Then the last line of type scrolled off the top of the screen. Tony watched the blank rectangle, fingers poised, and in the alcove, somebody called, “Okay, six minutes. Back to work.”
As though it had heard him, the screen came to life with its virtual desktop.
Tony relaxed, sitting back and studying the test readouts on his laptop screen.
A soft footstep made him look up, then freeze, because Sandy was leaning on the cubicle screen and smiling down at him. “That tell you anything?”
Tony threw off the strange paralysis she induced and gestured at his laptop. “Yeah, a little bit. As far as I can tell, the problem’s in the system.”
“Inside?” Sandy frowned. “You mean it’s not coming from outside?”
Tony managed to start breathing again—even her frowns were affecting him—and said, “The signal originated inside the mainframe.”
“Then it’s infected.” Sandy’s frown darkened with concern. “Can you kill the virus?”
“Can’t say for sure.” Tony turned his gaze resolutely to the laptop screen. “I’ll give it everything I’ve got.”
“I hope you can,” Sandy said. “It’s going to be very, very expensive if we have to junk the mainframe.”
“We can put in a new one in twenty-four hours,” Tony said, “but let’s not play the funeral hymn until we’re sure it’s dead. After all, I’ve got a lot of results to analyze.”
“Oh.” Sandy’s face cleared. “Of course—while the text was scrolling, you were running test programs and saving the results. You haven’t had a chance to check them yet.”
Tony nodded. “It’s going to take some time. If my bugcatcher doesn’t find the problem, I’ll have to print out the code and analyze it line by line.”
Sandra shuddered. “I wish you luck.”
“Thanks.” Tony started hitting keys and studying results; he was about to turn and tell Sandra the latest (negative) report when he realized she’d gone. He sighed and let the bugcatcher run. While it did, he called up the code and scanned it quickly. With just a light once-over, it looked to be the standard operating system, nothing different, nothing alien.
Then he realized that the virus might be buried in the text of the story itself.
He cleared the code and opened the log of the text. He started to scan it, too, but within two lines, he was caught and found himself reading the story.
When that the blessed Father Vidicon did seize upon a high-voltage line and did cleave unto it, aye, even unto death, so that the words of our blessed Holy Father the Pope might reach out through the satellites to all the television transmitters of the world, for the saving of our most Holy and Catholic Church—aye, when that Father Vidicon did thus die for the Faith and did pass into one enduring instant of blinding pain, he was upheld and sustained by the knowledge that, dying a martyr, he would pass straightway to Heaven and be numbered among the Blest.
How great was his dismay, then, to find himself, as pain dimmed and awareness returned, to be falling through darkness amidst a cold that did sear his very soul—for in truth, he was naught but soul. Distantly did he espy certain suns, knew thereby that he did pass through the Void, and that his eternal fall was not truly so, but was only the absence of gravity. Indeed, he knew the place for an absence of all, and fear bit him sharply—for thus, he knew, must Hell be: a place of lacking, an absence of being.
Then, in his terror, did he cry out in anger, “My God! For Thee did I give my life! Wherefore hast Thou doomed me?” Yet no sooner were the words said than he did repent, and cursed himself for a faithless fool, thus to doubt even now in death, that the Christ would uphold him.
And straightway on the heels of that thought came the shock of insight—for he saw that, if he did die to cheat the Imp of the Perverse, defeating Finagle himself by his very perversity, he must needs expect reversal of expectation—which is to say that, if he died expecting the vistas of Heaven, he would most certainly discover the enclosures of Hell.
Then courage returned, and resolution; for he did come to see that the struggle was not ended, but only begun anew—that if he did desire Heaven, he would have to win to it. Then did he wonder if even the saints, they who dwelt in God, could count their toils ended—or if they chose eternally to struggle ’gainst greater forces.
Then did his Mission become clear to him, and the Blessed One knew wherefore he had come to this Void. The enemy ’gainst whom he had striven throughout his life endured still—and now would Father Vidicon confront him and look upon his face.
With the thought, his fall slowed, and he saw the mouth of a tunnel ope in the darkness before him, and it did glow within, a sullen red. Closer it did come, and wider, stretching and yawning to swallow him; yet Father Vidicon quailed not, nor attempted to draw back. Nay, bravely he stood, stalwart in nothingness; yea, even eagerly did he strain forward, to set foot upon infirm fungoid flesh and stride into Hellmouth.
As he strode, the sullen glow did brighten, gaining heat until he feared it would sear his flesh, then remembered that he had none. Brighter and hotter it flowed, until he turned thorough a bend in its tube and found himself staring upon the Imp of the Perverse.
Gross it was, and palpable, swollen with falsehood and twisted with paradoxes. Syllogisms sprouted from its sides, reaching toward Father Vidicon with complexes of bitterness, and it stood, but did not stand, on existential extensions.
“Turn back!” roared the Imp in awesome sardonicism. “Regress, retrograde! For none can progress that do come within!”
“Avaunt thee!” cried Father Vidicon. “For I know thee of old, bloody Imp! ’Tis thou who doth drive every suicide, thou who doth strengthen the one arm of the Bandit who doth rob the gambler compulsive, thou who doth bring down freezing snow upon the recumbent form of the will-leached narcotic! Nay, I know thee of old and know that he who retreats from thee, must needs pursue thee! Get THEE behind ME—for I shall surpass thee!”
“Wilt thou?” cried the Imp. “Then look to thy defense—for I shall undo thee!”
So saying, it reached toward Father Vidicon, twisting its hand—and of a sudden, thirst unbearable did seize the priest, a craving that could be slaked only by cheap rum. The Imp did hold out to him a bottle of brown glass with a garish label, and Father Vidicon’s hand stretched out seemingly of its own accord. Appalled, the priest did pull back his hand, and the Imp did laugh at the shock that filled his face. “Surrender, cleric,” it cried, “for soon or late, thou shalt take of this bottle and drink till that thirst is slaked!”
With dismay, Father Vidicon felt his hand rise and fought muscle against muscle to keep it from stretching toward that bottle.
A shout of anger escaped; shocked, Tony realized it had come from his own lips. He stared, astounded—could he really care that much whether or not the fictitious character took a drink? Surely not! He shook off the spell and punched in the commands necessary to reveal the code that underlay the letters. It would be subtle and devious, but the unknown hacker might have buried a virus in the shapes of the letters themselves.
The code appeared; he started scanning with a frown. No need to slow down and study—it was all familiar. He could have scanned the whole six minutes’ worth, of course, but a sudden hunch had him checking the interval before the message, and sure enough, a few keystrokes brought another burst of code to the screen.
Now Tony did slow down and study character by character. This code was new, nothing he had ever seen before. He took a pencil and pad out of his briefcase and started trying to unsnarl it. As he worked, his frown deepened to a scowl. Faster and faster his pencil worked until it was fairly flying across the paper as he tried combination after combination.
“Mr. Ricci?”
Tony started as though he’d been bitten, head snapping up.
“Gee, sorry,” Sandy said. “No harm intended.”
“Me neither.” Tony closed his eyes, wiping a hand across them. “Sorry—I was just concentrating so hard . .
.”
“I could see that.” Sandy smiled. “Think you could use a lunch break?”
“Definitely. My brain was beginning to go around in circles.” Tony closed his laptop and stood up—and was amazed how his joints hurt. “Ouch!”
“Yes, too intense by far.” Sandy smiled. “The restaurant next door is pretty good, nothing special. There’s an excellent Chinese place down in the next block, though.”
“I probably couldn’t tell the difference between ‘pretty good’ and ‘excellent’ anyway,” Tony confessed. “The restaurant next door will be fine.”
They joined the line filing into the elevator, and an uncomfortable silence fell—uncomfortable for Tony, at least. He scanned his memory for possible conversational topics, and tried, “How long have you been here?”
“Three years,” Sandy said. “It’s a good place to work, and I’m learning a lot about telling a good stock from a bad one.”
“Must come in handy,” Tony said. “Just knowing how to analyze a stock isn’t insider trading, is it?”
“Far from it,” Sandy said, amused. “In fact, it’s very much from the outside.”
The elevator stopped, and they moved slowly with the tide of other lunch-bound workers. “It does take a lot of research, though,” Sandy said.
“I’ll bet.” Tony pursed his lips. “How do you start—with a company’s earnings report?”
“That’s one place,” Sandy said, “but there are others ...”
Tony managed to keep her talking for most of the next hour, but he didn’t really register much about market research, though he did become an offhand expert on Sandy’s hair, on her eyes, her nose, the expressive-ness of her lips and gestures. By the time they were back in the office, she was calling him Tony, and he was very much afraid he had fallen in love—afraid because it couldn’t be mutual. After all, she was beautiful, and he was a nerd—maybe pretty stylish, as nerds go, but still a nerd.
With a sigh, he stepped back into the cubicle and settled into the chair, hoping the streams of numbers would banish the vision of huge eyes and mobile lips. He lit the laptop, picked up his pencil, and began analyzing.
It worked; in a few minutes he was so deeply immersed in code that the outside world ceased to exist. He glanced at the desktop from time to time, of course, but most of his attention was on the yellow pad.
Then something changed. He glanced at the desktop and saw the screen was blank. His heart leaped; with three keystrokes, he opened a new file and started copying just in time for the first line of type to rise from the bottom of the screen. Dimly, he heard the workers’ whoop of delight and their chatter as they moved toward the coffee alcove, but he stayed in his chair, dying to know whether Father Vidicon took the bottle or not.
Chapter 2
Appalled, the priest did pull back his hand, and the Imp did laugh at the shock that filled his face. “Surrender, cleric,” it cried, “for soon or late, you shall take of this bottle and drink till that thirst is slaked!”
With dismay, Father Vidicon felt his hand rise and fought muscle against muscle to keep it from stretching toward that bottle. The Imp’s laughter grew till it seemed to fill the whole darkened tunnel, and that cacophony did make the priest feel alone, isolated, with no person or spirit on whom he might draw for strength.
But the extremity of that emotion itself was like cold water dashing in his face, waking him from the stupor of despair the Imp of the Perverse had raised in him, making him mindful that no matter where he stood or how isolated he seemed, there was always One from whom all human folk can draw comfort and rely upon for strength.
Then a great calm came upon the Blessed One, and he slowly stood straight, smiling gently, and saying, “Nay, I shall not—for I know now that to become defensive is to bend thy sword so that it strikes against thyself. I shall not defend, but offend!” And so saying, he leaped upon the Imp, striking out with his fist.
But the Imp raised up a shield, a plane of white metal, flat as a fact and bare as statistics, and polished to so high a gloss that it might not have existed. “See!” cried the Imp, full of glee. “See the monster thine offense hath wrought!”
And staring within, Father Vidicon did behold a face twisted with hatred, tortured with self-doubt, barefaced as a lie and bound by the Roman collar of law.
Yet the Blessed One did not recoil. Nay, he did not so much as hesitate to question himself or his cause; only, with a voice filled with agony, did he cry, “Oh my Lord! Now preserve me! Give me, I beg of Thee, some weapon against the wiles and malice of this Imp’s Shield of Distortion!”
He held up his hands in supplication—and Lo! In his left, a blade did appear, gleaming with purity, its edge glittering with exquisite monofilament sharpness—and in the Blessed One’s palm, its handle nestled, hollow to the blade folded.
The Imp sneered in laughter, and cried, “See how thy master doth requite thee! In exchange for thy life, he doth grant thee naught but a slip of a blade which could not pierce so much as a misapprehension!”
But, “Not so,” cried Father Vidicon, “for this Razor is Occam’s!”
So saying , he slashed out at the shield. The Imp screamed and cowered away—but the Blessed One pursued, slicing at the Shield of Distortion, and crying, “Nay, thou canst not prevail! For I could have wasted eternity wondering where the fault lay in me, that could so twist my face and form into Evil! Yet the truth of it is shown by this Razor as it doth cleave this Shield!”
So saying, he swung the blade, and it cleaved the Shield in twain, revealing hidden contours, convexities and concavities of temporizing and equivocating. The Imp screamed in terror, and the Blessed One cried, “ ’Tis not my image that is hideous, but thy shield that is warped!”
Dropping its shield, the Imp spun away, whirling beyond Father Vidicon to flee toward the Outer Dark.
Filled with righteous rage, the Blessed One turned to follow it—but he brought himself up short at a thought, for ’twas almost as though a voice spoke within him, saying, Nay! Thou must not seek to destroy, for thus thou wouldst become thyself an enemy of Being. Contain only, and control; for the supporting of Life will lead Good to triumph; but the pursuit of Destruction in itself doth defeat good!
The Blessed One bowed his head in chagrin—and there, even there in the throat of Hell, did he kneel and join his hands in penitence. “Pardon, my Master, that in my weakness, I would have forgotten the commandment of Thine example.” And he held up the Razor on his open palm, praying, “Take again the instrument wrought for Thee by Thy faithful servant William. I need it not, now, for thou, oh God, art my strength and my shield; with Thee, I need naught.”
Light winked along the length of the blade, and it was gone.
Father Vidicon stood up then, naked of weapons and devoid of defense, yet his heart was light and his resolution was strengthened. “Whither Thou wilt lead me, my Lord,” he murmured, “I shall go, and with what adversaries Thou wilt confront me, I shall contend.”
So saying, he strode forth down the throat of Hell, but the song that rose to his lips was a psalm.
The last line scrolled off the top of the screen just as someone called, “Six minutes!” and sure enough, the lines of code flashed across the screen again. Tony was surprized to find he was as disappointed to have no more story to read, as he was happy for Father Vidicon.
Regretfully, he looked up from his laptop—to see Sandy standing at the doorway to his cubicle, leaning on one of the screens with a smile.
“I don’t know what you did, troubleshooter,” Sandy said, “but you fixed our system.”
Tony stared at her—not hard to do—while he let the statement soak in. Of course, he hadn’t done anything.
Then he realized that St. Vidicon’s victory had probably also chased the Imp out of the mainframe. Of course, it could also be that, having contacted Tony, the priest had pulled his story out—but Tony instantly discounted the idea; he wasn’t that important.
“Glad
to help.” Tony didn’t like claiming credit for other people’s work, but under the circumstances, there wasn’t much choice. He closed the laptop and stood up. “I can’t be sure the fix will last, though. If you have any more trouble, give me a call.” He slipped a business card out of his pocket and held it out, then with a sudden inspiration turned it over and wrote on the back. He handed it to Sandy. “That’s my home number. Computer problems don’t always happen during business hours.” It was a good excuse, anyway.
“Thanks, soldier.” The merry glint in Sandy’s eye told him he hadn’t fooled her for a second. “How about a drink to celebrate? On the company’s tab, of course.”
“I’d love to. Just a sec . . .” Tony disconnected the cable that joined his laptop to the terminal and packed them both. “Okay, let’s go.”
Off they went, down the central aisle between cubicles, and Tony sailed blithely through a gamut of dagger glares from people who had just lost their extra coffee breaks. Tony was impervious to their resentment—he was going for a drink with a beautiful girl.
As the door closed behind them, Sandy shuddered. “I hate being stared at!”
“Really?” Tony asked. “I should think you’d be used to it. Not that kind of stare, of course.”
Sandy frowned up at him. “Why would I be used to it?”
“Because you’re a beautiful woman,” Tony said. “Men must stare at you all the time.”
Sandy blushed and looked away, and Tony suddenly realized he might have been a little too frank.
“I’m not beautiful,” Sandy said. “Well, maybe kind of pretty, but not much.”
Tony was flabbergasted. How could the woman not know how lovely she was? “You must have noticed men watching you.”
“Sure, but that’s because they don’t know how to run their computers, and I do. They want to ask but they can’t take the blow to their pride.”
Saint Vidicon to the Rescue Page 3