Infiltrator t2-1

by S. M. Stirling

  He couldn’t believe that she was trying to make excuses. He didn’t want excuses; he wanted silence so he could work.

  “Take him out on the porch until he gets quiet,” he said in a voice that left no doubt about how angry he was.

  Lisa glanced at the window, at cold rain falling out of an iron-gray sky in a steady downfall that suited her mood perfectly. He could see her getting ready to object when the baby let out an earsplitting shriek. Ron started to rise and she turned, grabbed her coat, and went out without another word.

  Labane sat back down and seethed for a minute. His concentration was broken. It would be an hour at least before he could get back in the groove. With a curse he

  got up and went into the kitchen to get himself a cup of coffee. Automatically he checked the fire in the woodstove.

  He loved his son, and pitied him for the pain he must be going through. But sometimes he doubted Lisa’s dedication to the cause. Didn’t she understand that the cause was all that mattered? If his children were to have a future, there had to be discipline. Discipline and one leader.

  He glared at the battered van in the driveway. It was partially powered by sunlight and had a solar apparatus on its roof. For all the good that did them in rain-soaked Oregon. That van was a symbol to Ron, a symbol of how he was right and it still didn’t work for him.

  Ronald ran a frustrated hand through his thinning hair. Even the other members of the commune were beginning to grow tired of his message. They were doing really well now with the produce from their fields and orchards. The public was at last willing to pay a premium for organic fruits and vegetables.

  But there was so much more people needed to know, needed to do. They had to leave something for the future, to do more than merely recycle. They had to live more simply, to rely less on machines.

  Yes, that was what he’d been trying to say. Machines were the enemy. More power for the machines was the battle cry. And the machines made more machines, putting people out of work, denying men and women the clean pride of earning a living. Men could live without machines, but woe to the human race if ever machines could do without men.

  That was good. I’ll have to get that down.

  Lisa crossed in front of the window, the baby was quiet now, and since he was wrapped up in her coat she was looking a bit pinched and resentful. Ronald tapped on the window and beckoned her in, then returned to his small office and began to type.

  After supper that evening Branwyn called a meeting and they all gathered around the work-worn kitchen table. Ronald eyed her with disfavor.

  Ever since Brian’s birth, all of the women had started to get agitated. At first he’d thought it was just jealousy, but now he thought it was some sort of nest-building mind-set. They talked about the “children’s” future, and how they had to build the “business” for them.

  This was a far cry from the rugged, independent pioneers they planned to be when they started the commune. Then it was all hard work and ideals and group sex almost every night. Now it was spreadsheets and a new truck and maybe a mail-order business. George, one of the older members, had even suggested that they hire some help for the harvest.

  “Look,” Branwyn said, staring right at him, “I hate to say this, Ron, but you’re not pulling your weight. Every time someone comes up with a suggestion for expanding our operation, you shoot us down with some high-minded speech about living apart from the capitalists. Well, that might work if you were turning your hand to some of the labor around here, but you’re not. We’re feeding you, we’re washing your clothes, we’re paying for the electricity that runs that computer, we’re chopping the wood, we’re making your bed, and we’re doing the dishes. And all we get from you is that we’re making too much noise and we’re disturbing the great work. Well, who died and anointed you king? What great

  work? As far as I’m concerned, you talking to your buds on the Internet isn’t going to bring down the consumerist society.”

  “And all-out surrender is?” he asked acidly. “So tell me, Louise,” she flinched.

  “Buying a new truck, hiring migrant workers, how is that going to do something for the movement? I never thought I’d see the day when you, of all people”—he looked at each face around the table—“would even suggest supporting the system that has exploited those people for generations.”

  They looked shamefaced for a moment, and then Branwyn raised her broad face to him.

  “Well,” she said sweetly, “if you lent a hand now and again, maybe we wouldn’t be thinking of hiring people. But the loss of an able-bodied man is hurting us.

  And, frankly, I’m planning a child of my own. So I won’t be climbing trees for quite a few months. Which means that someone else will have to do the pruning.” She offered him a bold look. “HI take over the newsletter for you.”

  “That’s a great idea!’-‘ Ron sneered. “We’re supposed to be starting a revolution, and you’ll be offering handy tips on washing windows with vinegar and making hand cream with lanolin and beeswax. That ought to change things!”

  Baldur looked at him with those big soft eyes of his and said sadly, “The revolution is supposed to come about based on our example and the free exchange of information. You used to download stuff for us all the time about what other organic farmers were doing. You haven’t done that in nearly a year.

  Has everybody gone out of business, or what?”

  “We are not a business.” Ron shouted, hitting the table with his fist hard enough

  to make his plate bounce. “We are the seeds of a revolution.”

  Brian started to cry and Lisa rose from the table, walking back and forth with the baby in her arms. She jogged him and shushed him and glared at Ronald.

  Ayesha rubbed a hand over her dark brow and looked at her friends around the table with troubled eyes. “We ah part of a revolution, Ron,” she said. “Part of the back-to-the-earth revolution. And we’ve been so successful that the big concerns ah coming to us to learn how to do what we do. I got this bad feelin’, though, that we ah talkin’ about different things these days when the word ‘revolution’ comes up.”

  Ron glared at her. Dear Ayesha, he thought. Always so tactful. At this moment he found it hard to believe that the sound of her soft accent and the sight of her dark skin used to set him trembling with desire. Right now his sole desire was to strangle her. To murder the whole lot of them. He couldn’t believe they’d turned against him like this. Obviously they’d been talking behind his back.

  “So what’s the bottom line here?” he asked. “Since you’ve all become so bizzz-ness-oriented.”

  “The bottom line is straighten up your act or take a hike. This isn’t a welfare state,” Branwyn said.

  The others shifted uneasily. They wouldn’t have put it quite so harshly, but that’s what he got for calling her Louise.

  “And this isn’t Jonestown either,” Lisa said. “Or any other cult where the women are cattle that get whacked when they don’t go where you want.”

  The others looked at her in astonishment, then at Ron, their mouths hanging open.

  “I’ve never hit you in my life!” Ron protested.

  “I’ve been wondering just lately how long that’s going to last,” Lisa snapped.

  “This afternoon when you ordered me out of the house and started to get up with that look on your face…”

  “I was going to close the office door!” He stared at her in frank astonishment.

  “The fact that you are apparently paranoid doesn’t make me the kind of pig who beats his wife.”

  “I’m not your wife!”

  Ronald threw up his hands. No, she wasn’t his wife, but she might as well be.

  Over time they’d paired off and Lisa and he had been pretty exclusive for about five years now. She’d had his son, they shared a bed, what more did it take?

  “Beats women,” he amended. “I’m not the kind of pig that beats women.”

  Though right now it was beginning
to look like a fun thing to do. The people around the table glanced at each other nervously. He didn’t know these people anymore—they were older, they were settled, they’d lost their fire. In short, they’d turned into backstabbing, backsliding, budding capitalists. He couldn’t let them get in the way of his work.

  “All right,” he said, hiding his resentment, “put me on the work list.”

  He got up and went back into the office, softly closing the door behind him. He’d have to move his plans to a new level. Perhaps if he presented it to them in the form of a business plan, it wouldn’t scare the craven-hearted losers into full flight.

  They weren’t his friends and allies anymore, Lisa wasn’t his wife, they were assets that he could make use of to achieve his goal. This was the worst betrayal he’d ever allow himself to experience. There wouldn’t be another, because he’d never again make the assumption that he had friends.

  Ron had always heard that leaders walked alone. Now he knew why. You couldn’t afford to let people distract you, because they’d slow you down or stop you completely if they could. And you’d have nobody to blame but yourself.

  LOS ANGELES INTERNATIONAL AIRPORT: THE PRESENT

  Serena entered the airport wearing a linen pant suit with a tan silk blouse. On her feet were a pair of moderately uncomfortable shoes and at her side was a carry-on bag filled with underpants and stockings and the clothes she’d stolen. She also carried an empty purse and a cheap attache case. She’d been shocked at how expensive these few things had been. Less than a hundred dollars remained in her pocket.

  Taking off her sunglasses, she looked around, impressed by the size and bustle.

  She wandered for a bit, entered a rest room, where she washed her hands. When the room emptied she tossed her purse and briefcase into her carry-on bag. Then she went looking for airport security.

  “You hear about things like this happening,” she said, shamefaced, “but you don’t expect it to happen to you.” She brushed back her hair and tightened her

  lips.

  It was hard not to stare at the woman behind the desk; she was very overweight and Serena had never seen anyone in such condition in her own time. Skynet didn’t allow dysfunction, and the free humans just barely got enough to eat when they were lucky. It fascinated her.

  I wonder what could be causing this problem. It must be a problem; these people were less than optimally healthy. How big can humans get without dying? There had to be an upward limit to this phenomenon.

  “Happens every day,” the bored security woman told her. “The best we can do is file a report so that your insurance company will be satisfied, and your bank. But I’m afraid you’ll probably never see your belongings again.”

  The 1-950 shrugged and rolled her eyes. “I know. I don’t expect miracles. After all, I never even got a look at the thieves.”

  Her story was that she was in a toilet stall when two women or girls grabbed her purse and her laptop from above and below the stall. By the time she got out, they were long gone.

  Serena sighed. “Just another day in the big city,” she said with a rueful expression.

  “Travelers Aid might be able to give you a hand,” the security woman suggested dubiously. She never had figured out what those people were supposed to be for.

  When they were at their desks at all.

  Serena waved a hand. “Fortunately I’ve got some cash in my pocket. I’ll just get to my hotel and they’ll help me out. Thank you for your assistance,” she said, and extended her hand.

  Surprised, the woman shook it. “Good luck,” she said.

  “After this I deserve some,” Serena said over her shoulder as she departed.

  It had all been so civilized. The hotel was wonderfully cooperative and sympathetic. American Express had sent a card over to her by courier within the hour. She’d dropped her small suitcase in her room, a very nice room, and had gone shopping for a laptop at a nearby computer store. She was very pleased with her purchase and ready to begin the next phase of her integration with society. If she had actually been robbed she thought that by now she’d be quite soothed.

  By tomorrow she should be able to begin acquiring references.

  CAMBRIDGE, MASSACHUSETTS: THE PRESENT

  Serena had decided that her first job out of college was with Worlon Systems. It was a small company that created software and software security systems for a very select client list.

  The company’s decor was sleekly modern, but with soft plush edges, everything open plan and in shades of beige and gray; the whole room whispered money.

  What their unfortunate clients didn’t know, but the 1-950 did, was that Mr.

  Griffith, Worlon’s chief of security, could access their accounts anytime he

  wished, make any adjustments he wanted to, and then leave without a trace.

  Well, there’s always a trace, Serena thought. And she had the evidence stored in her laptop.

  “Could I use your phone?” she asked the receptionist. “Just to make an internal call.”

  The woman pointed to a phone on the counter and Serena tapped in a four-digit number. Griffith answered on the first ring with a sharp, distracted, “Yes?”

  “Mr. Griffith, my name is Serena Burns. Could I come up and talk to you?”

  “You’ll have to make an appointment with my secretary,” he said. There was a pause. “How did you get this number?”

  “Irrelevant, Mr. Griffith. I’m calling in regard to the Babich, Fisher account. A matter of some… delicacy.”

  “Who did you say you were?” His voice sounded slightly belligerent, but she could detect micro-tremors that said he was surprised and nervous.

  “Burns,” she told him. “Serena Burns.”

  “Right now is inconvenient, Ms. Burns.”

  “I think now would be an excellent time to discuss my work, Mr. Griffith. I have other parties interested in my program.”

  There was another pause, a longer one this time.

  “I’ll send my secretary down to escort you up,” he said. He didn’t trouble to hide his anger, but he couldn’t hide his alarm from her educated ear.

  *

  “What are we talking about here, Ms. Burns?” Griffith asked as soon as he’d shut the door in his secretary’s startled face. He was a compact man of about fifty, clean-shaven, dark hair receding in classic male pattern baldness. He sat behind his shining ebony desk and assessed her with an expert’s eye. “You’re not what I expected.”

  “What we’re talking about today is an exchange of favors, Mr. Griffith,” Serena said brightly. “I have evidence that you’ve been selling insider information and that you’ve been siphoning funds and altering accounts in your clients’ files. I’m prepared to give you that evidence and to teach you how to better cover your tracks.”

  He looked at her without blinking for a long moment, then took a deep breath.

  “In exchange for?”

  “There’s a job I want,” she said. “But my employment record is sketchy. Much of the work I do is extremely confidential, and so my clients can’t provide references. So when someone calls you up and asks about me, I need you to tell them that you remember me and found me reliable and smart and that you expect me to go a long way.”

  For a long moment he looked her in the eye. Serena supposed he was attempting some sort of dominance game, but he hadn’t a chance. She held all the cards here

  and she, genuinely didn’t care how he felt about it.

  “And when were you supposed to have worked here, exactly?” he finally asked.

  “I’ve already created a record of my employment and installed it in your system,”

  she said. “It was approximately five years ago. It would look suspicious if you were too specific about the dates, don’t you think?”

  “You must be pretty good,” he said with a tilt of his head.

  “Yes,” she said frankly. “Too good for you to fool. Come now, Mr. Griffth—let’s do business. I’m
not asking for much, I just want a fair shot at this job. And I have no particular interest in hanging you out to dry. In exchange for your cooperation I’ll give you peace of mind by erasing all traces of your activity at Babich, Fisher.” She cocked her head. “You don’t have to tell them you liked me.

  In fact you can say you hate my guts. All I ask is that you tell them I’m good at my job.”

  “All right,” he agreed.

  She stood. “Thank you, Mr. Griffith.” Serena placed her laptop on his desk and extracted a disk. “This contains all of the information that I’ve found, with instructions on how to avoid leaving the same trail. Shall I remove your footprints from your clients’ files or would you prefer to do it?”

  He took the disk from her. “I’ll take care of it,” he said gruffly.

  “You won’t be sorry, Mr. Griffith.” Serena went to the door then stopped, her hand on the doorknob, and glanced over her shoulder. “Unless, that is, you let

  me down.” Her eyes promised that he’d be very sorry indeed if he did that.

  “I don’t break my promises, Ms. Burns.”

  She smiled and let herself out. This from a man who’s stealing from his clients.

  NEW LIFE ORGANIC FARM, OREGON: THE PRESENT

  “I’m sorry about that scene the other night,” George said.

  Ronald stopped spraying the soap mixture and looked down at him. The fresh spring air and the scent of blossom wafted by, unnoticed. Birds hopped and cheeped, and something small and furry scurried through a row of blackberry bushes not far away, intent on its own affairs.

  “That wasn’t a scene,” Ron said, “that was an assassination attempt.”

  George curled up his lips and looked down at his work boots. “No one is trying to kill you, Ron,” the older man said.

  Labane climbed down the ladder so that he could look him in the eye.

  “You have all lost your focus,” he said. “You now want nothing more than to have a nice peaceful life with slippers and babies and apple pie and screw the revolution. Let the kids take care of it, I’m tired,” he mimicked. “When we were kids we were going to do it. Now you want the ones you were going to do it for to do it for you!”