Homosoto didn't flinch. "Does that mean you do not disapprove of your family's activities? How they make money?"
"I don't give a fuck!" Miles yelled. "How does that grab you? I don't give a flying fuck. They were real good to me, paid a lot of my way. I love my mother and she's not a hit man. My uncle does I don't know what or care. They're family, that's it. How much clearer do you want it?" Miles continued shouting.
Homosoto grinned and held up his hands. "My apologies Mr. Foster. I mean no disrespect. I just like to know who works for me."
"Hey, I don't work for you yet."
"Of course, a simple slip of the tongue."
"Right." Miles snapped sarcastically.
Homosoto ignored this last comment. The insincere smile left his face, replaced with a more serious countenance. "Why did you leave your post with the National Security Agency, Mr. Foster?"
Another inquisition, thought Miles. What a crock. Make it good for the gook.
"'Cause I was working for a bunch of bungling idiots who insured their longevity by creating an invincible bureaucracy." Miles decided that a calm beginning might be more appropriate. "They had no real idea of what was going on. Their heads were so far up their ass they had a tan line across their chests. Whenever we had a good idea, it was either too novel, too expensive or needed additional study. Or, it was relegated to a committee that might react in 2 years. What a pile of bullshit, a waste of time. We could have achieved a lot more without all the inter- ference."
"Mr. Foster, you say, 'we'. Who is 'we'?" Homosoto pointedly asked Miles.
"The analysts, the people who did the real work. There were hundreds of us on the front lines. The guys who sweated weekends and nights to make our country safe from the Communists. The managers just never got with the program."
"Mr. Foster, how many of the other analysts, in your opinion, are good?"
Miles stepped back in his mind to think about this. "Oh, I guess I knew a half dozen guys, and one girl, who were pretty good. She was probably the best, other than me," he bragged. "Some chicken."
"Excuse me? Chicken?"
"Oh, sorry." Miles looked up in thought. "Ah, chicks, fox, look- er, sweet meat, gash, you know?"
"Do you mean she's very pretty?"
Miles suppressed an audible chuckle. "Yeah, that's right. Real pretty, but real smart, too. Odd combination, isn't it?" he smiled a wicked smile.
Homosoto ignored the crudeness. "What are your politics, Mr. Foster?"
"Huh? My politics? What the hell has that got to do with any- thing?" Miles demanded.
"Just answer the question, please, Mr. Foster?" Homosoto quietly ordered.
Miles was getting incensed. "Republican, Democrat? What do you mean? I vote who the fuck I want to vote for. Other than that, I don't play."
"Don't play?" Homosoto briefly pondered the idiom. "Ah, so. Don't play. Don't get involved. Is that so?"
"Right. They're all fucked. I vote for the stupidest assholes running for office. Any office. With any luck he'll win and really screw things up." Homosoto hit one of Miles hot buttons. Politics. He listened attentively to Miles as he carried on.
"That's about the only way to fix anything. First fuck it up. Real bad. Create a crisis. Since the Government ignores whoever or whatever isn't squeaking that's the only way to get any atten- tion. Make noise. Once you create a crisis, Jeez, just look at Granada and Panama and Iraq to justify Star Wars, you get a lot of people on for the ride. Just look at the national energy debate. Great idea, 30 years and $5 trillion late. Then, 'ooooh!', they say. 'We got a big problem. We better fix it.' Then they all want to be heroes and every podunk politico shoots off his mouth about the latest threat to humanity. "
"That's your politics?"
"Sure. If you want to get something fixed, first fuck it up so bad that everyone notices and then they'll be crawling up your ass trying to help you fix it."
"Very novel, Mr. Foster. Very novel and very cynical." Homosoto looked mildly amused.
"Not meant to be. Just true."
"It seems to me that you hold no particular allegiance. Would that be a fair observation?" Homosoto pressed the same line of questioning.
"To me. That's my allegiance. And not much of anything else." Miles sounded defensive.
"Then, Mr. Foster, what does it take to make you a job offer. I am sure money isn't everything to a man like you." Homosoto leaned back. All 10 of his fingers met in mirror image fashion and performed push ups on each other.
Foster returned Homosoto's dare with a devastating stare-down that looked beyond Homosoto's face. It looked right into his mind. Foster used the knuckles from both hands for supports as he leaned on the table between them. He began speaking deliber- ately and coherently.
"My greatest pleasure? A challenge. A great challenge. Yes, the money is nice, don't get me wrong, but the thrill is the chal- lenge. I spent years with people ignoring my advice, refusing to listen to me. And I was right so many times when they were wrong. Then they would start blaming everyone else and another committee is set up to find out what went wrong. Ecch! I would love to teach them a lesson."
"How unfortunate for them that they failed to recognize your abilities and let your skills serve them. Yes, indeed, how unfortunate." Homosoto said somberly.
"So," Miles said arrogantly as he retreated back to his seat, "you seem to be asking a lot of questions, and getting a lot of answers. It is your dime, so I owe you something. But, Mr. Homosoto, I would like to know what you're looking for."
Homosoto stood up erect. "You, Mr. Foster. You. You are what I have been looking for. And, if you do your job right, I am making the assumption you will accept, you will become wealthier than you ever hoped. Ever dreamed. Mr. Foster, your reputation precedes you." He sincerely extended his hand to Foster. "I do believe we can do business." Homosoto was beaming at Miles Fos- ter.
"OK, ok, so if I accept, what do I do?" said Miles as he again shook Homosoto's weak hand.
"You, Mr. Foster, are going to lead an invasion of the United States of America."
Chapter 6 3 Years Ago
Sunnyvale, California.
Pierre Troubleaux was staggered beyond reason. His life was just threatened and he didn't know what to do about it. What the hell was this disk anyway? Military secrets? Industrial espionage? Then why put it on the dGraph disks and programs? Did I just agree? What did I say? I don't remember what I said. Maybe I said maybe.
Panic yielded to confusion. What is so wrong? This was just some old Japanese guy who was making some veiled Oriental threat. No, it was another one of those cultural differences. Like calisthenics before work at those Japanese companies that satu- rate the West Coast. Sure it sounded like a threat, but this is OSO Industries we are talking about. That would be like the head of Sony using extortion to sell Walkmen. Impossible. All the same, it was scary and he had no idea what was on the disk. He called Max.
"Max! What are you doing?" What he meant, and Max understood, was 'I need you. Get your ass up here now.'
"On my way Amigo."
The next few minutes waiting for Max proved to be mentally ex- hausting. He thought of hundreds of balancing arguments for both sides of the coin. Be concerned, this guy is nuts and meant it, or I misunderstood something, or it got lost in the translation. He prayed for the latter.
"Yo, what gives?" Max walked into Pierre's office without knock- ing.
"Tell me what's on this!" Pierre thrust the disk up at Max's large physique.
Max held the disk to his forehead and gazed skyward. "A good start. Yes, a good start." Max grinned.
Pierre groaned, knowing full well that the Kreskin routine had to be completed before anything serious was discussed. Max brought the disk to his mouth and blew on it so the disk holder bulged in the middle. Max pulled out the disk and pretended to read it. "What do you call 1000 lawyers at the bottom of the ocean." Pierre chuckled a half a chuck. He wasn't in the mood, but then he had no love for lawyers.
; "Max! Please."
"Hey, just trying new material...."
" . . .that's 5 years old." Pierre interrupted.
"All right already. Gimme a break. OK, let's have a look." They went behind Pierre's desk and inserted the disk in his IBM AT. Max asked the computer for a listing of the diskette's contents. The screen scrolled and stopped.
C:a: A:dir
FILE84.EXE 01/01/80 704
FILE85.EXE 01/01/80 2013
FILE86.EXE 01/01/80 1900
FILE87.EXE 01/01/80 567
FILE88.EXE 01/01/80 2981
FILE89.EXE 01/01/80 4324
FILE90.EXE 01/01/80 1280
FILE91.EXE 01/01/80 1395
FILE92.EXE 01/01/80 2374
FILE93.EXE 01/01/80 3912
93 Files 1457 Bytes Remaining
A:
"Just a bunch of small programs. What are they?" Max's lack of concern was understandable, but it annoyed Pierre all the same.
"I don't know, that's what I'm asking you. What are they? What kind of programs?"
"Jeez, Pierre, I don't know. Games maybe? Small utilities? Have you used them yet?"
"No, not yet, someone just gave them to me. That's all." Pier- re's nervousness betrayed him.
"Well let's try one, see what it does." Max typed in FILE93. That would run the program.
A few seconds later the disk stopped and the computer returned to its natural state, that of the C:. "That one didn't work. Let's try 92. H'mmmm. That's curious, it doesn't do anything either. Looks like a bunch of crap to me. What are they sup- posed to do?" Max shrugged his shoulders.
Max kept trying a few more of the numbered programs. "I don't know, really. Maybe it's just a joke."
"Some joke, I don't get it. Where's the punch line? Damn, nothing." Max punched a few more keys. "Let me have this. I wanna take me a look a closer look," Max said as he pulled the diskette from the machine.
"Where are you going with that?"
"To my lab. I'll disassemble it and see what's what. Probably some garbage shareware. I'll call you later."
At 4PM Max came flying through Pierre's office door again. Pierre was doing his magic . . .talking to the press on the phone.
"Where did you get this?" bellowed Max as he strutted across the plush carpet holding the diskette in his hand.
Pierre waved him silent and onto the couch. He put up one finger to indicate just a minute. Pierre cut the reporter short on an obviously contrived weak excuse. He promised to call back real soon. He meant that part. He would call back.
"Pierre, where did you get this?" Max asked again.
"Nowhere. What's on it?" he demanded.
"Viruses. Lots of 'em."
"You mean it's sick? Like contagious?" Pierre was being genuine.
"No you Frog idiot. Computer viruses."
"What is a computer virus? A machine can't get sick."
"How wrong you are ol' buddy. You're in for a lesson now. Sit down." Pierre obliged. This was Max's turf.
"Here goes. If I lose you, just holler, ok, Amigo?" Pierre had grown to hate being called Amigo, but he had never asked Max to stop. Besides, now wasn't the appropriate time to enlighten Max as to the ins and outs of nick name niceties. Pierre nodded silent agreement.
"Computers basically use two type of information. One type of information is called data. That's numbers, words, names on a list, a letter, accounting records whatever. The second type are called programs, we tweaks call them executables. Executables are almost alive. The instructions contained in the executables operate on the data. Everything else is a variation on a theme."
"Yeah, so the computer needs a program to make it work. Everyone knows that. What about these?"
"I'm getting there. Hold on. There are several types of executa- bles, some are COM files, SYS and BAT files act like executables and so do some OVR and OVL files. In IBM type computers that's about it. Apples and MACs and others have similar situations, but these programs are for IBM's. Now imagine a program, an executable which is designed to copy itself onto another program."
"Yeah, so. That's how dGraph works. We essentially seam our- selves into the application."
"Exactly, but dGraph is benign. These," he holds up the disk- ette, "these are contaminated. They are viruses. I only looked at a couple of them, disassembly takes a while. Pierre, if only one of these programs were on your computer, 3 years from now, the entire contents of your hard disk would be destroyed in seconds!" Pierre was stunned. It had never occurred to him that a program could be harmful.
"That's 3 years from now? So what? I probably won't have the same programs on my computer then anyway. There's always some- thing new."
"It doesn't matter. The viruses I looked at here copy themselves onto other programs and hide themselves. They do nothing, noth- ing at all except copy themselves onto other programs. In a few days every program on your computer, I mean every one would be infected, would be sick. Every one would have the same flu if you wish. And then, 3 years from now, any computer that was infected would destroy itself. And, the virus itself would be destroyed as well. Kind of like Jap kamikazes from World War II. They know exactly when they will die and hope to take a lot of others with them. In this case the virus commits suicide in 3 years. Any data or program within spitting distance, so to speak, goes too."
"So why doesn't someone go looking for viruses and come up with antidotes?"
"It's not that simple. A well written virus will disguise it- self. The ones you gave me, at least the ones I disassembled not only hide themselves, but they are dormant until activation; in this case on a specific date." Max continued the never ending education of Pierre. "Besides, it's been proven that there is no way to have a universal piece of software to detect viruses. Can't be done."
"Whew . . .who comes up with this stuff?" Pierre was trying to grasp the importance of what he was hearing.
"Used to be a UNIX type of practical joking; try writing a pro- gram that would annoy fellow programmers. Pretty harmless fool- ing around. No real damage, just embarrassment that called for a similar revenge. It was a game of one upmanship within universi- ty computer science labs. I saw a little of it while I worked at the school computer labs, but again it was harmless shenani- gans. These though. Wow. Deadly. Where the hell did you get them?"
Pierre was in a quandary. Tell or don't tell. Do I or don't I? He trusted Max implicitly, but what about the threat. Naw, I can tell Max. Anything.
"Homosoto."
"What?" asked Max incredulously.
"Homosoto. He gave it to me." Pierre was solemn.
"Why? What for?"
"He said that I was to put it on the dGraph disks that we sell."
"He's crazy. That's absolutely nuts. Do you know what would happen?" Max paced the floor as he spoke angrily. "We sell thousands of dGraph's every month. Tens of thousands. And half of the computer companies ship dGraph with their machines. In 3 years time we may have over a couple of million copies of dGraph in the field. And who knows how many millions more programs would be infected, too. Tens of millions of infected programs . . .my God! Do you know how many machines would be destroyed . . . well maybe not all destroyed but it's about the same thing. The effects would be devastating." Max stopped to absorb what he was saying.
"How bad could it be? Once they're discovered, can't your vi- ruses be destroyed?" Pierre was curious about the newly discov- ered power.
"Well, yes and no. A virus that is dormant for that long years is also called a Time Bomb and a Trojan Horse. There would be no reason to suspect that a legitimate software company would be shipping a product that would damage computers. The thought is absurd . . .it's madness. But brilliant madness. Even if a few of the viruses accidentally go off prematurely, the virus de- stroys itself in the process. Poof! No smoking gun. No evi- dence. Nobody would have clue until V-Day."
"V-Day?"
"Virus Day."
"Max, what's in this for Homosoto? What's the angle?"
"Shit, I can't think of one. If it ever got out that our pro- grams were infected it would be the end of DGI. All over. On the other hand, if no one finds out before V-Day, all the PC's in the country, or Jesus, even the world, self destruct at once. It's then only a matter of time before DGI is caught in the act. And then, Amigo, it's really over. For you, me and DGI. What exactly did Homosoto say?"
Pierre was teetering between terror and disbelief. How had he gotten into this position? His mind wandered back over the last few years since he and Max had come up with the Engine. Life has been real good. Sure, I don't get much music in anymore, and I have kinda been seduced by the fast lane, but so what? So, I take a little more credit than credit's due, but Max doesn't mind. He really doesn't.
The threat. Was it real? Maybe. He tried to convince himself that his mind was playing tricks on itself. But the intellectual exercises he performed at lightening speed, cranial neuro-syn- apses switching for all they were worth, did not permit Pierre the luxury of a respite of calm.
"He said he wanted me to put this on dGraph programs. Sometime in the future. That's about it." There was no reason to speak of the threats. No, no reason at all. His vision became sudden- ly clear. He was being boxed into a corner.
"Well . . .?" Max's eyes widened as he expected a response from Pierre.
"Well what?"
"Well, what are you going to tell him? Or, more like where are you going to tell him to go? This is crazy. Fucking crazy, man."
"Max, let me handle it. " Some quietude returned to Pierre. A determination and resolve came from the confusion. "Yeah, I'll take care of it."
"Mr. Homosoto, we need to speak." Pierre showed none of the international politic that usually was second nature. He called Homosoto at the San Jose Marriott later that afternoon.
"Of course, Mr. Troubleaux. I will see you shortly." Homosoto hung up.
Was that a Japanese yes for a yes, or a yes for a no? Pierre wasn't sure, but he was sure that he knew how to handle Homoso- to. Homosoto didn't have the common courtesy to say he would not be coming until the following morning.
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