It is my honor to report to you that this attempt was foiled by the quick and heroic actions of Nagara Security personnel. At great risk to themselves, they succeeded in driving the wreckers away before any damage could be done to the computer system. Following their standing orders to put the safety of Nagara employees and equipment as the highest priority, the security personnel were unable to prevent the wreckers from escaping, presumably by the same route by which they gained access to the building. I am glad to report that there were no fatalities or serious injuries, either among the Special Projects workers or the security personnel.
It grieves me to have to add that there is strong evidence that the wreckers received help from within this corporation
— either in the form of information, or as direct aid. Nagara Security is currently following up on the clues left behind by these traitors to the corporation, and Iam confident that they will be brought to justice in the immediate future.
■ In the meantime, loyal Nagara employees should not find themselves inconvenienced by the investigation, or by the heightened level of security which our personnel have been forced to adopt. Iam confident that the perpetrators will soon be identified, and that tranquility will soon return to this corporation.
Nikki rubbed at her temples — the dull headache she’d felt on waking was back — and began to re-read the message yet again. That’s not right. There were at least three, maybe more, fallacies—no, out-and-out lies!
— in Kubota-san’s e-mail message. She ticked them off mentally.
One: The damage to the Special Projects lab was anything but “not serious” — the whole lab was de- ‘destroyed. (A chilling image of figures thrashing in the flames and the smoke flashed through her mind, be-l. H c she forcibly suppressed it.)
I wo: The Special Projects lab didn’t process its data on the central corporate computer system, as did Nikki’s workgroup and all the other labs in the building. They had their own, stand-alone system … which was located in the Special Projects lab itself. There was no way that system could have survived.
Three: “No fatalities or serious injuries.” Like hell! Nikki had seen several security guards badly wounded. And the one who’d taken a burst of submachine gun fire through his visor: You can’t tell me that someone can shrug that off and be back at work the next morning.
Maybe four: The raiders weren’t stereotypical “wreckers.”
And those comments about help from inside Nagara — that just doesn’t make sense. She’d seen nothing that indicated the raiders had to have inside help; she just didn’t believe it.
Hut everybody else would. The thought sprung unbidden to mind. All the loyal little Nagara employees — they’re going to believe everything that Kubota-san says.
She suddenly felt cold. Was that why the other members of her workgroup had looked at her strangely? they’d have read Kubota’s message, first thing when t hey came in at eight o’clock, and they’d have believed it. And they all knew that she’d been in the lab late last night, even if they hadn’t heard all the details of what had happened. They couldn’t think that she …
But they could, she realized, they could think that she’d been involved. They didn’t like her, and it was always easier to distrust someone who was disliked. Add to that the fact that distrust and fear of betrayal — paranoia, almost — seemed somehow to have become ingrained into Japanese society. And add the fact that she was a gaijin, something not quite human.
“So, you read it?”
She turned at the quiet voice. Toshikazu was standing in the “doorway” to her cubicle. “Yes,” she started, “I…” It took her a moment to realize that Toshikazu was speaking English. She knew he was as fluent as a native speaker, but they always spoke Japanese when they were together, largely to give her a chance to practice. Instinctively, she glanced around to see if any of the others were listening, but the cubicle walls blocked her view. She didn’t think anybody else spoke English, but she didn’t know for sure. With a shrug, she forced that thought from her mind. Now I’m being paranoid.
“Yes,” she repeated, “I read it. But it’s all wrong.”
Toshikazu grinned. “Of course it is,” he agreed. “They couldn’t very well admit that Special Projects is gone — maybe with all their data.” She nodded. He, too, had realized what the fire in the lab probably meant for the computer system. “After all,” he went on, “it probably weakens Nagara’s position in the market, the loss of whatever it was they were doing next door. And you never admit weakness; it’s just an invitation for a hostile takeover. Just like you never admit that a bunch of scruffy wreckers can kill your security guards. It shakes the confidence of the good little workers in the great and protective corporation.” His grin faded. “You read the piece about the inside help?”
She nodded, and gestured with a chin — a movement that encompassed everyone outside the cubicle. “They think it was me,” she said flatly.
Slowly he nodded. His expression was calm, but she could see his concern for her in his eyes. “Probably,” he agreed, “but it doesn’t matter. The people who matter — Yamato, Eichiro, and Kubota himself — they all know there was no inside help. They know you’re not involved.”
“Then why say that?” She pointed at the screen.
He shrugged. “Pour encouragez les autres, perhaps?” he suggested. “To keep everybody on edge, and watch- Ing? That’s going to help security” — he grimaced, as 11 he’d tasted something bitter— “even though it will he hard on everyone’s nerves.”
“But that’s paranoid.”
Toshikazu’s wry grin was back. “Of course. Paranoia is a tool.”
His grin was infectious, and she found herself smiling’, back, despite the knot of tension that still sat in her stomach. “Is that another old Japanese proverb?”
he looked surprised. “That? No, that’s Toshikazu’s First Law of Corporate Behavior.” He laid a hand gently on Nikki’s shoulder, a gesture that surprised her - he rarely touched her, or anyone. “Don’t worry, my friend,” he told her reassuringly, “this will all blow over. It always does.”
*
Toshikazu’s probably right, she found herself thinking Liter in the day, I just wish it’d blow over now.
Her work usually engrossed and excited her; today it was a chore. The fact that the dull headache, and the leaden feeling in her body, had stayed with her didn’t help. But what really got to her was the others in her workgroup. She could swear she felt their eyes on her, watching her anytime she turned her back on them — As though they expect me to conjure up a bunch of wreckers out of thin air, she thought angrily. When she gave them instructions or asked them questions, they were always coldly precise in their responses — never anything that she could label impolite, but it was obvious I here was no love lost between them.
At first this morning, she’d thought that the destruction of the Special Projects lab would mean that Group five wouldn’t have much to do. After all, the majority of their work revolved around the samples that were sent in from next door for analysis. And they won’t be sending anything for awhile, she thought, if they ever do again. To her surprise, however, she found that there was still a lot of work that had to be done. Mainly administrative work, but also genetic analysis on other projects in which other groups — not members of the Special Projects department—were engaged. According to her group’s mandate, the Special Projects analyses were the highest priority, which meant that the other work kept getting bumped out of the schedule. Now that there was nothing to pre-empt it, she realized how much of a backlog there actually was. She sighed. And I’d been hoping for an easy day.
By four o’clock she was exhausted. Her headache was still there — it was getting worse, in fact—and she felt as burned out as if she’d put in a sixteen hour day. Finally, however, the work load slackened enough for her to slow down, at least for a few minutes. She returned to her cubicle, enjoying the respite from the constant looks from her colleague
s that she thought were growing more and more accusatory. Or am I just tired? she asked herself. She sat down at her computer terminal and logged on.
Her job at Nagara had turned out to be even more of a learning experience than she’d expected. Constantly pushed to stay up to date on everything Group Five was working on, she was continuously gaining new insights into how the advanced automated analyzers could be used to their best effect. When she returned to the States, she realized, she’d be a real prize, in demand by any company that was working on similar projects … but only if she remembered what she’d learned in Japan. To that end, she’d started keeping a journal, recording any major insights, ideas or questions that came up during the work day. Already she thought that some of the concepts she’d come up with -— real blue sky ideas that didn’t fit into Nagara’s way of working — might be worth serious money if she could only develop them in a suitable environment. At first ‘she’d kept the journal file in her normal computer invetory, in clear text. But then after a while, she’d created another directory — a personal one that only she had access to — and she’d used a password program to encrypt the file. Every time she accessed the journal and had to enter her password, she felt a little embarrassed —I’m getting as paranoid as everyone else around here, she told herself — but maybe Toshikazu was right: maybe paranoia was a tool.
The journal had two uses, she’d found. One was to record new insights; the other was to motivate and encourage her. When she was feeling flat, she found that reading through the journal and seeing just how far she’d progressed really cheered her up. It was for that second reason that she keyed in the command to access her personal directory.
To her surprise, instead of displaying a listing of the files in the directory, the computer beeped. A terse message — DIRECTORY LOCKED — flashed on the her screen.
Nikki frowned. That’s never happened before. A computer glitch, maybe? She typed in the command again.
Another beep. DIRECTORY LOCKED. Dammit. She tiled again.
Keep. DIRECTORY LOCKED.
Again. Beep. DIRECTORY LOCKED.
With a muttered curse, she typed in a command for the terminal to run a self-diagnostic. Maybe the explosion last night did something. Or maybe the raiders did something to the main system. But that didn’t make sense, she’d been using the computer all day without the slightest sign of a problem.
The self-diagnostic finished its run, and the screen filled with kanji characters. Tracing each line of the screen with a finger, she carefully read through th< report. Then she sat back, puzzled. According to th(diagnostic program, nothing was wrong with the terminal, or with the central system. One last time. She entered the command to access the directory.
Beep. DIRECTORY LOCKED.
“Goddamn it!” She glared at the screen in frustrated anger.
“Problems?”
She turned. Toshikazu was standing behind her. For a moment her anger spilled over onto him — he moves so quietly, why doesn’t he ever knock? — but then she forced herself to speak calmly. “Computer glitch,” she told him shortly. “I can’t get into my directory.”
He gestured toward the terminal. “May I?”
“Be my guest.” She stood up, offering him her chair
He settled himself before the keyboard and lookec over the text on the screen. “Did you run a diagnostic?” he asked, then answered himself, “Yes you did.” H« scrolled the display back so he could read the report. “Hmm,” he mused, “no computer problem. Maybe …” His voice trailed off.
“Maybe what?”
He didn’t answer her directly, just typed in a complex command. Even looking over his shoulder, Nikk couldn’t see exactly what he did, so fast did his finger move. He’s much better at this than I am, she remindec herself.
Again the screen filled with kanji characters. Now it was Toshikazu’s turn to sit back and stare at the terminal in puzzlement.
“What?” she asked again.
Toshikazu didn’t reply at once. When he turned the chair to face her, his face was carefully schooled into expressionlessness. “Your directory has been locked out,” he said carefully. “You no longer have access rights to the directory, either read or write.”
” What?” she demanded, glaring at the screen again. ‘It’s not a glitch?”
He shook his head. “It’s no glitch,” he said quietly.
The system operator did this. At” — he pointed to a line on the screen — “at about seven o’clock this morning.”
“What? Why?”
Toshikazu shrugged. From the look on his face, Nikki was sure that he had some idea. But she knew toshikazu well enough to realize that he didn’t like speculating without enough to go on, and wouldn’t till her anything until he was sure.
She nodded abruptly. “I’ll handle this.” She reached lor (he telephone.
And was surprised as he laid a hand on her wrist. his touch was gentle but firm, and she could as easily have lifted the entire desk as pick up the phone with his hand there. She looked at him in mixed exasperation .uul surprise. I didn’t know he was that strong, part of her mind reflected.
I lis face was still calm — deliberately so, she thought
but she could see something in his eyes. Behind that placid face, his mind was racing. “Do what you must,” he told her quietly. “But tread carefully, my friend.” And with that cryptic comment, he removed his hand, stood up and left her cubicle.
She watched him go in complete bewilderment. For a moment she considered following him, demanding that he tell her what she meant. But then she discarded the idea. He’s my friend, she told herself, he’s doing what he thinks best. She shook her head in baffled anger. I’ll talk to him about this later. First, though, she had to get to the bottom of this locked directory. She picked up I lie phone and punched in the extension for the Management Information Systems department, the group that oversaw the computer system for the entire corporation.
“Mushi mushi?” She didn’t recognize the voice that answered the phone, and honestly didn’t care who it was.
“My personal directory is locked out,” Nikki snapped. “Nikki Carlson, employee number 21488762. Remove the lock.”
There was a moment of silence on the other end of the phone. Nikki knew she’d spoken harshly, using a form of address that was more direct than polite, verging on a direct order. She knew that the people in MIS thought themselves important, managing as they did the computer system for the entire corporation, and were used to being addressed very politely. But at the moment she was too angry to waste time playing along with anyone’s delusions of grandeur.
The man on the phone hissed softly through his teeth, a sound of anger and insult, but she didn’t care. “I will check,” the man said coldly. “Hold, please.” Before she could say anything, she heard a click, and the earphone was filled with the music — slightly discordant to her Western ears — of koto and samisen. He’ll probably leave me on hold all day, she fumed silently to herself.
But it was less than half a minute later that the cold voice came back on the line. “There is no lock on your directory,” the man said flatly.
Nikki stared at the phone in disbelief. Anger flared hot in her chest. “I said the directory is locked,” she almost snarled into the phone. “I know when a directory is locked, believe me. Unlock it. Now.”
“So sorry, Carrson-saw,” the man said, his voice s polite as to be condescending. “There is no lock. Perhaps you forgot your password, nehl”
Nikki gripped the handpiece so hard that the ten dons in her forearm ached. She wanted to swear at this … this drone. But she knew that wouldn’t help. Sh forced herself to speak calmly and coldly. “You ar wrong,” she told him, “you have made a mistake.” Words calculated to infuriate any Japanese corporator, she knew. “Connect me with Suganama-san.” The man on the phone hesitated. “You know Suganama-san?” she asked, as sweetly as she could manage. “The manager of MIS? Your boss?”
“Suganama-san is busy …” For the first time the voice was a little hesitant. You didn’t know I knew your boss, did you? she thought with a grim smile. Now you think maybe you’ve gone a little too far.
“Suganama-sfl« will take my call,” she told him i|iiietly. “Tell him I’m waiting.” There was another i lick, and the music returned.
Nikki breathed deeply, trying to flush the anger out til her system. Petty, she chided herself, yelling at somebody who’s probably got nothing to do with what’s going on, then scaring the hell out of him. But I want my bloody directory unlocked …
There was a soft click from the phone, and the music was stilled. A warm voice, old but still strong, sounded m I ier ear. “Good day, Miss Carrson,” Hiroyo Suganama ..lid carefully, in that short phrase exhausting the entire extent of his English. With obvious relief, he l.ipsed back into Japanese. “I understand you have a problem?”
I n her mind Nikki pictured Hiroyo Suganama sitting at his desk. An old man, older than Nagara’s official retirement age of sixty-five — which means he’s got serious pull with the Board of Directors, she thought, he was a big man, his bulk showing that he’d been physically powerful in his youth. Even though time had taken its toll on his body, she knew his mind was still rapier-quick — she’d once heard another MIS employee make a telling comment about Suganama: he’s forgotten more about computers than the rest of us will ever know.” Even though his official position in thee Nagara hierarchy was about equal to division manager—about equal to her own superior, Agatamori Eichiro — his age, and his personal reputation, ensured that even people well up the scale from Eichiro treated him with careful respect.
She’d met Suganama early on in her tenure at Nagara, and — to the surprise of both of them — they’d got on well. She found him to be a grandfatherly kind of man, much warmer than any other senior manager she’d met. He in turn seemed to look on her almost as a daughter or granddaughter — someone whose career he could follow with pride, and assist where he honorably could — even though she was a gaijin. Although not truly a friend — they met and spoke only rarely — she considered him to be something of a mentor.
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