Perfect Dark: Second Front

by Greg Rucka

  >>ED_V_CODER: sorry.

  >>CHRYSALIS BLOSSOM: You done?

  >>ED_V_CODER:Yeah.

  >>CHRYSALIS BLOSSOM: You *gotta* calm down, babe.

  >>ED_V_CODER: I’ve got maybe 100 hours before Arthur has to do his thing, CB, I just lied to my boss, and I’m staring at a blue-screen. Calm is not in my vocab

  >>CHRYSALIS BLOSSOM: LOL all right.

  >>ED_V_CODER: Not to mention that it’s performance evaluation time soon. If I don’t get Arthur up and running, and do it without the boss’s help, I might as well forget my shot at the bonus, the stock options, the promotion …

  >>CHRYSALIS BLOSSOM: and of course, the yacht. Well, you promised me a trip to Capri, so I can’t very well let the new boss fire you before I get my pleasure cruise, now can I?

  >>ED_V_CODER: You’re the queen.THANK YOU!

  >>CHRYSALIS BLOSSOM: Okay, so hit me, codeman. What, specifically, is the problem?

  >>ED_V_CODER: I *think* it’s the behavioral sims. Arthur’s not supposed to be fully sentient, but he should be able to make “reasonable extrapolations based on available data.” Hell, Cassandra’s the one who really understands this stuff, like I said, I can barely keep up. Conceptually, the project spec says that these simulated “humanlike” behavioral modes are supposed to make Arthur easy for nonprogrammers to work with, right? You just issue plain-language instructions and Arthur will parse them and then design and execute the necessary code.

  >>CHRYSALIS BLOSSOM: Ah. So that’s why all the secrecy. Interesting. With that code architecture on a larger scale, Arthur could streamline everything from educational systems to even something as vast as AirFlow, right?

  >>ED_V_CODER: (Sigh.) You *know* I’m not supposed to talk about this.

  >>ED_V_CODER: But yeah, that’s basically it. Arthur’s supposed to be the future of the company--and my ticket into upper management--but right now, he’s an anchor around my neck

  >>CHRYSALIS BLOSSOM: Can you send me the error logs?

  >>ED_V_CODER: Sending now

  [[[UPLOAD COMMENCING … ]]]

  [[[UPLOAD COMPLETED … ]]]

  >>ED_V_CODER: Okay, so check lines 10292.192 through 105501.201. Parameter input for instructions is being received and parsed, right?

  >>CHRYSALIS BLOSSOM: Yeah, I see it. Then what?

  >>ED_V_CODER: Arthur’s either crashing when the instructions become too complex or just dumping garbage into his executables directory

  >>ED_V_CODER: Like I said, I think it’s a problem with the compiler.

  >>CHRYSALIS BLOSSOM: Could be. Might also be in the security nodes, though. You corp guys armor everything, and it might be doing something silly, like treating the new code as a virus or worm. DataFlow security code is usually it’s own worst enemy. Trust me. ;)

  >>CHRYSALIS BLOSSOM: I think I might have a work-around, but you’ve got to let me poke around in the root structure for a few hours.

  >>ED_V_CODER: I can get in real trouble if I let you do that.

  >>CHRYSALIS BLOSSOM: And that would be more trouble that you’re in now?

  >>ED_V_CODER: (wincing) ouch

  >>CHRYSALIS BLOSSOM: I’ll kiss it all better, babe.

  >>CHRYSALIS BLOSSOM: I promise: no one will ever know I was in there. Give me five hours in an access socket, and I’ll plug the problem up. You get your promotion, I get my cruise to Capri …

  >>CHRYSALIS BLOSSOM: actually, I think we’ll *both* get something out of the cruise. ;)

  >>ED_V_CODER: Okay. You’re right.

  >>ED_V_CODER: I’ll send you the entry codes in a few minutes.

  >>ED_V_CODER: And thanks. You’re saving my life here, CB.

  [[[ CHAT TERMINATED / TRANSCRIPT FLASHBLANKED ]]]

  Carrington Institute

  Rooms of Jonathan Steinberg

  London, England

  January 24th, 2021

  The Institute had been on alert for six days now, and the strain of it was beginning to show everywhere Jonathan Steinberg looked. Walking the corridors of the Institute’s main building, every conversation he overhead was spoken in hushed tones. Checking with Calvin Rogers that afternoon on the status of the Institute’s small fleet of dropships, making certain they were ready and loaded in case Steinberg found himself having to deploy troops, he’d done it himself, speaking in a whisper until Rogers had put up a hand, frowning at him.

  “It’s just us in here, Jon,” Rogers had said. “There’s no need to whisper, man.”

  Tension was showing in other ways, too, and some of those ways were in danger of becoming problems. Twice Steinberg had put a stop to heated arguments between Institute guards, exhausted from their extended shifts, before they’d escalated to blows. The conflicts had been baseless, expressions of frustration and fear, and in each case easily resolved, but it worried him. Emotions were running high, and morale was beginning to deteriorate.

  He did what he could, but the fact was, there wasn’t much to be done. Until Carrington ordered Steinberg to have the defenses stand down, every one of his men and women were going to have to stay on alert. That meant long hours on post or patrol in the biting January cold; it meant shorter off-duty hours for sleep and meals; and it meant that the normal avenues of recreation were closed. No one was allowed to leave the Institute campus until Carrington gave the all-clear.

  No one but Joanna, Steinberg corrected himself as he sat on his bed in his quarters, removing his boots. He’d returned to change his socks, to give his feet a chance to breathe again, and as he sat there, staring at his aching bare feet, he realized that sitting on the bed had been a very bad idea. It made him want to lie down, and he knew if he did that, he would want to sleep, and that was out of the question, at least for the moment.

  With a grunt that made him feel older than he knew he actually was, Steinberg hoisted himself up and crossed to his dresser, searching for a new pair of socks. He was trying to get them on his feet while standing when his in-room terminal lit up, announcing the arrival of a text message. He abandoned the effort, crossed to where the small screen hung suspended on the wall, tapping it with an index finger.

  Are you a big bad wolf looking for a good time? Contact littlelostlamb762@fairytale-love.com for a chat that could change your life.

  Steinberg blinked at the message, thinking that either Grimshaw’s firewall wasn’t everything it was supposed to be, or Joanna Dark had a very strange sense of humor.

  With a sigh, he pulled out his desk chair and switched on the keyboard projector. Across the surface of his desk appeared a projected QWERTY keyboard, and Steinberg began typing on the desktop, fingers striking intangible keys. It took him two minutes to confirm that Fairytale-love.com existed, a site that billed itself as “discreet & sexxxy” with “the latest in ‘LoveMatch VR’ interactions, secure chatrooms for video or text messaging, and live girls.”

  Steinberg realized that he was going to have to actually join the site to go any further, and for a moment contemplated getting Grimshaw to hack his way in, just to avoid the deluge of spam that would come from doing so. Then he saw that littlelostlamb762 was actually online at that moment, and resolved himself to the inevitable change of e-mail address he was about to require.

  Once he’d registered, he sent a personal message to littlelostlamb762, telling her that he was lonely and looking for a good time. Perhaps thirty seconds after that, he received an invitation to join a private chatroom, with video enabled. He accepted the request, watched the screen redraw and encrypt, and then he was looking at Joanna Dark, grinning at him broadly.

  “Baa,” Jo said, her voice slightly distorted as it came through the speakers in his room. The video quality wasn’t terrific, either, and Steinberg realized that Jo was using a private net kiosk for the communication. Wherever she was, it was still daylight, and apparently somewhere untouched by winter.

  “You are a very strange girl,” Steinberg told her.

  “You’re one to talk, Mr. huffandpuff007,” she retorted. “What’s the m
atter, was Big Bad Wolf taken?”

  “It’s called Fairytale-love.com. Of course Big Bad Wolf was taken. Where are you?”

  “Mexico,” Jo said.

  “Smart.”

  She seemed pleased with the praise. “Yeah, CMO was very helpful. I met with the colonel in charge of the region, a woman named Tachi-Amosa, and she’s arranging for me to meet Carcareas tomorrow morning in Veracruz for a little chat.”

  “Carcareas?”

  “During Initial Vector. The one I almost ran into back in New York.”

  “And she’s agreed to meet with you?”

  “CMO is under the impression that I’ve been doing them a lot of favors. They think I’m looking to switch sides. Didn’t hurt that I apparently look like death warmed over and they think you’re responsible for it.”

  “Me? What?”

  “Well, maybe not you specifically, but Carrington generally. Stopping me from defecting, you know.” On the screen, Joanna flashed him another grin, then glanced over her shoulder, looking at the passersby outside the kiosk. When she looked back, her expression was more serious, though Steinberg thought there was still some mirth in her eyes. “I should make this quick. I shook the surveillance they put me under, but this is their town, so they may reacquire me anytime.”

  Steinberg nodded. “What do you need me to do?”

  “I’m assuming nothing’s changed since I left?”

  “No, the situation’s the same. Last I heard, Beck-Yama’s got maybe forty-eight hours left to live. We’re still on alert. Not a peep from dataDyne, and the intrusion attempts seem to be done with for the moment.”

  “Huh.” She seemed to think about that. “What do you make of it?”

  “I don’t make anything of it,” Steinberg said. “Could be that whoever was trying to hack the system finally got frustrated with Grim’s defenses. Could be that whoever was trying to hack the system wanted to get some sleep. God knows I do.”

  “Does that make sense to you? I mean, if the Institute’s about to be hit, why suddenly stop trying to crack the system?”

  “I’m not a programmer,” Steinberg said. “I’m a ground-pounder, remember? Could be a dozen reasons why that I don’t understand, not without having Grimshaw explain it to me. What do you need me to do, Jo?”

  “I’m light,” Jo said. “Got the P9P and a datathief on me, that’s pretty much it. No way to record this conversation with Carcareas tomorrow.”

  “I’m not sure how I can help that.”

  “She’s got a ring-ring, Jonathan. They’re standard on CMO, they give them out with the corporate IDs. There’s got to be a way that Grim can hack into it, maybe, something like that.”

  Steinberg tried not to look doubtful. “I don’t know.”

  “Just talk to him, see if there’s anything he can do, okay?” She glanced over her shoulder again. “I’ve got to go. I’ll be in touch.”

  Before he could tell her to be careful, she’d cut the connection, and his monitor was now telling him that his credit account had been charged for the conversation. Steinberg reached up and switched off the projector for the keyboard, then tapped the monitor, putting it back to sleep. He pulled his fresh socks on, then his boots.

  His computer was announcing the first wave of spam before he was out the door.

  “Grim?”

  “Mhhm?”

  Steinberg looked at the hacker, sprawled in his underwear on his bed, and wondered if there was a way to wake him without actually needing to make physical contact. The odor in Grimshaw’s quarters bore a disturbing resemblance to the one that now permeated the Ops Center.

  “Grim, wake up.”

  Grimshaw moved slightly, rubbing his nose and repositioning so that his posterior canted upward, then resumed snoring.

  Steinberg switched on the room lights, taking in the accumulation of detritus and paraphernalia that Grimshaw had decorated with. Posters of women in various stages of undress covered the walls. Most of the women were apparently computer-generated, though two were of Candee, who Steinberg knew wasn’t a simulation but might as well have been. Stacks of computer magazines, paperback books, and d-PAL Reader data chips covered the floor, the desk, the bureau, sharing space with dirty laundry and a half-assembled model of Carrington One, the first null-g vehicle that Daniel Carrington had built as proof-of-concept. Toys were everywhere, including a legion of action figures. In the collection, Steinberg spotted at least three figures of the late Zhang Li’s daughter, Mai Hem.

  Leave it to the twisted old bastard to totemize his DeathMatch-star daughter for profit, he thought. Steinberg wondered how Joanna would react if she knew that Grim had tiny, variant replicas of the woman who had murdered her father in his room.

  He turned back to Grimshaw, who had shifted again, still snoring steadily, and used the toe of his boot to nudge the man’s side.

  “Cassandra DeVries called,” he said loudly. “She’s offering you a job as her new Director of DataFlow and personal cabana boy.”

  Nothing.

  The problem, Steinberg thought, is that it’s three in the morning and I really don’t want to use the volume that’s going to be required here.

  He glanced around the room, found an oversized novelty mug in the shape of an alien skull, and picked it up, examining the contents cautiously. The mug appeared to be empty but smelled strongly of maple syrup. Steinberg carried the mug into the bathroom, washed it out, and filled it with cold water from the tap. Then he returned to where Grimshaw was still sleeping and dumped the contents on the man’s head.

  Grimshaw awoke spluttering, eyes snapping wide. “Awake! I’m awake!”

  “You are now,” Steinberg agreed. “Keep it down.”

  Grimshaw blinked several times, then rubbed his eyes. He glanced down at himself, at the bed, and then to Steinberg, and the look he gave was that of a wounded child.

  “You really didn’t have to do that, Jon.”

  “No, I really did,” Steinberg said.

  “I haven’t slept in three days. The Old Man said I could get some sleep.” His expression changed suddenly, switching to alarm. “Shit, no, tell me they haven’t started again.”

  “Not that I know of.”

  The relief on Grimshaw’s face was enormous, until he realized that Steinberg had apparently woken him for no reason.

  “Then I’m going back to bed,” he said, then turned and realized his pillow, sheets, and most likely mattress were all now soaked. “Aw, c’mon, Jon.”

  “I need your help.”

  “I’ll reset your password in the morning, man. Oh, c’mon … it’s all wet.”

  “Let me rephrase,” Steinberg said. “Jo needs your help.”

  That brought Grimshaw’s attention back as if he’d been slapped. “Is she all right? She’s recovering, right?”

  “This is a secret, Grim, you understand what I’m telling you? The Old Man doesn’t know about this, and he’s not going to know, not from me, not from you.”

  “Dude, I don’t know what you’re talking about. What’s going on with Jo?”

  “She’s in Mexico.”

  “Huh?”

  “Buy a map, Grim. She went to make contact with Core-Mantis.”

  The alarm returned. “What the hell’d she go and do that for?”

  “We figure CMO’s the one profiting from the killings she’s supposed to have committed. Look, I’ll fill you in later, but right now she needs you to do something for her.”

  The alarm left again, now replaced by doubt, and Steinberg marveled at how clearly Grimshaw’s face expressed everything he was thinking, everything he was feeling. If the man had to lie to Carrington’s face, they were dead, he realized.

  “I don’t like going behind the Old Man’s back, Jon,” Grimshaw said. “When he finds out, he’ll be pissed. You know what he’s like when he’s pissed.”

  “He’s a little preoccupied right now, we’ll be okay. Get your pants on.”

  “Why? Where are we going?�
�

  “The computer center.”

  “Uh, Jon, it’s called a network. If it’s on the optical, I can access it from here.”

  Steinberg winced. “Right.”

  “What do you—what does Jo need me to do?”

  “She’s got a meet set with a CMO agent named Carcareas in about eight hours. She wants to be able to record the conversation, but she doesn’t have the tech on her, and she’s in CMO-controlled territory, so she can’t find it herself. She was thinking you might be able to hack Carcareas’s ring-ring.”

  Grimshaw ran a hand through his hair, then reached into the pile of magazines on the bedstand, finding his glasses. He put them on, frowning, then shook his head.

  “Can’t do it,” he said. “Impossible.”

  “Joanna needs—”

  “Jon, ring-ring’s are passive-active devices, man. Unless you want to call this Carcareas chick and ask her to keep the damn thing on during the meeting with Jo, there’s no way to hop that signal and record it, there’s just no way to do it. It’s like a light, it’s either on or it’s off. If I had the frequency, I could triangulate on it, sure, but I still wouldn’t be able to hear anything unless it was actively being used. She has to have an open line to do what you’re asking. Can’t be done, sorry.”

  Grimshaw turned back to his bed, grumbled, and began attempting to reorganize his bedding to avoid the wet spot.

  Steinberg considered, then said, “Jo asked for your help, Grim. There are three people who know she’s not here right now. Her, me, and you. That’s a lot of trust.”

  Still seated on his bed, Grimshaw turned back to him, pulling a face that was half resigned, half pleased. “Okay, okay, I get it. Let me think. What do we know about this CMO babe, this Carcareas?”

  “She’s one of their agents.”

  “Little more than that would be helpful.”

  “She’s the one that Hayes met with in New York, during Initial Vector.”

  “Oh, right. That one was supposed to be some kind of major babe, yeah?” Grimshaw perked up, then rubbed at his eyes beneath his glasses. “Okay, so she’s got to be upper-level, then, one of their key agents, not like that mole in LA was.”