Twistor

by Cramer, John; Wolfe, Gene;

  'This machine,' the man said, 'is the result of years of development by intelligence agencies around the world.' He patted the controls. 'It's constructed to deliver strong and controlled electric shocks to the human nervous system. I have complete control over the strength of the shocks. They can be made very painful . . . so painful that no one has ever been able to resist telling me what I want to know.'

  He looked steadily at Saxon. 'If you cooperate now, I won't have to use this machine. But you must tell the whole truth, not lies, as you did yesterday.'

  *I told you everything—' Saxon protested.

  'No!' said the man. 'We have infrared and ultrasonic sensors in this room.' He looked upward to a little box mounted near the ceiling. 'We can detect lies. I know you were lying yesterday. If you don't fully cooperate now, I'll have to use this machine. I'll create unendurable pain until you talk. Surely you don't want that.'

  'But I wasn't lying!' Saxon protested again. At least, not much, he thought.

  'I don't like creating pain,' the man said grimly. 'I hate it.' His voice hardened. 'If I must use this equipment, it's your responsibility. As a professional, I do what is necessary.'

  He started the little digital disk recorder again and began to ask questions.

  Saturday night was now almost Sunday morning. Flash had been working at it all day, and now he was feeling tired and discouraged. He was rusty, no doubt about it. His 'good behavior' in the nine months after his bust had cost him all of his good contacts. The hacker boards he'd used so frequently just last year had either vanished or would not accept his old passwords.

  His only hope now was to try to reestablish some of his old contacts on the public nets. He'd struck out on CompuServe and BIX and GEnie, and now he was just cycling through them. It was frustrating. Nobody would answer his E-mail.

  He dialed into GEnie again. He'd seen a public message there signed by one 'Albert Alligator,' a 'nym he recognized from his prebust days. An hour ago he'd left a private E-mail message that only the real Albert-A would recognize. The GEnie prompt said that he had private E-mail. A score-o!

  He read the message, a warm greeting from his old friend Albert. It gave a voice number to call. Flash disconnected and dialed the telephone, smiling. He was about to reenter the hacker community.

  20

  Sunday Morning, October 17

  The balding man sat in the paneled living room, typing rapidly at an elderly VT-220 computer terminal linked by telephone to the VAX at his office. Outside the barred window he could see a broad swatch of Lake Washington through the trees. He was informing Broadsword of their progress in the interrogation of the subject, Allan Saxon. The news was not good.

  The old 'federal agent' scam had gone well at first. The subject had told them a story that checked with every aspect of the recordings from the university. He'd given every appearance of cooperation. But the sensor equipment had shown evidence of lying. Yesterday they had used the electrical equipment. That seemed to work better. The subject had confessed to some caper with a military computer and seemed to believe he'd told them what they were after. But when it came to the information Broadsword wanted – the details of how the twistor apparatus had been removed from the laboratory and the secrets of how it worked – the subject had claimed ignorance and stuck to a bizarre story about 'other universes.' Even when they threatened him with federal prison for his 'crimes,' he wouldn't change his story.

  Now they were at a branch point. They couldn't proceed further without advice from Broadsword. They could drop the whole thing here. If the business with the military computer checked out, they had the Saxon creep by the balls. They could put the fear of God into him and let him go, and he wouldn't dare complain to anyone.

  On the other hand, they could dig deeper. Some recombinant DNA research at one of the secret DOD labs had produced a remarkable new drug, neurophagin. It was a monoclonal antibody that attacked a particular part of the central nervous system, the nerve bundles that acted as censors for the brain. The right amount of the stuff and it was literally impossible to conceal anything, yet the higher mental processes were relatively unimpaired. The subject would talk his head off about anything he was asked, with his rational processes doing their best to provide all the answers.

  Trouble was, the treatment was irreversible. The antibodies worked by labeling nerve cells for destruction by the body's own immune system. The subject was placed permanently in a state not unlike some of the more lucid phases of Alzheimer's disease. It was not a nice treatment, even for this slimy creep. But on the whole it was preferable to the torture methods they'd used yesterday. There was much less screaming.

  The balding man completed the message that spelled out the possible alternative procedures, then hit RETURN. Now he had only to wait for Broadsword's reply. He went to the refrigerator for a beer.

  It was perhaps two hours later when the terminal beeped and the VT-220 screen read You have 1 new mail message.He quickly decrypted the new message from Broadsword.

  It read: Advise you proceed with neurophagin treatment.

  Victoria Gordon closed the door of room 103 the seminar room next to the lab. This was Sunday morning, with hardly anyone in the building, but she wanted to keep the meeting private. She needed a low profile. The room was smaller than the usual classroom. It was intended for meetings and the interactive discussions of small seminars. High windows facing the library filled the wall at the far end of the room. A blackboard on one long wall was covered with arcane symbols and diagrams left over from some seminar on Friday. Most of the vinyl-tiled floor was occupied by a long table and a few dozen chairs.

  Seated around the table were Paul and Elizabeth Ernst, Rudi Baumann, George Williams, Jim Lee, and Sam Weston. In chairs along the long blank wall sat three women grad students, friends of Vickie's from other departments.

  'OK,' Vickie said, 'I guess we'd better get on with it. This is the first meeting of the Twistor Working Group. I want to thank you all for coming in like this on a weekend. Since some of you don't know one another, I'll start with introductions.' She introduced each person in turn.

  'You all know the story and understand the problem,' she began. 'Each of you is here because you've agreed to help me construct a second-generation twistor generator. It's going to take a lot of work, and we don't have the usual advantages of the departmental shops. Professor Weinberger gave me authorization to go ahead with this with the assurance that there will be no use of departmental funds or technical services. I intend to honor that commitment. We can use the machine tools in the student shop, but that's all.'

  Sam raised his hand. 'I want everybody to understand,' he said, 'that I'm one of the resources you ain't supposed to be usin'. I'm here, as the army says, strictly as an observer. The work I do on this project will be to fill in the gaps and help Vickie with debugging. It'll be after hours on my own time, like today. OK?'

  Vickie nodded and turned to survey the group. 'I want to break this group up into smaller teams that will have responsibility for pieces of the project. The teams I have in mind are mechanical construction, electrical wiring, electronic construction, and supply/transportation. First, who knows how to use machine tools like lathes and milling machines? We'll need someone using the tools in the student machine shop to make things for us.'

  Vickie was surprised when Rudi Baumann put up his hand. He was supposed to be a theorist. 'While my friend here,' he said, patting George on the head, 'was playing football and thickening his skull by colliding it with others, I was working after school in my uncle's Maschinenfabrik, er, machine shop, in München. I could earn a living that way now, if it was necessary. I would enjoy the smell of hot steel chips and machine oil again. It would be almost like coming home.' He smiled.

  Denise Sonneberg, a grad student in botany, raised a hand. 'I had a good machine-shop course in high school, and I did pretty well,' she said. 'I could help him.'

  Rudi turned and smiled at her. 'You're hired,' he said. />
  'OK,' said Vickie, 'how about heavy electrical wiring?'

  Paul Ernst raised his hand. 'I've done some electrical wiring,' he said. 'After we bought our house, we rewired it ourselves. I even replaced the old fuse box with a breaker service panel. I think I can do your wiring, Vickie.'

  'I can help,' said Elizabeth. 'I helped when we did the house.' Paul nodded.

  'OK,' said Vickie, 'next is circuit-board wiring. Who knows how to use a soldering iron and follow a wiring schematic?'

  Jim Lee and two other graduate students indicated that they did. Vickie described the circuit construction problems they would face.

  'That leaves supplies and transportation,' said Vickie. 'Somebody has to chase around town finding bits and pieces of hardware and circuit parts as we need them.'

  'Guess that's me,' said George. 'I've got a station wagon and a strong back.' He grinned at Rudi.

  In the next hour, Vickie, assisted by Sam, went over the lists of work that needed to be done. By lunch time everyone had his or her first assignment, and Vickie was feeling quite optimistic about rebuilding the equipment.

  * * *

  David had discovered the creek. He'd followed the small stream from Melissa's pool along a meandering path through the forest and found that it joined a larger flow not far away. The creek, brushy at the banks and with few of the big trees growing very close, produced a gap in the forest canopy. For the first time since their arrival here David had been able to view a broad stripe of unobstructed sky. The clouds were still streaming northward, he noticed.

  Walking along the creek, he had come to a deep pool. Dark shadows could occasionally be seen moving in its depths. He guessed that there might be fish in the depths of the pool.

  Back at the treehouse he'd spent the remainder of the day manufacturing fishing equipment. At first he'd tried, with little success, to make fishhooks from salvaged springs. Then he thought of fish spears. He'd heated large nails in the fire, then hammered and filed them into barbed steel points. These he drilled and pinned into long thin shafts of white PVC pipe.

  Today, during the first hour of fishing they'd thrust their spears into the water many times but had nothing to show for it. Then Melissa had speared a large fish.

  It was quite a strange-looking fish, and rather pretty – blue with orange highlights, and three pairs of fins instead of the usual two. The front fins were not in the usual place but directly under the gills. They were long and projected downward and forward, almost like forepaws. David guessed they might be useful for feeding as well as for swimming.

  Melissa's fish was the last one they caught for another hour. Then, just when David had decided to call it a day, the fish from the depths had begun to feed on blue insect-creatures with long abdomens that were flying in swarms near the surface. The fish spearing became easy.

  Melissa was particularly skillful at it. As they added to their catch, she had repeatedly described the wonderful fish dinner they were going to have this evening. The daylight had begun to fade, but they had not wanted to stop.

  The storm had struck like a physical blow, taking David quite by surprise. Big raindrops hit him hard in the face, and a darkening gloom descended on the forest. 'We'll have to make a run for the treehouse,' he called to Jeff and Melissa above the sound of the wind.

  'Eee, it's cold!' Jeff cried. He tried to brush the icy rain from his face. David gave the remains of their lunch to Melissa to carry and gathered their catch into a plastic bag. Jeff carried the fishing gear. The three of them set out at a jog, Melissa first, Jeff in the middle, and David behind them. Jeff slipped in the mud once and skinned his knee. After that, David carried the fishing gear too. It became darker, and he gave Melissa the flashlight. He kept the big gun ready under his coat, out of the rain but there in case they met a large carnivore in the dark.

  They finally reached the treehouse cold, wet, and nearly exhausted. The fire left smoldering in the rock-lined pit was drowned, the pot of soup had been overturned by a blown branch, all the firewood was wet, and everything that had been left outside on the ground was drenched. David shined the flashlight beam into the cistern. At least it was filling nicely. They would have to carry no more jugs of water for a while. Gathering various soaked items from the ground, they climbed the ladder to the treehouse and were finally out of the wind and rain.

  They all sprawled dripping on the floor. David attended to Jeff's knee with antibiotic cream and an adhesive bandage from Sam's toolbox. He wondered if the bacteria of this world liked people and if they responded the same way to antibiotics. After Jeff's knee had been treated, David insisted that the children get out of their wet clothes and into their sleeping bags. He pulled up the ladder and blocked the door-hole against some of the wind and rain. Then he rigged a clothesline across one end of their compartment and hung their soaked clothing to dry.

  'I'm hungry,' said Melissa from her sleeping bag, still shivering. 'When can we eat the fish, David?'

  'No fish dinner tonight, I'm afraid,' David said. 'We aren't sure if this kind of fish is OK to eat. I'll have to test them first. Since we don't have a fire, I guess I'll eat some raw fish tonight.'

  'Ugh,' said Jeff, 'raw fish is yukky.'

  'I'll pretend I'm at Nikko's Sushi Bar in Seattle,' said David. 'We'll cook the rest of the fish tomorrow when the rain stops. But for tonight, I'm afraid you're going to have to make do with raw mushrooms and pink berries.'

  Melissa looked longingly at the fish, then pulled her head inside her sleeping bag.

  The night was as cold and damp and miserable as David had expected, and the fish smell from his partially washed hands permeated everything.

  By midnight Sunday, Flash was back in the hacker business. He rubbed his neck as he set the ancient Mac to dial a southern California area code at 4800 baud. His back was getting tired. Vickie had said it was OK to run up her long-distance bill, so he didn't even have to 'phreak' it, as he'd done in the old days, for free long distance with bogus access codes on MCI and Sprint. That saved some lime, at least.

  The Mac screen registered a CONNECT, followed by:

  < Welcome to the gangplank >

  < of the Starship Orion. >

  This is a public bulletin board intended primarily for the use of the fans of that

  fabulous TV series, 'Hunt of Orion.'

  Admiral Robert J. Hunt at the helm.

  Please sign in:

  'Ugh! The lowest of life forms, sci-fi video freakers,' said Flash aloud. He responded with the borrowed 'nym he had been given: The Deviant.' The system responded with the prompt Password:and Flash responded with BLOWJOB. The system then proceeded through its normal spiel:

  < Welcome aboard the Starship Orion >

  < Admiral Robert J. Hunt commanding >

  This is a public bulletin board

  intended primarily for the use of the

  fans of that fabulous TV series, 'Hunt

  of Orion.'

  DISCLAIMER:

  Any posting of telephone numbers, access codes, or credit card numbers intended to facilitate unauthorized access to computer or telecommunication systems is strictly forbidden. The SysOp disclaims any responsibility for such activities and will delete the posts and cancel the access of any user engaging in such activities.

  The Deviant has no mail waiting.

  Command (Menu=?):

  This was the point that Flash had been waiting for. According to his informant, the system so far had been just window dressing, a carefully crafted disguise intended to conceal the true nature of the board. He typed ROCHESTER.

  The system made a beep and responded with Invalid response! Hit RETURN to continue:

  'Sure, sure,' Flash muttered. This was part of the cover. He typed BUFFALO.

  And was in:

  < CONGRATULATIONS! You have gained >

  < access to the Hacker's Haven BBS >

  < operated by The Investigator. >

  < ***EQUAL ACCESS FOR ALL!*** >

  < **P
OWER THROUGH INFORMATION!** >

  NOTICE: If you are an employee of a

  law enforcement agency or a tele

  communications company or are related to

  such a person, you are not authorized to

  use this system. Please hang up

  immediately or you will be in violation

  of state and federal law.

  Command [T(itles), R(ead), Q(uit)]:

  The standard el bullshit-o, Flash thought. He turned on the Mac's elderly Image Writer II printer to get a hard copy of what followed, then scanned the message base for likely-looking entries. As usual, the messages were a random mix of telephone numbers, access codes and a few credit card numbers, mostly of no interest. He had almost decided to give up on the message base and post some E-mail to likely hackers when he came to message number thirty-seven:

  Message #37: New TeleNet Codes

  (Spacebar quits message)

  Posted by: The Electron Terrorist

  Date: October 17 @ 02.24 EDT

  Good News! I just cracked the

  TeleNet user file. Here are a few

  Addresses and Passwords for their big $$$ customers:

  There followed what looked like a list of the Fortune 500 companies, with a network address and password for each. Flash whistled. Scanning down the list, he came to the entry:

  Megalith Corp. MEG3592 AMBIANCE

  Flash turned to Victoria, seated on the bed across the room, a multicolored circuit diagram spread out before her, an integrated circuit catalog in her lap. 'Hey, Sis!' he yelled, a note of triumph in his voice. 'We now have a way to crack Megalith!'