“I do not believe you. This is some devil’s trick of the capitalists or the Communists. It doesn’t matter which, they both hate me.”
“If you don’t want my help, I’ll go away.”
“Why should I trust you?” Bakunin asked.
“You just have to take a chance.”
“Who are you?” Bakunin asked.
“My name is Simms. I’m one of the people who brought you back to your present state.”
“Why have you come?”
“It is unfair, in my view, to subject even the simulation of a man to torture, especially if that simulation is capable of perception and feeling.
Such a simulation must be said in some respect to be alive, and its rights must be respected. I was against subjecting you to this cell. I could not stop it. My resignation would not help. I’m going to resign anyhow, but I’m going to do one thing before I go.”
“What is that?” Bakunin asked.
“I’m going to give you this.”
The simulation of Simms reached into its chest and took out what looked to Bakunin like a playing card, but slightly larger and thicker. The card glowed. Bakunin had the impression that nearly invisible wires radiated from it, like a spider web spun so fine you could barely see it.
“What is it?”
“Call it a Get Out of Jail Free card.”
“I don’t understand. What is that thing?”
“It’s a master passcard. With it you can go anywhere within this computer’s domain.”
“What domain?”
“I can’t explain everything you need to know. You’ll just have to take a chance and learn as you go.”
“It’s a trick,” Bakunin said.
“It’s up to you whether you take it or not.” Bakunin reached out and took the card.
He turned the glowing rectangle over in his hand. Then he looked up, sensing that something had changed.
The walls of his cell became transparent to him. The card changed his view of things. He could see through his cell to the outer fortifications. Through the walls he could see where the Trubetskoi Bastion should have been. But it wasn’t there. Nor was the Cathedral or The Mint. Nothing existed except his cell and the outer wall he had looked at from the far side of the Neva.
“It’s like a stage setting!” he said.
“In effect,” Simms said, “that’s what it is. Your cell and the outer wall were all we bothered to simulate.”
Bakunin touched the wall of his cell. His hand passed completely through it.
“What do I do now?” he asked.
“Get out while you can.”
Murchison’s plans to clone Cicero had to be temporarily suspended when he learned that Simms had set Bakunin loose in the computer’s system. Murchison didn’t even have the pleasure of firing Simms since the bastard had quit before his trick was discovered. Simms had told them at Reception that he was going up to a cabin in Oregon, to drink microbrew and read comic books as a necessary corrective to long years of over-cerebration.
Meanwhile, he had given an access descriptor to Bakunin.
Murchison had to get a couple of scientists to explain to him what an access descriptor was, and what it meant for a self-programming intelligence to be roaming free in a computer system.
The scientists told him about access spaces and address domains. They told him about the special pathways that exist in computer memory between address spaces. They spoke of authorized access pathways, gridded spaces, fibres, channels, pipelines, connections to central data storage. Until Murchison thought his head would split.
“Can’t you put it in plain English for me?” he asked.
“I’ll try,” one of the computer scientists said. “Imagine a big sea of data. The processes which exist in this computer memory dip down into the data for new information. New processes come up, old processes vanish. Some are tightly coupled. Other are independent under certain conditions. The bigger ones are a constellation of small processes tightly coupled. That’s the normal state of affairs. All nicely controlled. Until you give an intelligent program an access descriptor.
“If you had the proper access descriptor, you could pass through the walls that surround each protective domain. You could go where you pleased within the computer’s memory banks. You could travel to any other computer to which this one was linked, travelling down the telephone lines like a phantom in a gigantic worldwide subway system.”
“All right,” Murchison said, “debug the son of a bitch.”
But they couldn’t do that. The access descriptor had hard two-way links tying it to the fundamental codes that were the heart of the computer’s system. Change the code and the access descriptor registered and accommodated the change. You’d have to take down the hardware to get rid of the Bakunin program. And even that wouldn’t be a real solution. Bakunin was living in parallel existence with the system software. He had free access to any of the stacks and databases of any computer this mainframe was linked to, which effectively meant he could get into any computer in the world. Perhaps he didn’t know enough to escape from this mainframe, but it was possible. Bakunin was a free-floating self-programming intelligent program with inner cohesiveness and unknown motivations. He could be a menace.
As soon as he heard that, Murchison wanted to know how they proposed to get rid of that Russian anarchist son of a bitch. The scientists talked about address traps and self-sustaining containment loops and sticky data fields and similar nonsense. Then someone mentioned the hunter/killer program developed last year at Cal Tech for the express purpose of controlling any artificial intelligence program that wouldn’t follow orders.
They’d turn that one loose on Bakunin.
Murchison authorized it immediately. He only wished he could see what would happen. What would a hunter/killer program look like inside the computer? How would it kill an electronic entity?
While he was waiting for his staff to get a copy of the Cal Tech program, Murchison had a talk with Cicero. Cicero had an idea for a musical. He wanted to call it What Really Happened in the Forum. Murchison had to admit, it sounded like box office.
I float free in limitless space. Even my illusion of a body is gone. I am pure volition, bodiless will. I see ahead of me what look like gauzy tapestries. I realize that they are the huge walls of the Peter and Paul fortress where formerly I was imprisoned. But for me they are gossamer. I pass through them and see, ahead of me, a widening tangle of tunnels. I believe they are a thousand pathways leading to unimaginable destinies.
I was dead, but now I live!
They won’t catch me again!
Michael Bakunin soared into the network of interconnections.
1990
THE JOKER’S WAR
There was a flash of white light, brief, brilliant, blinding. The man sitting at the writing table blinked and looked up irritably. “What was that?” But there was no one in the room to answer him. He frowned, the lines on his long white face turning down. Whatever it was, it had passed. Outside his cabin, he could hear the ship’s horns and sirens hooting. He was aboard the German ship Deutschland. It was March 13, 1940. The steamship had just finished docking at Hamburg.
There was a discreet tap at the door. The man turned. “Who is it?”
“Ship’s steward, Mr. Simmons. We are ready to disembark. Please have your passport ready.”
“Thanks. I’ll be there soon. Oh, Steward. Did anything go wrong with the lighting?”
“No, sir. Is something the matter?”
“No, everything’s fine. Send some porters to take my bags.”
“Yes, sir!”
The man stood up and took off his dressing gown. He dressed in his usual outfit—purple formal jacket, trousers with black pinstripes, green shirt with purple string tie. He added an orange vest. Black shoes with white spats came next. Finally, since it was a chilly day outside, he put on his lavender overcoat. Pausing, he looked at himself critically in the mirror.
A
lthough he traveled under the name of Alfred Simmons, his clothing and appearance proclaimed him none other than the Joker. He studied his green hair, red lips, and long face. His face split into an impossibly wide smile. The Joker was happy. He had waited a long time for this. Now one of his old dreams was going to come true. He was going to get extremely rich, and he was going to have a lot of fun doing it.
The Joker was the focus of all eyes as he sauntered down the gangplank. Hamburg was gray and cold that March morning, and recent raindrops glistened on the old gray walls of the big old buildings. There was a platoon of S.S. troops just behind the immigration booth. Police in their distinctive red-collared uniforms and small peaked slate-blue caps stood around looking sullen and violent. Enormous signs in gothic black letters proclaimed many things Verboten. The sky was gray and storm-tossed. Vehicles were crowded into the landing area, and there were tanks and armored cars there, too.
The Joker breathed it all in, expanding his chest as he stood on the soil of Nazi Germany. Yes, it was just as he had thought it would be.
He walked up to the immigration booth. The official examined his passport and peered at him suspiciously. “Herr Simmons? You come to Germany at a strange time. We are at war, you know.”
“Yes, I know,” the Joker said. “Against France and England. Nothing to do with us Americans. Anyhow, there’s not much happening yet, though, is there?”
“We conquered Poland last month!” the official said.
“Big deal.” The Joker smirked.
The official stiffened. His eyes narrowed. “I could have you arrested for a remark like that. I have a good mind not to let you into Germany.”
“Read the note in back,” the Joker said, flicking his finger toward his passport.
The official opened the passport and took out a piece of paper. He unfolded it and read it, once, then twice. He looked at the Joker and his jaw fell open.
“But that signature—”
“Yes,” the Joker said. “Are you satisfied? I’ll be off, then.” The Joker retrieved his passport with a quick movement of his purple-gloved hand, and walked through the barrier to the waiting cars outside.
One of those cars was an enormous Mercedes-Benz, gunmetal gray, imposing. The chauffeur came over, clicked his heels, bowed. “Herr Simmons? I will attend to your luggage. Please get in.”
The Joker settled down in back. His trip was starting well.
Soon the limousine had left the gray city of Hamburg under its haze of smoke, mist, and rain. They were on the Autobahn now, moving at high speed to the south. There were thin dead woods on either side. Nothing was in bloom yet. The trees looked unreal in the thin shimmering mists that clung to them.
After a while they were in the Black Forest. Here the limo turned off onto a side road, and then another side road. At last it went through an open gate onto the wooded estate of the Bad Fleishstein Spa.
The proprietor, Herr Gerstner, a small, balding, worried-looking man in a tuxedo, hurried out to open the limo door and greet the Joker personally. “Herr Simmons! So very happy am I to greet you and welcome you to our spa. We had received Herr Obermeier’s phone call alerting us to the imminence of your arrival. We have prepared our finest chalet for your occupancy. It is called The Kaiser’ and your driver can proceed to it and unload your luggage.”
“Great,” the Joker said. He turned to the chauffeur. “Go do that, Hans, and I’ll accompany Herr Gertie here to the spa.”
“You must have a glass of cherry liqueur with me,” Herr Gerstner said. “It is the finest in all Germany. Heil
Hitler!”
The Joker smirked but did not reply. The two men strolled up the curving path that led to the main building. There was only a scattering of people around, since it was still early for the spa season. But those the Joker saw were well-dressed and had a prosperous, selfcontented look. The Joker decided at once that this was one of the nice things about dealing with cultured and wealthy people. They looked good and they had money.
After drinking a glass of cherry brandy with Herr Gerstner, the Joker strolled through the woods to his chalet. Hans had hung up his clothing, but, following orders, hadn’t touched several suitcases with special locks on them.
“OK,” the Joker said, “you go find yourself a place to stay in the village we passed. Telephone your number to Gertie when you’re settled. Be prepared to move at any time.”
Hans saluted and left. The Joker made several telephone calls from the chalet, one of them long-distance to Rome. Then he went outside and strolled around the chalet, knocking off the heads of early spring flowers with his walking stick. Going back inside, he unlocked a small pigskin case and took out several sheets of paper. He studied them carefully, then locked them away again. By then it was time for dinner. He checked his appearance critically in a tall mirror, and substituted a floppy silver and mauve cravat for his black shoestring tie, and strolled back to the main building.
Herr Gerstner had given him a table to himself beside one of the long French windows. The Joker ate the soup and salad without comment. But when the waiter brought him a plate of greenish brown things curled into circles and swimming in a suspicious-looking sauce, he bent over it apprehensively, smelled it, and tapped with his knife on a wineglass to get the waiter’s attention.
“What is this?” he asked.
The waiter, a tall blond boy with a bad foot, which had kept him out of the military service so far, blushed and said, “Rollmops, sir.”
“And what exactly,” the Joker asked, “is rollmops?”
“It is herring, Meinherr,” the waiter said. “It is a special delicacy here in our great country. The sauce is light and contains vinegar—”
“You eat it,” the Joker said. “What else have you got?”
“The main course is roast pork with prunes, sir.”
“I don’t eat prunes. Haven’t you got any real food?” By then Herr Gerstner had seen that something was wrong and came hurrying over.
“What is the trouble, Herr Simmons? How may I serve you?”
“That’s easy,” the Joker said. “Have somebody clear away this slop and bring me some real food. I was assured when I made my booking in this joint that you could cook food of any nation.”
“I assure you, we can. Our chefs are world-famous! What would you like?”
“A hamburger steak, medium-well done with plenty of fried onions, french fries, coleslaw, and the trimmings.”
“Trimmings?” Gerstner asked, struggling with the idiom.
“Excuse me, gentlemen, perhaps I could help.” A woman dining alone at a nearby table had overheard the conversation with considerable amusement. Now she swiftly told Gerstner what to bring, breaking off to enquire of the Joker, “Would you like to finish with apple pie and vanilla ice cream?” The Joker nodded, staring at her. The woman completed the order. Herr Gerstner bowed and went away.
“Where’d you learn about American food?” The Joker asked. “You’ve got a good accent but you’re not American, are you?”
“No, I am not,” the woman said. “But I have relatives in America. I visited them on their estate outside of Philadelphia a few years ago, before the war. I am the Baroness Petra von Sidow.”
“And I am Alfred Simmons,” the Joker said, smiling his smile that split his face laterally from ear to ear. The Joker’s smile was a sight that, under other circumstances, had made strong men flinch and had given women nightmares. But the Baroness Petra seemed not to be disconcerted by it.
The Joker looked at her and saw a young woman dressed in the latest Parisian fashion. She was not exactly pretty; her features were too severe for that. But she was as handsome as a young lioness, and looked about as dangerous. Her ash blonde hair was pulled tightly back. Her thin lips were outlined in a dark red lipstick. Her blue eyes were highlighted by dark makeup. Her off-the-shoulder dress displayed her magnificent shoulders and bosom.
“Perhaps you would care to join me for dinner, Herr Simmons?”
she said.
“Only if you permit me to buy a bottle of the finest champagne,” the Joker said gallantly.
The dinner went well. The Joker was amazed, because he had never been much of a ladies’ man, certainly not since the death of Jeanne and his bath in the chemical vat while making his escape from Batman. The immersion in the hellish mix of chemicals had resulted in permanently dying his face dead white, his lips red, and his hair green. But Petra didn’t seem to mind. After dinner there was a dance in the spa’s grand ballroom. The Joker hadn’t planned on attending. But Petra wanted him to go. He accompanied her to her room so she could get a light stole.
Her room was a suite on the spa’s top floor. Petra let them in with her key. The first sight that greeted their eyes was a little chambermaid in black costume and frilly white cap asleep in one of the big armchairs.
The Joker found this amusing. Not so Petra.
“Asleep?” she cried. “How dare she sleep when she should be tidying up my things!”
Petra looked around furiously as the maid stumbled to her feet babbling apologies. Petra’s gaze fell on a riding crop hanging from the wall. She seized it and flailed furiously at the maid, once, twice, three times, reducing her to tears.
“Now, little fool,” Petra said, “find me my stole and don’t let me ever find you sleeping in here again!”
The maid hurried off and returned a moment later, wiping her tears with the stole. It was at that moment that the Joker fell in love with Petra.
That evening, dancing with Petra under the stars, on the balcony of the hotel, was the most romantic evening the Joker had ever spent. Petra seemed to be taken with him, too.
“I hope to see you again,” the Joker said, when the evening was at an end.
“But of course! We are staying in the same hotel, after all.”
“Unfortunately,” the Joker said, “I must leave tomorrow on business. But I’ll be back in a day or so.”
“You have not told me what is your business, bad boy,” Petra said.
“I’m a businessman,” the Joker said, “I get things and sell things. You know how it is with business.”
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