The Best of Electric Velocipede

by John Klima

  “I—” she stopped. Her glasses darkened several shades as she glanced around, reading heat patterns, microwave signals, and who knew what other manner of electromagnetic waveform. “I’m sorry. I don’t do this very often.”

  “This?” I asked.

  “Meeting people,” she said. The corner of her mouth twitched, an unconscious emotional tell. “I . . . spend a lot of my time logged in. My UVEI is less than 8.”

  I had noticed. But it wasn’t an unhealthy color. Not like the grid lizards you find nesting next to the heat vents down in the UPS farms. “I’ve gotten off to a bad start, I see,” she continued. “Let’s try this again.”

  “Okay.” I held out my hand. “Max.”

  She took it. Firm, but not demanding. Supple, but not too soft. A working hand that was well cared for. “Sophie.” Her fingers twitched as she let go, tickling my palm.

  “Nice to meet you.” I swiveled around on my stool so we were both facing the same direction, as if we were watching the parade of ads on the wall of jumbo v-mons. “So, Sophie,” I continued, trying my best to appear completely at ease, though truth be told, I was just as badly out of practice. “What can I do for you?”

  “Earlier, when you asked me to retrieve the visual feeds from the lines at that Emporium 31 . . .”

  I sipped my tea and nodded.

  “. . . I told you the closest time stamp match I had was four windings prior. Exactly four.”

  “Right. Your security policy was written either by an overzealous LegD or you had a bunch of baboons as consultants.”

  “It’s not,” she said. “It’s actually sixty-four windings. Or, at least it was. A new policy went active at cycle change, precipitating a systemic data purge.” She gave me one of those smiles. Hinting at a wellspring of laughter, one that hadn’t quite breached. “I need to thank you, actually. If you hadn’t asked to see the data, I wouldn’t have had a need to access the archives. It may have been a full rotation before I noticed the change in policy. That would have been . . .”

  “Catastrophic?”

  “Bad, for my PIPe. I have a mid-turn review next rotation.”

  “Good luck.” I raised my cup.

  “Thank you.” She put her hands in her lap. “But that’s not what I wanted to talk about.”

  “No?” My voice rose on the second letter, a rather awkward squeak as if I was attempting to impersonate one of those autonomous miPets. She shook her head. “The change was executed via a shell script. From a root login. On a system within our network that had been zombied by a terminal with a GTAC of “1E78/BF001.’”

  “A what?”

  “A GoogleTube Access Cipher key.”

  “I know what it is, it’s—”

  “The key belongs to ICE, Max.” She spelled it out for me, as I appeared to not be getting it. “One of your systems hacked my network last night.”

  “Ah,” I said. There I went, reverting to monosyllabic responses again. “Well,” I tried, but my head was filled with too many options, Theorist paranoia overflowing my buffers.

  She stood up, and pushed her half-eaten snack closer to me. “Please, finish this for me, will you?” She put her hand on my shoulder. “And please pull the plug on whomever is accessing my dataform.”

  She left, and I realized, as the aroma faded in her wake, that she smelled like flowers.

  When I touched her plate, I noticed it wasn’t quite flat on the table. I lifted it slightly and felt underneath. Stuck to the bottom was a tiny lozenge, a mag-strip candy—a tasty treat that came with a data payload. As casually as I could, I tugged the tiny lozenge off the plate and popped it in my mouth. As it dissolved on my tongue, my iView registered two numbers. One was the full GTAC/GMAC of the ICE terminal that had zombied her system. The other was a directory access number.

  I scrolled back through my call log.

  Different than before. This one must be her direct line.

  *

  I didn’t want to call right away. Subtle signals aside, she appeared to be focused on the business at hand, and I wanted to have something useful to tell her when I did call. As a result, it was late—nearly cycle change—before I did.

  “Hello, Max,” she said without preamble before my iView had even registered that the handshake protocol had been completed. As much as my paranoia resisted, I found that I liked having her voice in my head.

  “Hello, Sophie.” I remembered why I called her in the first place. “I found the zombie maker.”

  “But . . .”

  “How do you know there’s a ‘but’?”

  “There always is with men.”

  “Hey, that’s . . .” Probably true. “Okay. So, yeah, there is a ‘but’—” I stopped and took a deep breath before continuing. EyeSpies always charted on the SocDis spectrum; it went hand-in-hand with their ability to focus and multi-task. There was no point in getting angry with her. She probably wouldn’t understand why I was upset.

  “But,” I said, moving on, “the terminal was EOLed a half-turn ago, and removed from our routing tables three rotations later. I have a priority request for documentation of its recycle tab, but it’ll be post-meridiem before I hear anything.”

  “This news does not comfort me, Max.”

  “Yes, but—”

  “Every ’tube-ready object has a unique GTAC/GMAC key,” she said as if I didn’t already know this. “It won’t accept power without one. You can’t reuse a key.”

  “I know, Sophie,” I interrupted. “But—” It was like I was stuck in a bad code loop—but, but, but . . .

  “So, if this machine has been recycled, how did its GTAC/GMAC end up in my iNetMom dashboard yesterday?”

  “I’m still working on that,” I said. “That’s why I’ve got the Query registered.”

  She was quiet for a fraction. “This isn’t useful information,” she said.

  “It’s progress,” I tried. “You know, forward movement on the situation.”

  “What if the tag is present? What data does that give us?”

  “Well, I don’t know if the tag is there or not. That’s why I’m asking.” I was raising my voice again. Theory-brain was defaulting to my SOP with internal SysAdmD communications. Everyone thought they knew something about Theoretics.

  “If the recycle tab is available, then you have a spoofer.”

  “Yes, Sophie, I suppose that is possible.” I sighed. Somehow this conversation hadn’t gone like I had hoped.

  A spoofer was, like a zombie maker, a system that hid behind other systems, though in the case of the spoofer, it falsified its GMAC to the ’tubes. Both zombie making and spoofing were old hacks that had been bound out by the 23.r4 rev of iStructure. Of course, that was only true if SysAdmD was current on its iStructure revs.

  My confidence in ICE SysAdmD wasn’t that high, but I wasn’t about to share that with an outside agency.

  “What is your position on the presence of a spoofer, Max?” Sophie asked.

  “I—look, why are you breaking my balls?”

  “I’m . . . that’s rather odd syntax, Max. Rather aggressive.”

  “No, I—it’s an idiom. Late 20c. Sorry. That was inappropriate of me.”

  “Late 20c,” she replied, and for a few fractions, all I heard over the audio link was a micro-noise that seemed like the sound of her breathing. “You know much 20c?” she asked finally, in a different tone of voice. Much less brittle. Silkier, like this was an Avatar consultation.

  “A little,” I said. “It’s a hobby.”

  “A man does need a hobby.”

  “And how.”

  “Um . . . I . . . well, during your personal cycle time—”

  “Sorry, another idiom.”

  “Oh, yes.” She went silent again, and for the second time I wished this handshake had included a visual feed. I couldn’t get a read on what she was thinking, and the theory-brain was starting to wonder if I was talking to the same woman. Her voice had changed enough that—

 
“I, yeah, I’ll know more about that tag in a few windings,” I said, shaking off the professional paranoia. “I’ll let you know.”

  “Please do,” she said, and then: “Max?”

  “Yes?”

  “Thank you for calling.” And then she was gone.

  Theory-brain was telling me she was a wethead who had VMed her brain, splitting personalities to take advantage of the unused processor cycles in her brain. I went and took a cold shower, trying to drown theory-brain.

  Theory-brain got back at me while I slept, filling my dreams with dozens of Sophies, each one with a different personality.

  I kept my sanity by holding tight to a loop of her last four words.

  *

  Ante-meridiem, another iDeeBoy was waiting outside my office. I iSigned and took the ICEpak into my office. Flipping the bits that made my three square a black box, I opened the envelope.

  Thirty fractions later, I dropped the security screens and made a handshake with Prescott Four’s XA. “I need thirty fractions,” I told him when the call connected.

  Micro-pause. “Next rotation. Four Cee—”

  “No, I need them right now.”

  “I’m sorry, Security Theorist Semper Dimialos, but your request is out of compliance with your EnforD Registration. I cannot, obviously, comply.” Prescott Four’s Executive Administrator was a rail named Equus Grimester, a man prone to fashion explosions and dismissive sniffing. I got one of those sniffs now, coming through loud and clear on my audio link.

  “Ask him about Giselle.”

  “I will not, ST Semper Dimialos, and I would like to remind you that you are in violation of i3Cee 7, part 11g, as well as i3Cee—”

  “But, i3Cee 12, part 7a,” I interrupted, “states that any employee may request—once a turn—a thirty fraction window of the CEO’s time, so as to—”

  “I know the i3Cee,” Grimester interrupted me, punctuating the sentence with an especially loud nasal inhalation.

  “Good. I want my allotted time with Prescott Four, and I’d like it now.” I gripped the edge of my desk tightly to stop my hands from shaking.

  Another pause, longer this time, and when Grimester came back, his tone had gone all obsequious and musical on me again. “One fraction please.”

  It was more like a hundred fractions later when Prescott Four’s voice rang in my head. “Salutations and variations, Security Theorist Semper Dimialos,” he said, with an air of restrained jocularity. “My XA tells me that you’ve requested a 30fPA communication. I haven’t had one of these in . . . I can’t remember the last—”

  “Giselle Akkwild Haussingterre,” I said, getting to the point. If I let him, Prescott Four would ramble on for most of my allotted time, and then Grimester would cut me off before I got more than a few words out.

  “Excuse me?”

  “Tell me about Giselle.”

  A long pause, one that lasted well beyond my thirty-fraction limit, which validated a few theories rolling around my head. When Prescott Four spoke again, his voice had lost its levity. “She doesn’t exist, Max.”

  Max. Not Security Theorist Semper Dimialos. Prescott Four might seem like an idiot on GoogleTube feeds, but he came from a long line of corporate fathers. All shrewd and cutthroat when the situation demanded it.

  “What about forty-three turns ago?”

  “That’s a very specific time period, Max.”

  “I’m reading it right off a DNA report I have on my desk. A paternity test.”

  “How did you come by this . . . dubious. . . information?”

  “A better question might be to ask how this ‘dubious’ information came to be. It’s a lot easier to find information than it is to make it up.”

  “One of Security Directorate’s old truisms, yes?”

  “That it is, sir.”

  “You’d better come to my office, Max.”

  I went.

  *

  One of the corporate leadership perks was access to iReset, and RonTom St. John’s Liberty Prescott Four used it liberally. The package had a more technical name and wasn’t entirely Apple’s design, but let’s face it: it made you sleeker, gave you a better face, reduced your need for peripherals, and doubled your shelf life over the current regime of nootropic packs and neuro-lingistic recombinatory therapy. Which meant, he looked liked a Studio Idol on the cusp of legitimacy even though he was much older than I.

  He didn’t look happy though, and the emotive ionic shades of his top-floor ofice reflected his mood, making the enormous room seem both smaller and larger with its play of shadow and gray light.

  Standing inside the penthouse doors was an enormous presence. EnforD. I knew him, in fact. Simon Yullg. A knuckle-dragger with a long reach.

  “I’ve asked Chief Yullg to take some notes,” Prescott said, sensing my unasked question.

  “Of course,” I said, though we both knew Yullg wasn’t much for documentation. There’s a story that someone in FinD submitted a form to EnforD that didn’t have autofill, and Yullg tracked the poor bastard down and broke a digit for every field that didn’t validate. When Yullg ran out of fingers and toes, he went to the next three square and continued to mete out EnforD’s displeasure. It was, unfortunately, a rather long form.

  Doing my best to ignore the hulk of muscle in the corner, I walked over and put the ICEpak on Prescott’s desk. He slid out the single floppy inside and fanned it. To his credit, not a single muscle on his perfectly smooth face twitched while he scanned it.

  When he replaced the report in the envelope and held it out, Grimester, who had been hovering behind me, shot past my elbow and snatched the envelope. I didn’t have a chance to do anything but clench my sphincter a little tighter. Grimester pranced to the sidebar along the southern wall and put the ICEpak into the iToaster. The executive models had a setting for incinerate, which made the envelope flare for a fraction as it vaporized.

  “That’s probably not the only copy,” I pointed out.

  “True,” Prescott agreed. “But it is one less.”

  I tried to follow the reasoning there, but couldn’t. “That’s also not the first package I’ve received,” I added.

  “Through our own network, no less.”

  “Yes, sir. I figure that’s just to make us angry.”

  “Did it work?”

  “How so?”

  “Are you angry?”

  I looked at Yullg, who popped a joint in his jaw.

  “A little,” I admitted. “But it’s the sort of outrage that increases productivity.”

  “That’s good, Max.” He watched the iToaster as it auto-cleaned its bay of the gritty remnants. “What was in the first package?”

  “A term paper, from LVSIB.”

  His mouth tightened. “The actual paper, or just the citation?”

  “The actual paper.”

  “That is interesting.” he said.

  “How so?”

  “I never wrote it.”

  I was confused, and said as much.

  “I intended to. Or rather, I intended to put my name on it. But I never had the opportunity.”

  “This one certainly had your name on it.”

  “Hence why I thought it was interesting.”

  “Ah,” I said. Theory-brain told me to keep it simple. Let him talk. “Do you know who is doing this to me, Max?”

  “I’m working on it, sir. I have a—” Theory-brain made me bite my tongue. “I have some data that might be useful.”

  “Might?”

  “It’s still very theoretical.”

  He shrugged as if that detail wasn’t important. “Yullg doesn’t believe in theory. Perhaps you should give him this data.”

  I swallowed, and took a moment to gather my courage. This was, of course, the response theory-brain had tagged as highly probable, and in order to not get trapped with that suggestion, I had to proceed carefully. “I’m not sure that’s a good idea, sir.” When he didn’t say anything, I plunged on. “The packages are c
oming to me. Not you. At this point, this person believes I am integral to his design. If you rechain this to EnforD, it’ll raise the profile of the issue. It’ll be harder to control.”

  He considered that for a fraction, his fingers idly drumming on his desk, and then he nodded. “Control is the issue, isn’t it, Max? If we do nothing, then the blackmailer doesn’t know if his messages are being received. He’ll wonder if he has control, and so he’ll keep sending packages.”

  “Allowing me time to identify and locate him.”

  “That is a dangerous proposition, Max. It offers . . . many variables.”

  I glanced back at Yullg. “He offers one. You sure you want to be that inflexible?”

  Prescott Four let his eyes flick toward his chief knuckle-dragger. “That is an interesting point, Max.” His fingers drummed once more on the desk and then stopped. “You have until the end of the rotation,” he said. “At which time, I will COCT your ICID to Yullg.” He flashed me a smile that was all teeth and no humour. “I’ll indulge your Theoretics for a cycle or two.”

  “Thank you, sir,” I said. “I will do my utmost to have this resolved ASAP.”

  “I hope so, Max,” Prescott said. Yullg popped his jaw again.

  Trip BinBin was waiting at my office. “Did you find the tag?” I asked as I sat down behind my desk, and started to massage my temples. I always got a tension headache after meetings with upper management. Having Yullg there had only made this one worse.

  Trip hooted, and banged on his ’tray keyboard. Trip was an IT monkey. A modified chimpanzee, he had a predilection for primary colors which expressed itself as a yellow beanie and a blue vest. His Jaynes LinkTray was slung low across his chest, and a large red “Free Genetics!” holostat curled around the bottom edge of the unit.

  The speakers set in the ’tray housing popped with noise for a fraction before modulating into a human voice. I had been working with Trip long enough to know that first spit of sound wasn’t zero-tech feedback, but was a triggered sound effect—aural commentary on the synthesized human speech about to follow. “No tag.”

  The voice wasn’t the generic voxtrack, but one that had some subtle modulation and inflection. Like most IT monkeys, Trip was a tweaker. Every piece of hardware he used was a mod-kit; nothing ever stayed OTS long with them. “Log hole,” the voice added.