebody stimulating to talk to. Anyhow, it didn’t make any difference; her number returned a brief message advising that she would be out of town until Monday morning.