by Ian Douglas
Her face now literally was a men, both face and mask, as well as her passport to a forbidden world.
Only Nihonjin—people of Japanese ancestry—were allowed to set foot on the world now called Kasei. Even in synchorbit the activities of visiting gaijin businessmen were carefully supervised. This restriction extended even to non-Japanese citizens of Dai Nihon—Greater Japan—those citizens of Singapore, the Philippines, Vancouver, and the other Earthside outposts of the Empire that were Japanese in name, but not in ancestry. To walk the sands of Kasei, you had to trace your ancestry back to the Home Islands.
Which was why Kara was traveling in disguise. She’d first taken a commercial liner from New America to Eridu, a voyage of thirty-six light years and some five weeks. There, she’d taken passage aboard the Imperial liner Teikoku for the three-week passage to Sol. She’d been traveling aboard one ship or another for two months now, but she was finally at her destination. An hour before, she’d checked into the Sorano Hoteru, Aresynch’s largest hotel. Spin gravity here was set to about one-third G, the same as that on the Martian surface.
Sergeant Vasily Lechenko was here too, along with three other volunteers from the Phantoms’ 1/1. The way she’d heard it, he’d point-blank refused to step back even when the CMI personnel in charge of ops preparation had pointed out that his 193-centimeter, 104-kilo mass was not the norm for the Japanese phenotype.
Kara was glad the big sergeant was so stubborn. He made an impressive-looking Japanese businessman, all hard muscle beneath his Naga-reshaped facial features and a tan and white Sony business uniform. He and his men would be her security backup as she penetrated the Kasei Net, and they would be her one chance of getting out of this place again when she was done.
Security at Aresynch was tight, and smuggling weapons in had been a problem. She took a final look around the fresher, as she’d already checked her room, paying special attention to the nooks and crannies of the room’s small fresher closet, sink, and toilet. Had the Naga residing within her detected the carrier wave of a hidden transmitter, it would have silently and inwardly alerted her. But there was nothing save the normal radio traffic that could be expected in a building such as this.
There were, of course, no guarantees. A television pickup constructed through molecular nanotechnics could be the size of the head of a pin, and listening devices were smaller still. Her one hope of security lay in the fact that too many people passed through this station every day for Imperial Security to bother tracking them all.
In the fresher, she stood in front of the sink, removing a small can of hair spray, a travel hair dryer, a solid gold brooch, and a pocket TV-computer from her toiletries case and laying them out on the counter. All of the articles worked as advertised and, indeed, the hair dryer, brooch, and the TV were exactly what they seemed to be.
The hair spray was something more. With pressure from her thumb and a deft twist, she popped the can’s base off; inside, tucked into a small recess, was a wad of pale gray clay just a little larger than her thumbnail. Placing the clay on the counter next to the opened can and the other items, she wet her finger under the tap, then transferred a few drops of water to the substance.
At the water’s touch, the clay began foaming, and Kara could hear a thin, sizzling hiss. In another moment, the dab of clay had doubled in size . . . then doubled again. Carefully, Kara nudged the gold brooch across the counter until it just touched the foaming goo.
Within fifteen minutes, the goo had eaten her brooch. It took another hour to dissolve the television, the hair dryer, and the spray can. She didn’t stay to watch. Instead, she went back to the main room, where she sat at the computer access, exploring Aresynch. She spent two hours calling up maps and diagrams, and playing the self-guiding tutorial on the public access system.
When she returned to the fresher, the goo had evaporated completely, leaving only a trace of powdery residue, like talcum. The pocket television appeared unchanged; the gold and the lead it had concealed were gone completely; the plastic hair dryer, however, no longer looked anything like its original form. In its place was a small, sleek hand gun, just the size of Kara’s palm.
The TV and pistol both went into a jumper pocket. Carefully she brushed the nanoresidue into her hand and disposed of it in the toilet. Taking a final look around to be certain she’d left no incriminating evidence, she closed up her case and switched off the computer. Standing inside the hotel room door, she pulled out the television and thumbed the color adjust tab; seconds later, the screen answered with a silent, printed message: OK.
It was time to go.
Tai-i Genji Ishimoto thought of it as a sea.
Though he was pure Japanese, the son of a respected Nihonjin architect, Ishimoto had been born in Jaffna on the north coast of the Imperial Dependency of Seiron—the former Sri Lanka. From the age of ten, his passion had been gill diving in the crystalline waters first of his home island, then farther afield, in the Maldives, the Philippines, and even the Great Barrier Reef. He’d joined the Imperial Navy because its education benefits would help him get both the downloads and the references he needed to get work on one of the big undersea colonies, Oki-Daito, perhaps, or the fabulous Ryokugyoku.
A decision that had carried him far indeed from the emerald seas of Earth. As if in compensation, however, his current assignment offered him the mental release of something akin to diving. It was only ViRsimulation, of course, provided by the Aresynch facility’s Mark XXI AI, but it was the closest thing he’d found yet to gliding above a reef at ten meters, wearing nothing but gill helmet, fins, weight belt, and knife. Instead of an ocean of water, however, he was floating now through an ocean of data—but data manipulated by the AI to create an ongoing simulation through which Ishimoto could move with the freedom of a dolphin. The colors were those of a reef, emeralds and turquoise blues for the medium through which he swam, more colorful notes marking the specific stacks, clusters, and nodes to which he had access.
The AI had its own ICS—Internal Computer Security—of course, but Ishimoto was the human security watch, a backup to the automated systems who could apply not only intelligence but feeling to the task of monitoring the constant flow of data through the Net, searching for intruders who might be anything from small-time black marketeers looking for corporate access codes to Confederation spies. Human operators like Ishimoto gave the security system an extra edge against human system intruders, an edge that had more than once stopped a hostile break-in.
The ocean he swam in was enormous, a simulated sea that comprised the entire Kasei Net. The system was in fact the sum total of all on-line computer networks both on the surface of Kasei and throughout the length of the sky-el clear out to Deimos, as well as the computers aboard spacecraft temporarily linked into the Net. It was so vast that no merely human mind could take it all in; what he was seeing was an abstract, the equivalent of computer screen icons that allowed him to navigate the Net with both efficiency and ease, with the entire architecture, representing hardware and software both, visible as a crowded universe of coral heads and rocks, of sunken cities and wrecks, of fantastic shapes like tubes and platforms and two-dimensional planes and doorways and stranger constructs that had no real correlation with anything in Ishimoto’s real-world experience. The voice of the AI itself—or one of the subroutines that made up the AI’s total complex of personalities—was his guide.
And his guide had just spoken. “I detected a single set of unauthorized radio transmissions,” the voice said in Ishimoto’s mind. “It was quite brief, most likely a coded query and a reply.”
“Where?”
“The transmissions were too brief to allow me to isolate their positions. Both, however, originated within the civilian complex.”
Ishimoto frowned. The civilian complex was enormous. Unless the transmitters repeated themselves, they would be impossible to track down . . . a fact of which they were no doubt aware.
But the advantage was Ishimoto’s. Alerted by the AI
’s senses, he was aware now that someone was engaged in unauthorized radio transmissions aboard the Aresynch facility. ICS took a dim view of that sort of thing. Unregistered radios were prohibited and were confiscated whenever scans of baggage or passengers turned them up. Such scans were almost useless, though; many visitors possessed two-way radio circuits grown inside their brains, and any spy worth the yen spent training him would have access to nano that could grow a transmitter out of innocuous raw materials.
Alerted, he could close in on the offenders, and when they moved again, he would be ready for them.
“That ought to do it,” Kara said. They were in a zero-G module, adrift in one of Aresynch’s largest public access corn-centers.
Lechenko, floating at her side, nodded. “What bothers me is how much time it’s going to take. You watch your tail in there, okay? We can watch for security types out here, but we can’t do a goking thing about the on-line flamers.”
“They’ll never know I’m here.” She wished she believed that.
She used a handrail to guide herself to one of the hundreds of burnished, egg-shaped modules fastened to the inside of the enormous sphere that housed the complex. Picking an unoccupied module, Kara glanced left and right, then tucked her legs up and slipped inside feet-first. Palming shut the privacy door, she settled back on the couch and strapped herself down. At a thought, her Companion extruded quicksilver filaments from her hand as she held it up to the access plate. She felt her Companion make contact with the Aresynch AI, a buzzing in her hand and just behind her eyes.
“Ikusa no chikazuki,” she thought, focusing the Nihongo words into a coded upload onto the Net. “Military access. Code red-red-three, flash, blue.”
“Military access granted, Level One” sounded in her mind.
I’m in, she thought, but she was careful not to let the words slip into an encoded upload.
“Communications center. Message upload, channel three-five-nine-two-zero. Priority routine.”
“Communications channels accessed. Ready to accept message uplink.”
The message had already been prepared, coded in a low-level, low-priority Imperial naval code used for routine traffic. With a thought, she uploaded the packet.
“Your message has been transmitted.” The thought came back almost at once. “Do you wish to make another transmission?”
“Negative. Military access. Code red-blue-five, flash, green.”
“Military access granted at Level Two” was the reply.
These initial levels were fairly easy to get at, the electronic equivalent of touching unlocked doors and watching them swing open. The tougher challenges still lay ahead.
As always when dealing with computer systems, even extremely powerful and intelligent ones, the only way to make the thing work was with patience and exacting precision.
One hundred fifty thousand kilometers outsystem from Mars, an old and decrepit tramp freighter detected a signal on a low-priority military channel. The name on the ship’s hull, picked out in white katakana lettering just beneath the brow of her bridge and faded by years of micrometeorite scouring, was Chidori Maru. At this distance, Mars was tiny, a sliver of gold-orange aimed at a shrunken, yellow sun.
The message, had anyone aboard the ship bothered to decode it, was a request for information about the vessel’s cargo—specifically about whether it should be listed as Class C or Class D on the docking off-load manifests.
The real meaning, however, lay in the fact that the message had been transmitted on that frequency at all. The ship’s captain ordered a similarly coded reply, then turned to his first officer. “Very well, Mr. MacKenzie. Cry havoc, and let slip the dogs of war!”
Captain Johanson was a great fan of classic literature. His flare for the dramatic, however, was not as out of place this time as it often was. His cargo on this run might very easily, if poetically, be described as dogs of war.
The ship’s cargo bay, located forward in her primary module, yawned open, spilling light into space. The single ascraft stowed inside was also a relic, her hull patched and worn, the surface streaked with rusty corrosion accumulated in the atmospheres of dozens of worlds. Once clear of the freighter, she fired her thrusters, the burn ticking off the long minutes necessary to set her falling toward the distant golden crescent of Mars.
Tai-i Ishimoto paused, tasting the emerald waters representing the computer network in the simulated space of the civilian-quarters comp-access node. Part of the swift-flowing currents he sensed about him was communications traffic to and from Aresynch, an enormous volume of ingoing and outgoing information, most of it automated. According to the AI, all was both routine and authorized. He was beginning to question that initial alert. It was possible that what the AI had detected was an electronic echo, an accidental rebroadcast by the circuitry in some civilian visitor’s head of a standard automated signal. He’d heard of that sort of thing happening before, even with nonelectronic prostheses such as dental implants. The fact that there’d been two such signals, an apparent question coupled with a reply, might have been coincidence after all.
There wasn’t much to go on. Still, duty demanded that he consider every alternative. If the unauthorized signals were indeed indicators of covert activity, the signalers might well have moved on by now. Where?
There wasn’t enough clear evidence yet to warrant putting out an alarm, but Ishimoto thought a careful patrol of the military communications and computer access nodes was in order. Swerving left and diving, skimming the light-shimmering bottom with a relative speed more appropriate to a hypersonic aircraft than to a swimmer, he approached a massive coral head displaying holographic characters: RESTRICTED, MILITARY NODE 1. CODED ACCESS ONLY.
As watch officer, Ishimoto had the necessary codes riding on his persona like a uniform. He struck the coral head full on; without even a simulated shock, he passed through, emerging in another, deeper stretch of water.
The taste of the currents was different here, the coral formations larger and more menacing.
He was willing to bet his next leave on Earth that the intruders, if they existed, would be here. They might not be on the Net, but it was certain that they would need access to the Net to get information on whatever they’d come here to see or do.
When they did, they would make a mistake. No outsider could know the intricacies of the Kasei Net perfectly.
And when they made that mistake, Ishimoto would be waiting.
Kara was up to Security Level Five, and still there’d been no indication that her work on the Net had attracted any undue attention. She’d entered the Net deeply enough that she was now adrift in someone’s ViReality, a simulation of a shallow, sunlit sea.
Though she was no swimmer, here was an AI fantasy where her knowledge of zero-G maneuvering stood her in good stead. She found she could stretch out virtual arms, push off with her legs, and send herself gliding through the simulation with the speed of a combat ascraft. Power of will alone, a mental shifting of her attention left or right, up or down, was all that was necessary for steering.
Dimly she was aware of other fellow travelers in the sea, shadowy forms that darted and flashed like wheeling fish, representations of running programs. Large objects—doorways, structures, even blocks of rock, or were they life forms of some sort, with their strange and colorful textures?—represented access to other levels and other nodes; most were identified by cryptic notations in blocky Japanese type, DENTATSU: KASEI NO HYOMEN, said one prominent mass of gnarled gold and white. “Communications: Martian Surface.” That was where she wanted to go. Swinging left, she dove into the convoluted surface, a soundless, shockless explosion of light about her as she plunged into yet a deeper level of the Net.
The air/spacecraft dropped toward Mars. The men and women sealed into their combat machines within the transport’s cargo bay could only wait, wondering if they’d achieved the surprise upon which all depended.
Lieutenant Randin Ferris lay inside the support module o
f his warstrider, a CVL-2 Red Saber, thinking about Kara . . . and about ViRsims. Even one time in a firefight was enough to convince any soldier that ViRsims, no matter how realistic, never quite carried the same level of reality as the real thing. Probably it was the knowledge that you wouldn’t actually die in a simulation, wouldn’t even feel more than a mild sting when someone shot you and booted you out of the link.
Ran wasn’t entirely sure whether he was dreading this combat drop more for himself, or for Kara. Since he’d met her, two years before, he’d gone from thinking of her as fellow officer and occasional sex partner to someone that he cared for very deeply indeed. It had been all he could do, months before at that party at Kara’s family’s estate, not to let on how scared he was for her. He had the easy job. All he had to do was storm a heavily defended Imperial base. Kara had to penetrate that base’s electronic defenses. And if she were caught—
“Hey, Lieutenant?”
It was Rob Lorre, one of the newbies in his unit, a twenty-year-old who went by the handle Mouther. “Yeah?”
“Is it true what they say about the Nihons? I mean, about how you don’t want to be captured . . .”
“No one in his right mind wants to be captured, Mouth. What kind of null is this?”
“Yeah, but the Nihons got a rep for taking a guy apart real slow to get at what’s in his brain.”
“Kid, who’s been downloading all this kuso on you?”
“Well, some of the guys were talking and—”
“‘Some of the guys.’ Kid, you’ve got to stop listening to the who-was, you know? Putting too much meaning on barracks gossip’ll screw your head up worse than the Impies will.”
“Yeah, but—”
“Just do what I tell you and you’ll come through okay. Linked?”
There was the slightest pause. “Linked, Lieutenant. Thanks.”
He opened the channel to include all of the waiting warstriders. “All of you, start your finals. If you get scragged by enemy fire, we’ll carry you out by hand if we have to, but if one of you gokers has a strider go down because you forgot to set your systems parameters, so help me you’ll walk home!”