by Lisa Smedman
Carla leaned back in the chair, stretching. She’d been through every scrap of paper in this room, but still had the nagging feeling she’d overlooked something. Getting up from the table, she walked back to the room that held the work stations. She paused, lost in thought, in front of the one where Farazad had sat. Compulsively, she tugged open the drawers once more, even though she already knew that they were empty. As she opened the last drawer, her eye fell on the magnetic clip that was stuck to the bottom of the metal drawer. It was a child’s toy, a Mighty Mites face that smiled when Carla touched it. Beside it was a torn piece of hardcopy.
Carla leaned closer. The scrap of paper hadn’t moved when her hand brushed against it. It wasn’t just a tiny scrap—instead it was the corner of a larger piece of paper that had slid inside the crack where the back and bottom of the drawer met. Only the corner of it could be seen. Carla tried to move it with a finger, but found it was stuck. Instead she yanked out the drawer, turned it over, and pulled the hardcopy from it.
She let out a long, slow whistle as she read the crumpled paper she held in her hands. It was a memo, dated eight days ago—three days before Farazad Samji’s death. It was addressed to the lab’s director, Ambrose Wilks, and was signed with a wavering scrawl by the wage mage himself.
To: Director Wilks
Re: "Lucifer Deck" (Farohad) Project
As per your direct instructions, I have summoned and bound the farohad. Despite my formal protests to the board of directors, and against the dictates of my conscience and religion, I have performed the tests you have required.
If anything, the results of these tests prove that the farohad is unsuitable for the project you propose. It is true that the light effects the farohad produces can enter the Matrix, although the extreme measures we go through to tap this energy seems to border on torture. By all indications, it would seem that, as suspected, magical entities cannot stand the pure technology construct of the Matrix.
While I can force the farohad to allow me to tap its energies, and through trial and error we have been able to transfer that concentration of light into the Matrix, I am unable to control it once the energy is in the Matrix. Please note this because it explains why we cannot control the effects in the Matrix. The speed at which the light moves is beyond our capacities and the capabilities of the best deckers we have. The spirit’s lack of cooperation makes training the farohad impossible. Our best brains alone cannot match the speed and short-lived usefulness of these bursts of pure light.
By its very nature, a creature composed of light must flow—it must remain in an active state. The farohad cannot "sit around" and wait for instructions. Nor can it remain within the Matrix for more than a nanosecond or two, at most. As a living spirit, it would completely lose its integrity if we tap too much of its elemental power, especially using so many technological systems. At any moment, the creature could dissolve and disappear.
It is thus impossible for the farohad to perform the function you wish it to. In theory, it should simulate the functions of a Matrix gopher program—one with unlimited access to data. It could bypass any intrusion countermeasures, seek out a keyword, reconfigure a portion of its body to exactly duplicate the data that contains this keyword, and return again to a computer to write that copied data on an optical memory chip or datastore. In theory. Obviously, in hindsight, this does not and cannot work. We did not foresee the inherent difficulties in forcing a magical creature into a pure technological construct. Even when we have tapped its energies, we have absolutely no control over the light. It will erase a memory chip or datastore instead of penetrating and copying the information. Without the human mind to understand the technology, we have set loose something, again in theory, that can destroy the Matrix.
I cannot in good conscience continue to subject the farohad to this torture, only to prove what we already know—magical entities cannot exist in the Matrix and that light travels faster than the human mind. I believe that with the data we have learned we may be able to use the farohad's energy in the Matrix to create know-bots that function in a similar way—knowbots at least would be fully under our command. And from what I understand, our Software Division is very interested in what we have learned. If you approve this, I would be able to release the farohad. I cannot permit the farohad to die in captivity. I intend that it should be free—free to return to the paradise that is its natural habitat.
I have already outlined my opposition, on religious grounds, to the direction in which the Mitsuhama Seattle lab has taken my research. While I realize that my moral arguments cannot persuade you, I hope that the practical problems I have outlined above will do so. This project must be discontinued.
I cannot, in good conscience, continue this work. I hereby request a leave of absence, effective immediately, and a release from my contract with Mitsuhama.
Farazad Samji.
Automatically, Carla framed the memo with her cybereye, did an overall shot, then went to macro-focus and scanned the lines one by one so that they could be assembled later into a scrolling graphic. But even as she performed these mechanical functions, her mind was reeling. She’d jumped to the wrong conclusions not once, but twice. Mitsuhama hadn’t developed the spirit for use as a new form of para-biological weapon. They hadn’t even intended to use it as a virus—although it could certainly be put to that purpose, as Carla had done earlier in the Byte of the Future display. The corporation had instead been after the holy grail of magicians and deckers alike—an "interface" device that used magic as a bridge to the Matrix. They’d intended to use the spirit as an organic, magically based computer—as hardware and software in one. As a program that could ignore ice, enter any system freely, and use its own body to copy any data it found, no matter how much encryption was used to protect it. Had it worked, it would have been the ultimate stealth program and ultra-high-speed master persona control program, rolled into one.
Except that no mage or decker could control it.
And now its energy was running amok in the Matrix, randomly wiping data and crashing systems in an effort to get back at the man who had conjured it and forced it to enter the Matrix in the first place. The man who had presumably set it free, only to have the spirit turn on him and burn the life from him.
Carla stared at the project name: Lucifer Deck. Farazad Samji certainly considered the spirit to be an angel—a farohad. His boss had probably dreamed up the word Lucifer, putting a Christian spin on the concept. Lucifer, the "bringer of light." the shining angel who later fell from heaven in the form of lightning and became Satan, lord of darkness. The name choice was both ironic and appropriate. The spirit—Lucifer—was indeed the fallen son; instead of serving Mitsuhama, it now was trying to destroy the corporation’s kingdom—the Matrix. It was, in every respect, as unruly and antagonistic an angel as the original Lucifer had been.
Carla folded the paper and slipped it into a pocket. That was it. She had what she needed. Her incursion was a wrap. But she’d been trained to be thorough, and so she peeked into the only other room she had yet to explore—a private office. Judging by its comfortable, overstuffed chair and plush carpet, it must belong to the lab’s director. If so, the work station it contained just might contain some other, vital piece of information that Carla could weave into her story.
The data terminal here, like those in the front room, had been taken apart and its central processing unit removed. Carla wasn’t going to get anything from it. And the rest of the room didn’t hold anything of interest; there was no enticing hardcopy lying about. She was just about to leave when she noticed an electronic daytimer that had fallen onto the carpeted floor, under the workstation itself. It was a micro-thin model, no more than a few centimeters long. Picking it up, she thumbed the button that activated it.
The tiny liquid-crystal screen on the top of the data-pad came to life, revealing a name and title in an ornate gold font: Ambrose Wilks. Director MCT Seattle.
Curious to see what the daytimer cont
ained, Carla paged through its entries, starting with a date three weeks ago. To her mounting disappointment, she saw that all of the entries were personal appointments and self-reminders: Pick up Valerie after school. Lunch with Yuki, 2 p.m. Retirement present for Sabrina. No wonder the datapad had no log-in code. It didn’t contain anything incriminating at all. Still, she continued doggedly on through the entries, right up to today’s date. And then gasped when she saw the name listed there: Meeting with Aziz Fader, 6 p.m. Alabaster Maiden Nightclub.
Blast that man! Carla had asked Aziz, after their visit to Evelyn Belanger’s home yesterday, about his offer to sell Mitsuhama the information it needed to control the spirit. He told her that he was just sending out feelers to see if the corporation was interested—that it would be a day or two, at least, before he’d learned enough about Pita’s magical abilities to make a serious sales pitch. He promised Carla he wouldn’t begin negotiating with the corporation until after she’d put her story to bed. But he’d been lying. He’d gone ahead and set up this meeting with the director of the research laboratory without even asking if it would slot up her story.
Had Aziz already sold out Pita, turning over this "key" to the spell formula to Mitsuhama for a large chunk of nuyen? More to the point, had he sold out Carla? Was he telling Mitsuhama, even now, how far she’d gotten with her story on their research project?
Carla was furious. She glanced at her watch. It was already nine o’clock; Aziz would probably be home from the meeting with Ambrose Wilks by now. He wouldn’t have stayed to party at the nightclub, even though it was a Saturday night. When Aziz was hot on the trail of a new magical formula, he was as much of a workaholic as Carla. He’d rush right home and pick up where he left off—and would probably work through the night.
Carla pulled out her cel phone and started to dial Aziz’s number. But then she realized what she was doing, and thumbed the Off button. The confrontation would have to wait until she was out of this place. The thing to do now was get back to the station and file the footage she’d just shot.
Still angry, Carla headed for the main room and shut off the fuel cell. She stood for a moment or two in the silence, debating which exit to take. The door marked "emergency" probably led straight to the surface. It would be the quickest way out. But she didn’t know what she’d find there. The carefully landscaped grounds were probably patrolled by security guards and bristling with hidden sensors. The smarter thing to do would be to go back the way she came. She still had the employee ID badge, after all. It wasn’t that late yet. She could just say she’d been putting in a little overtime, and stroll right out the front doors. But she had to check on something, first.
She used her cel phone again, this time calling a different number. Corwin answered on the first ring. "Albert’s Auto Body. Wha’s’up?"
"I was just calling back about the Runabout. It looks like I’ll be able to pick it up tonight; I’ve finished work now. Can I come right over? Is anyone in the shop?"
"Just a minute. I’ll have to check."
After a few seconds, Corwin was back. His voice held a note of self-satisfaction. "You sure can, ma’am. The shop is empty, but I’ll be here."
"All right. Thanks. Bye."
She hung up with a satisfied smile. At least this part was going according to plan. Once again, Corwin had come through for her. Worried that the Movement Match program would be discovered if he left it in Mitsuhama’s computer system for any length of time, he’d wiped it as soon as Carla stepped out of the elevator. In its place, he’d rigged a simpler and less detectable "glitch." He’d altered the programming of both the camera in the elevator and the side corridor on the thirtieth floor that led to it so that they were being fed a continuous loop of previously recorded data. According to the information provided by these cameras, both the elevator and corridor were now "empty"—and would remain that way, even when Carla passed through them. Carla would be invisible until she exited the elevator and turned the corner into the main hallway on the thirtieth floor. With luck, any security guards watching the monitors would assume that she had come out of a nearby office. She’d even mime closing a door behind her, to complete the illusion. With luck, they’d assume that Evelyn Belanger was still down in the lab.
At that point, it would only be a matter of getting out of the building itself. If something went wrong—if it came down to a serious confrontation with the security guards on the way out, she would give up the pretense, say who she really was, and rely upon her reputation—and KKRU’s pull—to get her out in one piece.
Carla stepped into the elevator and hit the icon that would take her to the thirtieth floor. When the doors sighed open, she strode out, anger at Aziz still bubbling inside of her. She’d show that. . .
She saw something move, and came to an abrupt halt. No more than five meters ahead of her, passing through the T-junction where this side corridor met the main hallway, was a gigantic, coal-black dog. It padded along the corridor, its claws making faint clicking noises. Twin jets of searing blue flame puffed from its nostrils as it breathed. It stood a meter high at the shoulder, on powerful, muscular legs. As Carla stood, frozen in place, it turned to look down the corridor at her with eyes that were like glowing pits of fire. Flattening its ears, it bared gleaming white teeth. It stood its ground blocking the corridor and staring at Carla with eyes that burned with merciless, fiery intensity.
For a heartbeat or two Carla stood, afraid to move. Then slowly, she backed away from the creature. She took one step, two—and found the closed elevator doors a hard and unyielding wall against her back. This corridor was a short one, with no other exits—a dead end. There wasn’t even an emergency stairway. She was trapped with a magical creature that might attack her at any moment. And she didn’t have the first idea what to do.
The cel phone was still in her hand. Carla considered her options, then slid a finger over to the redial icon and tapped it twice. As the phone automatically dialed Aziz’s number, Carla activated its video pickup. Mitsuhama might be monitoring the call, but if they were, the worst that could happen would be that they would find her sooner, rather than later. Before the hideous black dog tore her to shreds.
As the call went through, the tiny screen on the cell phone came to life. It showed Aziz hunched over a book, reading. He was busy scanning text with an electronic stylus and spoke without looking up. "Yes? Do we have a deal?" Then he did a double take as he saw Carla’s face on the screen of his telecom. "Oh, it’s you, Carla. Sorry. What do you want?"
Carla bit back her anger and spoke as softly as she could. "I’m in trouble, Aziz, and I need your help."
"What’s wrong?"
With a trembling hand, Carla turned the cel phone slightly so that its visual pickup took in the slavering dog that had begun to slowly advance toward her.
"Holy drek!" Aziz exclaimed. "That’s a hell hound. Don’t make any sudden moves, Carla. It’ll tear you apart."
Thanks, Aziz, Carla thought. Just what I needed to hear.
Aziz paused, then peered at his telecom screen. "Where are you, Carla? You aren’t calling me from the ..." His eyes widened. "You’re there now, aren’t you?"
"What should I do, Aziz?"
Aziz gave her a worried frown. "It must be part of the building’s security system, Carla." he continued. "Just hold still. Its handler will be along as soon as he sees you on the monitor, to call it off. If you don’t make any threatening moves in the meantime, you’ll be fine until he arrives."
For a second or two, Carla was reassured. The hell hound had paused in its advance. It stood about a meter away from her now—still in a crouched position, ready for instant action—but for the moment seemingly content to stand and watch her. Even from this distance, Carla could feel the heat of its fiery breath. She didn’t want it to get any closer. She’d do what Aziz said—hold still until the animal’s handler came.
Then Carla groaned. "Its handler won’t be able to see me unless he has a telepathic link to
the animal, Aziz." she said in a whisper, moving her lips as little as possible. "The security cameras in this area have had their data re-rezzed. Unless someone is monitoring this cel phone frequency, nobody knows I’m here."
"You’re in an office complex. Somebody will eventually come. Just wait where you are."
Yeah, right. Wait until someone noticed that the hell hound was no longer on the monitors, and came looking for it. She might get out of here alive, but she’d lose her story. The Mitsuhama’s security guards would discover the hardcopy in her pocket and realize immediately what she’d been up to. They’d probably be bright enough to scan for a cybereye, and when they found it, they’d take her chip with all of her eye-camera’s data on it. And that would be the end of her story.
There had to be another way out. Aziz hadn’t been any help at all. But perhaps if she . . .
Looking at the hell hound, Carla saw that it had stayed its advance. Slowly, a millimeter at a time, she raised her free hand toward the pocket of her jacket. If she could ease Farazad’s credstick from her pocket, maybe she could get the elevator doors to open again, with Corwin’s help. She’d go back through the lab, take the emergency exit this time.
"I’m going to hang up now, Aziz. I have to call someone."
"Be careful how you enter the numbers, Carla. The hell hound might think your cel phone is a weapon. It will be trained to attack anyone who .. ."
Carla had stopped listening to him. Her fingers touched the fabric of her jacket. Now it was just a matter of sliding her hand into her pocket and—
With a lunge, the hell hound launched itself at her. Instinctively, Carla screamed and flung up her hands. The animal smashed into her, knocking her back against the elevator doors. Then she was down on the floor with the creature on top of her. Its baleful, glowing eyes stared into hers, and its claws dug painfully into her skin through the fabric of her clothes. The blue flames from its nostrils flared and ebbed, flared and ebbed, washing her face with waves of heat. It stood poised on top of her, mouth open, white teeth gleaming. Even as Carla’s natural eye filled with tears, she focused the trideo camera in her cybereye for a tight shot of the hell hound’s face. If she was going to die, she was going to die shooting trid. Her last shot would be a dramatic one. Even as her mind whirled with fear, a tiny part of it was writing the lead-in to the piece: "This astonishing footage was shot by KKRU reporter Carla Harris just seconds before her death . . ."