Drakas!

  "Glad to cleyah them out afta 'while, Gwen! Didn' realize they'd be so easy . . ." His accent is deep South, with a hint of something . . . maybe a Germanic overlay. I've never heard anything like it in my entire life. His voice itself is as beautiful as he is handsome. Maybe he's a singer or something, I wonder to myself. He's sure not from around here . . .

  "Yaz, they're quite . . . susceptible . . . to the pheromones, Dietrich," the woman answers, and leans back against the railing, chuckling. "Very susceptible, indeed. It can be amusing."

  What? I say to myself. What in the—

  The woman's head swivels toward me, and she fixes me with a level, green-eyed stare. Hel-lo, I wonder, did I say that out loud? Who are these people? She grins, then, showing even white teeth in a deeply tanned face. I feel like an antelope being stared at by a lioness, and it doesn't feel good. I decide that perhaps it's time to look for birds elsewhere. Climbing quickly down from the boulder, I walk farther down the trail. From the crowded condition it was in, it's now eerily empty, which doesn't reassure me any. I feel—what do I feel? A sense of growing concern; a muted fear begins to grow in my chest. The pace I set is fairly rapid, but not a scurry or a jog. I look back, a quick glance over one shoulder, and see the couple is following me.

  Oh, great, wonderful. The woman says something quietly to the man. They split, each taking a side of the walkway.

  Where . . . where have I seen or heard of . . . no. The idea hits me like a cold rag in the face; am I really going nuts? I must be—they can't be what I think they are. What I think they are doesn't really exist.

  A tiny, chill voice in the back of my mind asks, "Don't they, now?" Hell, I think, one too many term papers to grade for this professor. I must be ready for a sabbatical. Maybe they're not really following me.

  To prove this to myself, I take the next turn-off in the trail, up to the Civil War memorial. Surely they won't follow me here. They'll just go on down the trail, and jump in their car, and drive happily away . . . damn. They've turned in, too. Now what?

  My heart is beginning to race, and my palms are wet. Haven't felt like this since rappelling. Time seems to slow, become gelid, and things take on an unnatural brilliance and clarity. My stomach feels like a bucket of ice cubes has been dumped into it, and the chill spreads throughout my body. In a primal reaction to fear, my hair begins to bristle and stand up; I'm sure my heart is going to jump out of my rib cage at any moment. The binoculars seem to weigh more and more, and I wish I hadn't brought them. I hear a soft chuckle behind me, and a hand touches my shoulder. Startled, and really frightened now, I leap into the air a couple of feet, and turn. Or try to. The hand, hard as steel, holds me facing away from the person.

  The logical, mild-mannered part of my brain is starting to become overwhelmed, and the more basic fight or flight reflexes are howling to take over. Come on, I say severely to myself, there's no such thing as Draka. God! They're just characters . . . not real. Get over it, and tell whoever's holding your shoulder to let the hell go!

  I open my mouth to say just that, and nothing comes out. I'm spun around faster than I could possibly move myself, and find myself facing the redheaded woman. I look up into her aquiline, tanned face, and can't read what's in her eyes.

  "Did she jus' subvocalize what I think . . ." says the red-haired man, coming up to us.

  "Yaz, she most certainly did. An' I wondah how she knows . . ."replies the woman, and then says something in a language I don't understand.

  Subvocalize . . . how could they possibly have heard . . . they can't be . . . yammers the logical portion of my mind, to a growing rush of fear hysteria. Run, run, run, says the rest of my mind, and I try to pull away. I might as well have tried to pull my shoulder out of a hydraulic press for all the good it does me.

  "Hey, now, come on, lady—let me go! Please!" I manage to stutter. Her leaf-green eyes return to me, and I feel a sensation like heat flitting across my face. I blush, then blanch, as her grip tightens slightly.

  "No, little 'un, you're not goin' anywhere raight now. Not until I know how and why you think we are Draka. That's not what I'd call public knowledge . . ."

  The man's taken position behind me, and I desperately want to be able to see both of them, know what they're doing. I try once again to twist out of the woman's steel grip, and she shakes me. Just once, but enough to snap my teeth together and lift my feet off the ground.

  "Answer me, wench. How do you know about the Draka?"

  The man asks something in the guttural, slurred speech they've been using to each other, gesturing at me, then the river. She shakes her head, no.

  "Not unless we have to, Dietrich. It could be messy—too many ferals about," she answers.

  Ferals? my mind gibbers.

  With her other hand, she cups my chin, raising my face to meet her eyes. Level, I come up to the middle of her upper arm; now with my head held in an immobilizing grip, I'm forced to maintain eye contact with her.

  "One last time, while I'm not annoyed, girl. How do you know about the Draka?" Her tone of voice is hardening, as is her grip. She's incredibly strong, and I'm reminded of the strength mental patients often display when going berserk.

  Oh, shit, I wonder, what have I gotten myself into?

  "Ma'am, I . . . I . . . don't know—what do you mean—please, stop, that hurts. I don't know!" I burst out, fighting back the tears now, tears of fear and anger and pain.

  "No one knows we're here, and you just randomly come up with the name Draka for us? I don't think so. Dietrich, let's take her to the car. This calls for further investigation, an' I don' want ferals comin' up on us while we do it."

  She releases my chin, and looks over my head at the man. He says something in their language, a joke perhaps, and she laughs. The laugh itself is like a peal of a bronze bell; I could listen to that for days. But the fear and the weirdness of the situation overwhelm me, and all I can think about is getting away.

  Once again, I try to break away from the grip holding me immobile, twisting and turning my shoulder to get loose. I plant my feet and yank backwards as hard as I can, and nothing happens. I'm not a waif; years of military and Tae Kwon Do training have left me fairly stocky and muscular. But trying to get away from this woman is obviously going to be difficult . . . if possible, even . . .

  She snarls, slightly. The sound stops me dead in my tracks, and I look up at her, wide-eyed. I've never heard a human make a noise like that, not even in jest or while imitating a wild animal. Her wide eyes slash down into mine, and I can taste the harsh metallic taste of fear in my mouth. Still holding on to my shoulder with only one hand, she slowly lifts me off my feet.

  "I can snap yoh neck and toss you in this river faster than shit, girl. Don't annoy me, if you want to survive. Understan'?" At the last word, she shakes me. I'm a couple of feet off the ground, and feel like a rag doll being shaken by an angry child. I nod, wordless.

  At that, she drops me to the ground again. "Walk with us, an' don' try to do anythin' silly. Come on," she says, and I nod again.

  Numbness is spreading though me; I feel trapped. Dietrich gives me a slight push, and the woman—he calls her Gwen, I remember—maintains her hold on my shoulder.

  Dietrich takes the binoculars from my other hand, where they've hung, unnoticed, for the past few minutes. "Interestin'," he comments, looking first at them and then through them. "Archaic." His cool blue glance takes me in, and I feel an unaccustomed sense of being "sized up". Been a long time since someone stared that way at me.

  Gwen chuckles, softly, and runs her free hand through my hair. Been a long time since someone did that, too, and a damn long time since my knees felt this weak. I stumble as I walk between them, and glance up at Gwen's face. She looks down, an appraising, evaluating look, and loosens her hand on my shoulder just a bit.

  We walk down the trail, three abreast, until we reach the next turn-off for parking. Dietrich walks ahead of us, now, after briefly saying something to Gwen in their language
.

  "Hey, ma'am, really, I mean, I was just joking, I mean, you remind me of characters I read about, a long time ago . . . it was just science fiction. I . . . I don't know anything you need to know—please, just let me go. Okay?" I plead, as he walks away from us.

  Gwen shakes her head no and propels me up the incline to the parking lot. I know if I don't get away soon, I won't be getting away at all. I steel myself, hating to hurt her, but the fear that's taken up residence in my gut won't let me just "do nothing." I'm a survivor, damn it, I say to myself, and launch myself at her.

  It may have taken her by surprise, briefly—a nanosecond or so—but after that, the fight is rather one-sided. My front kicks, side kicks, and fists just don't hit much, and what they do hit feels like steel. I begin to scream, opening my mouth only to end up gasping silently for breath as her fist sinks deep into my midsection. Can't breathe, can't breathe blasts through my mind, and I crouch, fighting for air. She sees some people coming down the slope toward us, their eyes alive with concern.

  "Don't worry, folks, it's all right; she's just having a seizure. I can take care of everything, and the car's right up here. Thanks, thanks . . ." she says, brightly, a woman obviously in charge of an unfortunate situation. Her accent, deep Southern, aristocratic sounding, is flawless now. She picks me up in her arms, which feel like steel cables wrapped around me, and I'm held, immobile, gasping for breath.

  She easily carries me up the hill, and the car's waiting, Dietrich at a side door. I notice a man in the front, a driver, as she slides me into the back seat.

  "Oh, thank you—everything will be fine, I think," says Dietrich, to a man who's come up to see what's wrong. Gwen climbs in beside me, pushing me against the car's side.

  "Not a word, wench, if you value your life—silly girl," she whispers, and then, in the bright, in-charge voice assures the concerned man. "Just a mild seizure—she's had them all her life. She'll be just fine. We'll get her home and put her to bed for a bit, I think. Thank you for your concern."

  Dietrich climbs in next to her, and the car moves smoothly through the normal Saturday traffic, heading for the interstate. I'm trapped. Oh, my God, I'm trapped . . .

  "May as well have some fun before we get to the House, eh, Dietrich?" Gwen murmurs, as she slides her hands down my chest, caressing, tugging off my rugby shirt . . .

  He laughs, and says, "You can go first; I don't mind." Gwen's eyes seem to fill mine. My shorts rip like tissue paper under her hands. Oh my God! The last conscious thought running through my mind: Draka? They can't be! Draka? They're not re—

  Hunting

  the Snark

  Markus Baur

  Markus Baur lives in Vienna, and works in the high-tech sector.

  Herein is a tale of how high technology meets biotechnology, and leads to a case of curiosity endangering the observer.

  Telephone conversation, 14.06.98 . . .

  "Hello? . . . This is Mag. Kurt Gersen, I am with the Vienna Technical University—am I speaking to Mr. Prohaska?"

  "Hello, Mr. Prohaska . . . did you receive my letter from last week? Yes . . . we are the Institute for Graphical Data Applications . . . what do we want? Well, we have designed a system for recognition and identification of humans that works off regular video cameras . . . and we would like to test it under proper field conditions in your mall. . . .

  "It uses a neuronal network to recognize people . . . the important thing is that it works also with bad quality video . . . and can recognize people even from behind and with only parts of them showing. . . .

  "Yes—it obviously has security applications . . . later it could be used to allow access for cleared personnel or search for customers who are no longer welcome . . . what you would get out of it right now besides supporting us? . . .

  "Well, we could give you visitor statistics . . . how many visitors . . . how many repeat visitors . . . how many men and women . . . that kind of thing . . . and we could arrange some kind of news release together . . . .

  "Technically yes—but I do not think we would be allowed to do that at this point . . . the data abuse protection laws—you know . . . yes, we will have to follow those regulations properly. . . .

  "Yes . . . we can come over to your place for a demonstration . . . this Friday would be okay with you? . . . Good—I will be there . . .

  "Oh. Nothing much, Mr. Prohaska. Only electric power and access to your security video system . . . it is not very large . . . about a meter on every side and two meters high . . . well, it is still a prototype. . . .

  "Thank you very much, Mr. Prohaska . . . I really appreciate your help and I thank you on behalf of the university. . . ."

  * * *

  subject: Houston, we have a problem...

  date: Mon., 27 Jul 1998 14:32:00 +0000

  from: Franz Hinterreitner

 

  to: [email protected]

  Kurt—our system is acting up. . . . it has troubles recognizing a man . . .

  Even worse—it simply refuses to recognize him as a human being. I thought we were over that particular problem a year ago . . . and this is the first time this happened (or did it happen to you too?)

  Anyway . . . I pulled the video tape and the system log for this and will bring it to the lab tomorrow—we should go over it soonest. Please make time in your schedule . . . this is important

  Prohaska is making noises on how much he likes the system and how soon we could activate the individual recognition part of the system—I believe they have some troubles with organized pickpockets or shoplifters.

  cu tomorrow . . .

  fraaaaaanz

  * * *

  Vienna Technical University,

  institute for graphical data applications,

  computerlab, 28.07.98:

  The lab has the usual heaps of hardware consisting of repairs that have been waiting for days and weeks and some prototypes in the process of being rebuilt—again. The only tables not being cluttered with parts, bits and pieces are those of the "pure" programmers . . . they have stacks of printouts and references perching on them instead.

  The attention of the people present is focused on a large screen, showing a part of the shopping mall. The network marks every human it finds and recognizes with a bright outline, with a number hovering over each person.

  "Kurt, did you turn those numbers off in the version that is running in the mall?"

  "Oh yes . . . ," I answered, "Mr. Prohaska's interest in those features seemed to be very strong on our last meeting . . . it took a lot for him not to drool . . ."

  "Okay . . . so far it is working well . . . it finds those people sitting down at the bar and on the benches . . . even those hiding behind the shrubbery," Franz points on the screen, " . . . and we had those cartoon costumes last week . . . it even managed to recognize some of those as human . . . Where is the problem?"

  "Just wait a little . . . any second now," I sigh. "Here it is."

  An apparently middle aged man appears on the screen—very good looking, athletic, above average height . . . walks gracefully through the field of view of the camera . . . his face well visible . . . but he does not receive one of those bright outlines, nor an identification number.

  "I don't believe it . . . we had that running for almost a year . . . better than 99.999% reliability . . . hmm . . . let's try something—reduce the size of the picture and select only a few seconds . . . so that he is the only person on that video. Then we'll run it through again and look closely at the reaction of the network."

  Franz and I start to work on the video. . . . Cutting and editing . . . half an hour later we have 6.3 seconds, showing only the mysterious stranger. . . . Franz unfolds his gangly frame and moves over to another workstation, where he plans to look at the internal reactions of the neuronal network in detail. . . . "Okay. I am ready—run it again."

  Again the stranger walks over the screen, moving as if the whole mall belongs to him.
Again the computer refuses to recognize him . . . .

  "That's weird . . . ."

  "What do the diagnostics say, Franz? . . . Not that we really will find out a lot—we still do not really know how the network trained itself to recognize humans.

  Keyboard clicks . . . humming a mindless melody . . .

  "Weeeeell . . . it finds a moving object . . . tags it as living . . . and then rejects it as human . . . basically it insists that that guy is a dog or another animal . . . not a human . . . that's really crazy!"

  "What do you think, Franz—should we unfreeze the network and start another training cycle?"

  "You know what happened the last time we tried that . . . reliability went down instead of up . . . I don't think that would be a smart idea."

  "Yes—I believe so too . . . I think I will baby-sit it for a few days—just in case this happens again . . . can you give me that keycard for the mall? And we will have to insert some sort of warning that will go off when the system refuses to recognize a human, too."

  "Karl . . . that will go off at every dog passing a camera!"

  * * *

  SCS mall, security office, 30.07.98:

  A darkened square room, a little over ten meters on each side . . . one wall is covered with video monitors and recorders, showing scenes from the mall and the parking lot . . . the other one shines with readouts for fire alarms, power supplies, lift and escalator status—the works. A console with lots of buttons and phones faces the corner where those two walls meet. Perhaps the architect was unconsciously trying for a minuteman-launch bunker look . . . only the guy sitting at the console does not look like a steely eyed missile man.