Mind Games

by Alan Brudner

  "Because you be a good man," she said.

  I walked to the doorway to get some air. An old man limping behind an aluminum walker looked at me. He was stooped, his hair long and gray. He had a gray mustache and a lot of wrinkles. But he was dressed in a tie-dyed shirt, bell bottom Landlubber jeans, moccasins. Puka shells around his neck.

  "At least I've lived my life," the frail old Eno Loggia said.

  "Mister Clay be a good man," I heard Charlene tell Eliza inside the room.

  •

  I jumped out of bed, ran to the bathroom and doused my face in icy cold water. Despite it, the man who stared back at me from the vanity mirror looked tired and sick and ashen.

  Chapter 33

  I had barely taken off my coat when I unpacked the computer and set it up in the den. I no longer needed the color-coding on the wires and terminals. I still wasn't a whiz, but I had become technologically almost self-sufficient.

  There was no CybroMail. No standard E-mail.

  Not much regular paper mail, either, just some ads and a packet that advised me that I was in the only group from which the next Publishers Clearing House millionaire would be chosen. Also a cylindrical FedEx package that turned out to contain a bottle of Five Fingers Chardonnay, courtesy of Eno Loggia. Addressed to me as Clay Blacker, PI. Even in my tense mood, it brought a smile to my face.

  The only message on the answering machine was from Scarlett. She saw a "Missing" poster of Sky on a telephone pole. She took it down and planned to hang it in her new home. Avery Kord was giving her some money so she could move to Paris soon. She didn't want to go, but she needed to. For her baby. She would pray for Schuyler and stay in touch. She would call when she got to France and explain everything.

  It took awhile to get the Mom.ava program up and running. It responded less crisply than usual, and the hourglass indicating that the computer was busy seemed to last forever. I wondered if something was damaged in the trip back from Tampa. It was after midnight, but I couldn't sleep, so I tinkered until Eliza finally showed up.

  She was wearing a white sweatshirt and sky blue running shorts, the shiny satiny kind. I had forgotten how great she looked in them, her legs muscular like a young figure skater's. I liked that outfit on her better than a silk teddy, a Victoria's Secret body suit, a birthday suit.

  "What are you staring at?" she asked, turning, looking back over her shoulder coyly, a model on a Milan runway.

  "Going for a midnight run?" I asked.

  "In a manner of speaking."

  "I'd like to watch. You can start now."

  "No, I can't." She faced me, her voice serious, and I noticed dark circles under her eyes. "I've gone through as much virus software as possible. I'm now the carrier of a rather complicated killer cocktail."

  "How will it work, Lize?"

  "You're going to have to send me to every Cybronics location. Every one. It won't be me you're actually sending, but a clone of the codes I'm carrying. Digital diseases. You'll have to hit every single computer hooked into their system. The Cybronics employees and vendors who have home computers, who use the software."

  "What about all the people who bought a computer with Cybronics hardware or software? That's almost every person in the United States, Eliza. And many around the world."

  "I don't think we have to go that far, Cliff. Remember, it's Sky we're trying to find. He's Kord's employee. He's working on a program for Kord and Cybronics. He's going to be somewhere on the employee-based system. It's almost a sure thing."

  "Kord doesn't like risk, Lize, and neither do I. Not when Schuyler's involved."

  "I think this is one we have to take, Cliff. Otherwise, we'd be talking hundreds of millions of computers. For now, we try 68,000 and see if it works. And Cybronics machines are linked to plenty of others. These bugs will spread like wildfire even if we don't force them to."

  "How do we know which machines are in the Cybronics network?"

  "Avery Kord's an egomaniac, Cliff. He tags everything with an identifier, a code, so he can track every employee, every piece of property relating to his company. He's got a different tag for customers who buy or own or download or copy something Cybronics has created. I know the codes. I have the complete lists. And I think we shoot for the 68,000 employee-related items first."

  "Okay," I said. I was far from convinced, but I knew there was no stopping her. I also knew there was no alternative.

  "So you'll send out packages, Cliff. Each one contains the most up-to-the-minute, most destructive viruses from the Creation lab at Cybronics. And my explicit coded instructions to explode when opened. You'll send one package to each and every one of the sixty-eight thousand addresses. And as soon as the recipients click the mouse or hit a key to open the package—"

  "Kaboom?"

  "Precisely."

  "But why would everyone necessarily do that, Lize?"

  "Because their screens will have some kind of picture on them. Something enticing, something they'll want to open. Like a Pandora's box. I'll come up with something. But whatever they choose to do, they'll be locked in by clicking. For MORE INFORMATION, they'll click. To say NO THANKS, they'll click. MAYBE LATER—click. Or turn their machines off and click when they log back on. Or try to change screens. The beauty of this virus delivery system is that no matter what they choose, the viruses will get set off. And every Cybronics program and hard drive will become about as useful as a lump of Jell-O in a plastic box."

  "What about Cybronics' main systems, Lize? Aren't they protected?"

  "The mainframes? I can get into those, too. I've already decoded the firewalls and inoculation programs. And I've been studying multi-platform communications. Anything I can do in a PC, I can do in a mainframe or a laptop or a handheld if it's got a datalink."

  "But Kord's got the best anti-virus software on the planet, Lize."

  "Maybe. But his viruses are even more powerful. They're way out in front of the things that try to kill the little buggers. They have unique signatures that can't be recognized."

  "How do you know that?"

  I noticed a smirk on her face.

  "Schuyler created most of the viruses," she said.

  I couldn't help but laugh. I had to believe that if Sky worked on them, they were more effective than anything else.

  "Suppose we successfully destroy every single program connected to Cybronics, Eliza," I said. "We crash all the hard drives, everything."

  "Music to my ears," she shot back. But she anticipated my next concern. "The last thing you'll be required to do is push the button that obliterates all traces of me."

  "Is that really necessary?" I could feel my lip start to twitch, the blood drain out of my face.

  "It won't work otherwise, Cliff. Believe me, I wish there were some other way. But at that point, I'll be disintegrating along with Cybronics' systems anyway. You won't recognize what's left of me. And there's also another reason. The clock is ticking. You remember how Avery Kord knew when I broke into the Lightman files?"

  "He knew someone did. Not necessarily that it was you."

  "Right. Well, he got wise. This time, the Cybronics security guys put a tracer on me."

  "So they can find you?"

  She nodded. "First me, then you, Cliff. To hack into a computer file, you basically have to shake hands with the receiving system. There's no other way. Then you scan its data. Only this time, when I hacked into the virus creation databases, the Cybronics security systems put an indelible stamp on my hand. It sends out signals. When they find the source of the signals, they find me. And they've got a team right now working on it. Since my home location is this computer, which is in this house—"

  My voice felt constricted by a tightening throat, but I managed to get my words out.

  "How do we know we'll get Sky back," I asked, "even if we screw up the entire system?"

  "We don't, Cliff." Eliza didn't hesitate. "But it'll give us our best shot. First, we'll be destroying the subliminal suggestion program.
So he won't receive any signals directing him to try suicide. The suggestion will disappear. So that eliminates possible Plan A. As for Plan B, once their systems start falling apart, you'll have some time. I'm not sure how you'll find him. But at that point, it'll be up to you." She looked down. Her smile was gone.

  "I love you, Shutterbug," I said, touching the screen with my fingertips. Then I leaned forward and lightly kissed the image of her cheek.

  "Let's go," she said as I pulled back. "The faster you pull off a Band-Aid, the less it hurts."

  Chapter 34

  Eliza winked and the screen turned page white. A few seconds ticked by. Then she reappeared in a small window in the upper right corner, but she was still and silent as the e-mail addresses began to scroll by:

  AAaron@CYB.com

  AAbbe@CYB.gov.com

  AAbbott@CYB.com.htp

  AAbdul@CYB.edu

  My screen quickly filled, and kept scrolling down about ten lines per second as more and more CybroMail addresses raced across its bottom line.

  ABrudne@CYB.edu

  WBryan@CYB.com

  RBurns@CYB.edu

  DBurpee@CYB.edu

  RBurr@CYB.gov.com

  A horizontal bar graph on the lower left estimated that the download of information would take two more hours.

  I left the machine on and took a breather outside. The brisk air was a relief after Tampa's. It was almost pitch black on the street, but far from deserted. A couple strolled hand-in-hand while an elderly lady walked her basset hound. I waited in line to buy the Saturday night edition of the Sunday Times. It was thick and heavy. I checked to be sure all the sections were there.

  I noticed Avery Kord's face on the front page. He had testified on Friday before a Congressional committee. Congress was considering whether to break up Cybronics into smaller pieces or to bar it from certain aspects of the software and Internet businesses because it was already a huge, unfettered, abusive monopoly. Imposing restrictions would give some of the politicians' constituents, Kord's competitors, a chance to make a few bucks. It's the American way. A final committee vote was scheduled to take place in a few weeks, giving Kord's lawyers enough time to submit briefs if they wanted to. There was some talk of delay for a few months out of respect for the San Francisco Six, but most legislators thought that step unnecessary. The group was identified as on the fringe, too far out of the mainstream for their deaths to warrant a postponement of the vote.

  Despite the recent tragedy and the high stakes for him, Kord smiled widely in the photo, a hint of buck teeth and his well-known oversized glasses; you would have guessed he had freckles even though I didn't notice any. Middle America had to love the guy. He was your annoying little brother having the last laugh, making good, the kind of kid who probably ate the shepherd's pie in the school cafeteria and liked it. How could such an innocent face mask the soul of a criminal so evil that he would somehow arrange to kill his own partner and at least two of his most promising proteges? Yet just to be sure you love him, just in case you still had a reasonable doubt, he was appearing on 60 Minutes tonight to show you his house, his minivan, his dog. His toys. And he'd give you an on-line present. This would be Avery Kord Lite. And live. Not pre-recorded. He wanted the public to know this was the real, flesh-and-blood, unrehearsed thing.

  On impulse, anxiety, I flipped to the obituaries as I walked down the street. I felt a wave of relief when I saw no Lightmans. Still, I chewed my lower lip as I marched home, Avery Kord safely under my arm. I felt some kind of perverse satisfaction by knocking his face with my elbow as I took each step.

  I also wondered about the wire transfers into Hank Driver's Cayman Islands account. The string of thousands, maybe even the tens and twenties, must have been for porn. But there were the biggies. They were obviously payments. The first one came soon after Justin Webb's murder. So Kord might well have paid for his partner's murder, and Driver surely seemed to have the disposition to pull it off. This time around, I figured Driver got smarter and wanted half up front. I shuddered to think what the recent fifty thousand might be a down payment for, but I thanked God there wasn't any record of another fifty.

  Not yet.

  I got home as the program reached the addresses at the tail of the alphabet:

  Hwieland@CYB.com

  KWilnot@CYB.com

  PWright@CYB.com

  FXavier@CYB.org.edu

  EYale@CYB.com

  Tyounger@CYB.edu

  Then, finally:

  VZwingli@CYB.edu

  VZworykin@CYB.org.edu

  Then it flashed, in bold blue letters:

  THIS FILE HAS BEEN SUCCESSFULLY DOWNLOADED!

  Eliza had been frozen for more than two hours. Now she emerged from her cryogenic state, but remained on the screen only in a little corner window.

  "Okay, Cliff," she said, some color filling her white cheeks. "Now you scroll back up to page one. That's 3,011 pages. You highlight the first address and hit SEND."

  Scrolling back up took a couple of minutes. This was a big job even for Sky's state-of-the-art Cybronics machine.

  "Kord's puss is in the paper," I said while repeatedly hitting the up arrow key. "He just testified because Congress is thinking about putting some restrictions on his business. They're voting in a couple of weeks."

  Her lips curled before she spoke. "A ball and chain on his ankles for ten to twenty might help."

  "His 60 Minutes appearance is tonight, Lize. A live broadcast. He's going to send a present to everybody in the universe with a modem. Just like his father told me. He announced it in the Times."

  Eliza frowned. "Did you hear what you just said?"

  I felt my brow furrow.

  "Cliff, what kind of gift do you think he's going to transmit to everyone?"

  My finger froze at NMacchia@CYB.com.

  "Subliminal suggestion? Lize, you don't suppose—"

  "It's a live show, so he has to do it in a way that isn't obvious. He doesn't control the show, the production. But he does control the gizmos he's planning to show off and the surprise gift he's going to send everyone over the Internet."

  "You really think he plans to send out subliminal suggestions?"

  "Why not? It's perfect. He sends millions of people something he knows they'll open because they've seen the show. And they're thrilled, whatever it is. Probably copies of some of the paintings he owns, the Van Goghs and Picassos and Rembrandts. Screen savers. And as you stare at them, you don't even realize that he's twisting your brain to make you go out and buy fifty more of his company's products."

  Her face and her lips turned redder. "If you're in Congress, he's sending you subliminal instructions to vote against harming his business. You use your computer over the next few weeks, it leaves an indelible mark on your point of view. An invisible mark. Everyone thinks it's all just because they liked him as he appeared on the boob tube."

  I knew she was right. The timing of the television appearance and the novel idea of sending everyone an E-mail gift just a few weeks before the Congressional vote was too coincidental.

  "Assuming the worst, Cliff, then Sky's program's got to be in place and ready to go by tonight. And I'm pretty sure Kord would want to keep Sky around in case of a foul-up. So Schuyler's either finished testing it or is racing to complete it even as we speak."

  I nodded. "Sky's probably holed up with a computer somewhere right now." I didn't want to consider the possibility that the testing had already been done. I clung to the notion that there was still time.

  Eliza started to vocalize my thoughts. "Once he's completed the work, Cliff—"

  "I know, Lize. We need to move fast."

  I scrolled all the way back up to AAaron@CYB.com. I highlighted the address, moved the cursor to the SEND button and clicked the mouse. The screen bleeped for a second before YOUR MESSAGE HAS BEEN SENT appeared.

  I repeated the process for AAbbe@CYB.gov.com, then for AAbbott@CYB.com.htp. The process was cumbersome, and it was already 2:30 in the
morning. I didn't need Sky's math ability to calculate that at that pace, I'd be unable to finish by the time 60 Minutes came on. I knew there had to be a more efficient way, but I didn't know how. Eliza was again in suspended animation in the corner window. Her image seemed coarser, out of focus. I figured she was tired.

  Or something like that.

  I tried highlighting five addresses at a time before clicking on SEND. The machine froze for about a second, barely longer than for just a single address, and then advised that the messages had been sent. I tried ten. This time it froze too long, so long I thought the whole system would crash and I'd lose all of it. I decided it was safer to stay with five addresses on each shot. This was no time for careless chances. I still had to get from the B's through the Z's.

  Chapter 35

  The sun rose outside my den window, casting the gray keyboard in a yellow glow made softer by the sheer curtains Eliza had picked out many years earlier. I got up for a cold one-minute shower, brushed my teeth, made some coffee. I was tired, nervous, anxious; the taste in my mouth reminded me of burning tires. Five minutes attending to some human needs would keep me as alert and efficient as possible.

  When I sat down and looked at the monitor, Eliza was gone. The little window she had been in had also disappeared. There was nothing in its place but a continuation of the screen's white background.

  "Lize," I called out.

  Nothing.

  "Eliza!" I raised my voice. Nothing.

  "Shutterbug!" The volume might have woken the neighbors, but I had my priorities. Their kids were all safely tucked in.

  Still nothing.

  I was tempted to turn off the machine or exit and start up again. But the names were still up on the screen, I had around 46,000 more messages to mail, and I was scared that if I shut down, I'd lose all that data.

  And I'd lose my son.

  I hoped it was a temporary glitch, but I had a feeling that Kord's experts had gotten to Eliza. Found out she broke into the virus creation lab.

  I wasn't sure if they could trace her back to my house, my phone numbers, but I figured they could. And I didn't know whether they had any idea what she was doing with the viruses she stole.