Reality Matrix Effect (9781310151330)

by Mitchell, Laura Remson

  Tauber closed his eyes and shook his head.

  “Oh, for Chrissake!” Wraggon erupted, suddenly out of patience. “We’re gonna steal the transmission codes so we can fake messages from the colonies! Were you on the sauce during the briefings?”

  The pale yellow light of the glow lamp emphasized the woebegone look on Barnard’s face.

  “I ain’t had a drink since we started this thing,” he said, drawing himself up to his full, imposing height.

  Wraggon studied the big man for a moment, then smiled and clapped him on the back.

  “Yeah, I know, Vince. Sorry. It’s okay. Don’t worry about it. Just let Hank and me do the thinking for you.”

  Tauber grunted. He’d have to watch Wraggon carefully. He was crucial to this plan—and Wraggon knew it. But Tauber didn’t want the man getting any ideas about who was in the pilot’s seat.

  “Hey, Tauber,” came a voice from above. “We’re all set up here. Top floor.”

  Quickly, Tauber headed for the stairs. “Grab my satchel and follow me,” he told the others. “Bring the lamp, too!”

  Flynn met them at the landing.

  “Kinda out of shape, aren’t ya?” Flynn scoffed as Wraggon huffed and puffed his way up the last few steps carrying the glow lamp.

  “Never mind that,” Tauber exclaimed before Wraggon had a chance to respond. “Where’s the office?”

  “Over there,” Flynn said with stab of his thumb, proceeding to lead the way.

  “Who’s the cripple?” Wraggon asked as he followed the others into a small room containing the library’s central computer and communication equipment.

  Tauber, already seated at the main computer terminal, busied himself hunting through his satchel.

  “I said, does anyone know who the crip is?” Wraggon persisted, tilting his head in the direction of a large framed photograph depicting a gray-haired woman

  seated in a wheelchair.

  Quickly, Tauber glanced up, then returned his attention to the satchel, from which he had now removed an auxiliary dual disk-drive unit and a disk case.

  “Oh, her. That’s Althea Milgrom.”

  Wraggon gazed intently at the photograph as Tauber began inspecting the expansion hookup connectors on the terminal.

  “That’s Althea Milgrom? The head of the whole Consolidated Data Network?”

  “That’s her,” Tauber said without much interest.

  “Jesus Christ! It’s bad enough having a woman in charge of one of the most important agencies in the world, but a cripple, too?” Wraggon shook his head. “This is just what we’re fighting against. You take away the computers and the robbies, and this dame is nothing. But the way things are, she has all kinds of power. She makes decisions every day that can affect all our lives. She controls the world’s information, and that means she can control us.”

  Tauber continued to study the terminal connectors as he answered.

  “She may have the power to control us,” he said evenly, “but being a softie like the rest of the soft-heads who run this world, she won’t use her power. That’s why we won’t have any trouble taking it away from her.…

  “Shit!”

  The others looked at one another in stunned silence. It was the first real burst of emotion any of them had heard from Tauber.

  “What’s wrong?” asked Wraggon.

  “It’s the expansion connectors,” Tauber answered tonelessly, making a studied effort to reclaim control of the situation while projecting an image of cool self-confidence under pressure. “Looks like the connectors were never used. Either they were bad when they were put in, or else they were damaged somehow and nobody ever noticed.”

  “So what do we do about it?”

  Tauber thought fast. “Flynn,” he said, “did you see some kind of tool box in the supply room?” Flynn nodded. “Then go get it. And move! We’ve only got about 10 minutes before the node!”

  Tauber’s eyes darted desperately about the room. They were so close! He couldn’t let it all slip away now because of some quality-control glitch on a computer assembly line! But the photocouplers were missing from the connectors, and without those couplers, there was no way to link the fiber-optic transmission lines of the auxiliary drive unit to those of the terminal—in short, no way to tap into the library’s computer. For want of a coupler, the world was lost, Tauber reflected bitterly. All he needed were two little blobs of creatinum. But how in space was he going to find a useable source of creatinum at almost half past two in the morning in the middle of the L.A. public library?

  Suddenly, he brightened.

  “Barnard,” he ordered, “give me one of your boots!”

  “Huh?” the big man responded.

  “Listen,” Tauber said, rising and shoving Barnard into a vacant chair. “I don’t have time to explain now. Give me a boot!”

  Without waiting for Barnard to react, Tauber grabbed the merchanter’s right boot and released the clasp. Then, slipping the boot off Barnard’s size-12 foot, he returned to the terminal.

  “Here it is,” Flynn announced, brushing through the office door and setting a small tool box on the floor beside Tauber. “What’re you gonna do?”

  Tauber checked his watch. Seven minutes to go. He might just make it.

  Good old Fleet, he mused as he rummaged through the tool box until he found a standard Ronex five-in-one. First developed by Fleet for use in the colonies, the Ronex multiple-function tool had proved so valuable for Earthbound uses that it had become a staple of tool kits everywhere. And thanks to Fleet’s belief in dual-purpose equipment, the clasps on standard-issue merchanter boots were made of creatinum. The creatinum not only made a sturdy, virtually unbreakable clasp, but it also provided a ready supply of the substance for emergency repairs.

  Despite the cool, dry air in the library office, beads of sweat began to dot Tauber’s face as he used the Ronex to cut two small pieces of creatinum from Barnard’s boot. After a quick adjustment to the Ronex, he used the tool’s setter extension to carefully position the creatinum chips inside the two recessed connectors on the terminal.

  “Gimme the flashlight,” he said to no one in particular, holding out his left hand but keeping his eyes focused on the connectors.

  He glanced at his watch—four minutes left—then moved the flashlight beam control to “narrowest” and switched the emission indicator from “normal” to “stimulated.” He swallowed hard, then aimed the flashlight into the first of the two connectors. A ruby beam of laser light fused the creatinum to the end of the connector, and Tauber allowed himself a tentative sigh of relief. Now the second one. This would be trickier. It was hard to find the right angle on this one, and if he was off line, he could wind up frying the terminal itself. He inhaled deeply, then held his breath as he fired another beam toward the terminal.

  “I think that’ll do it,” he breathed, wiping the perspiration from his forehead and checking his watch again. “Two minutes to go.”

  Quickly, he hooked the auxiliary drive into the terminal. He removed a disk from his own disk case and inserted it into one of the unit’s drives. Then, after quickly inspecting a shelf above the terminal, he selected a disk from another case and placed it in the auxiliary unit’s second drive. He took a slow deep breath, then looked up.

  “Okay,” he said, “it’s all set up now. When the burst comes through in...let’s see, 50 seconds...when it comes through, the computer here’ll do its normal thing. With this auxiliary unit plugged into the standard connectors, nobody’ll be able to tell that anything unusual’s going on. But the disk I put in Drive A will record the burst for us. Then after the transmission, we use the disk in Drive B to analyze the burst and give us the access and special identity codes the colonies use for transmissions to Earth. The same program’ll give us the codes for Earth-to-colony transmissions, too.”

  Tauber permitted himself a tight smile.

  “Here it comes!” he said, gesturing toward the terminal screen, which was flashing t
he words “DATA-EXCHANGE TRANSMISSION IN PROGRESS.” The whrrrr of the disk drive was sweet music to Tauber, who, despite his efforts to appear confident, hadn’t been at all certain that the modified connectors would work.

  They all watched the screen, Tauber seated at the terminal and the others standing in a semicircle behind him. Moments later, the message changed: “DATA-EXCHANGE TRANSMISSION COMPLETE,” it read. Tauber pounded his right fist into his left palm.

  “Is that it?” Flynn challenged. “That’s what all this crap about exchange nodes and data bursts amounted to? Seems like we went to a lot of trouble just to watch a few blinking words on a screen!”

  Tauber was too relieved by the success of his last-minute repair job to be particularly annoyed by Flynn’s words.

  “Like I said before the transmission, Flynn, the disk in Drive A records the data burst. And now...” he leaned forward and tapped a sequence of keys at the terminal “...we let the Network’s own data-analysis program isolate the codes we need...” he tapped some more keys “...and we send the result back to our disk in Drive A, to be saved along with the data burst.” He tilted back in his chair, once more enjoying the soft whrrr of the drives as the computer did his bidding.

  Flynn, Wraggon and Barnard looked at each other uncertainly.

  “One more thing,” Tauber added after the drives had fallen silent. He began punching in a long sequence of numbers and letters that had appeared on the screen in response to his previous directions.

  “Yeah?” Flynn muttered, leaning closer to get a better look at what Tauber was doing. “What’re you up to now?”

  “I’m using the access codes to get into the colonies’ Network and make some changes in the Network’s basic programming…. There!” he said, lifting his hands from the keyboard with the well-rehearsed flourish of a nightclub pianist. “Done! Amazing how much a few little changes can mean—if you know just where to make the changes. With these new instructions, we’ll be able to direct some of the colonies’ computer and robot operations without leaving any trace of what we’re doing. And now that we have the access codes, we can get back into their Network anytime we want to, and from any terminal on Earth.”

  “Looks like you have everything all figured out. So what did you need us for?” Wraggon asked, a sharp edge to his voice.

  “Don’t look so glum,” Tauber said slyly. “I’m saving the best part for last.”

  The others waited expectantly as Tauber carefully removed the disk from Drive A, placed it in its case and returned the case to his satchel. Then, with contrasting abandon, he disconnected the auxiliary drive unit from the terminal and ripped the library’s data-analysis disk from Drive B.

  “It’s party time,” Tauber laughed, throwing the data-analysis disk to the floor and grinding his heel into it. “Now.... Let’s wreck the hell out of this damn place!”

  Chapter 9: Sign of the Times

  “And tell Grimes over at Aerotech that Murdoch’s agreed to the terms we discussed last week,” Keith said to the human facsimile on his computer monitor. “Shouldn’t take more than another week to tie up the legal loose ends. Put all the details into the usual language, and let me see it before you send it.”

  Keith rubbed the back of his neck, stretched and then, yawning, shoved his chair backward a few feet. Funny how tired he felt lately….

  “How about dinner and dancing tonight, Essie?” he crooned self-mockingly.

  This new Electronic Secretary program was a winner, he thought. Fast, efficient, accurate. But it had its drawbacks. You can talk to a human secretary. You can have a cup of coffee with a human secretary. You can strike up a friendship with a human secretary.... He gave his head a quick shake. Enough of that. He had work to do.

  But instead of returning his attention to the screen, he rose and walked to a large picture window that afforded him a bird’s-eye view of the park across the street. It was a perfect summer day—bright, clear, warm but not as hot as it usually was in August. It was the kind of day you wished you could seal up in a jar and take out again at your convenience.

  He noticed the kids first. Kids and parks and a summer day—they just seemed to go together. But the park didn’t belong just to the children. An elderly couple strolled along a path bordering the duck pond, and it looked as if the local youth baseball league was about to get a game under way. Farther away, players occupying three of the park’s four tennis courts were engaged in lively matches.

  Tennis. Keith grunted. How long had it been since he’d played tennis? A long time. Not since.... Not since the day he helped Rayna go through Al Frederick’s permastore box. He stood there for a few moments, staring blankly in the direction of the park. He missed Rayna. No, it was more than that. It was something...intangible. He had a different sense of himself when he was with her—a more complete sense. It was almost as if there were two of him. And he liked the other Keith Daniels much better than the one he was now.

  The thought had barely formed in his mind when he felt that familiar wrenching sensation in his gut. It was getting too close. If he wasn’t careful, he’d suffocate. It had been that way with every other relationship he’d ever known. Get too close, and you choke off your own independence, your strength, your individuality. Get too close, and you get hurt.

  But loneliness hurt, too. In the last couple of months, Keith had tried to handle it by casually dating a succession of women, hoping to find in a series of escapades marked by heaving bodies and meaningless small talk what he already had found—but couldn’t permit himself to accept—with Rayna. Unfortunately, all this only served to etch his pain more deeply: There is no loneliness quite like the kind you feel when you’re with somebody else who’s busy having a good time.

  “The material for Mr. Grimes is ready for your inspection, sir,” Essie said in a soft and only slightly mechanical feminine voice.

  Keith inhaled deeply and blew the air slowly out of his mouth.

  “Yeah, right,” he mumbled to himself as he turned away from the window and headed back to the computer console.

  “Put it on the screen,” he said. He seated himself before the console and tried to focus his thoughts on the Aerotech deal. “Ready,” said Essie.

  He studied the Grimes material, but the words didn’t register. His mind was somewhere else. After reading the first paragraph for the third time, he gave up.

  “I’m sure it’s fine, Essie. Go ahead and send it.”

  “Yes, sir. Will there be anything more, sir?”

  “Not on Aerotech.” Keith’s mouth suddenly went dry. “How far did we get on the Rayna Kingman adoption records search?”

  “Not very far, I’m afraid, sir. Do you want to see a status report?”

  Keith nodded instinctively, then suddenly remembered that his terminal had not been equipped with a visual interpreter.

  “Yes, Essie. Bring up the status report.”

  Keith reached down and removed a stick of cherry licorice from a tall, clear-glass jar he kept on the low open shelf just to his right under the computer console tabletop. His eyes, however, remained fixed on the terminal screen.

  “Hmmmph,” he grunted, tearing off a piece of the licorice with his teeth. “You’re right, Essie. We sure haven’t gotten very far. The International Adoptions Clearance Board seems to be giving us a lot of double-talk. Or at least, their computer’s giving us a lot of double-talk. No offense, Essie.”

  “None taken, sir,” the Electronic Secretary responded with equanimity. “I am not programmed to respond with what you call ‘offense,’ sir.” Keith nodded, smiling at his own tendency to translate Essie’s digital voice-simulation patterns into the mental picture of a human being. “Do you wish to try the board again? It has been more than 11 weeks since the official ‘Request to Unseal Adoption Records’ was filed—an uncommonly long time for an answer to such a simple request.”

  Keith leaned back in his chair and chewed his licorice thoughtfully. Essie was right (of course). It had been a long
time since the request was filed. Why should the board be taking so long? He’d handled searches like this before, and the response was generally very prompt, even in complicated cases. The board was usually quick to help in the case of an authorization to unseal, or, in those rare cases where the records would remain sealed, to inform him of the decision and, to the greatest extent possible, the reason for denying authorization. This time, however, he’d received no response at all since filing the official request—not even a brushoff in the Twentieth Century bureaucratic gobbledygook that characterized the board’s answer to his first inquiries.

  Without thinking, he raised a hand to cover his face as a guilty conscience berated him for failing to follow up on the request long before this. He’d promised Rayna to report on his progress promptly and regularly. He hadn’t kept his word. Instead, he’d blocked all thoughts of her from his mind—including anything related to the search. He hadn’t seen her for nearly two months, and since then, they’d spoken only once by telephone. That, he suddenly realized, had been 10 days ago. He ignored the churning sensation in his stomach and took another bite of his licorice.

  “Get me a direct comm link with Arthur Judson of the clearance board’s London office, Essie. He owes me one for helping him unravel the Seritopoulos records last year.”

  Waiting for Essie to complete the connection, Keith let his mind wander. Why didn’t he think of calling Judson in the first place, he wondered. Then, with a sudden shock, he understood his reluctance: Judson would have helped him come up with some answers, and that would have meant confronting Rayna again. He felt his bowels tighten in a tug-of-war between his desire to be with her and a growing fear of his own feelings. How did this ever happen, he wondered. How did something that started out as just a nice, casual, fun-loving affair turn into something that scared him silly?

  “Daniels, old man!” exclaimed a jovial, mustachioed face on the terminal screen, which automatically doubled as a comm link video receiver. “It’s been a long time! Still playing solicitor and barrister in one?”