Fugitive From Asteron

by Gen LaGreca

  I turned it on and called up a feature that gave me a trove of information about the cities and towns in the area where I was traveling. I was able to learn about furnished apartments available for rent along my route. I quickly selected a place for my new lodging in a secluded town one hundred miles from Rising Tide, which was a mere 12-minute ride on the Cheetah. I counted the money I had carried with me that evening. Thanks to the affluence of my new life on Earth, I had enough funds to rent a small furnished apartment and to buy a few articles of clothing and food until my next payday. When my stop was the next one, I walked through the train to the place where the cub was attached. I stepped in and watched it disengage from the Cheetah and, seconds later, pull into the station and come to a stop.

  Despite my new town being far from a large city, I found abundant choices in restaurants, shops, and lodging. Why, I wondered, in a place where nothing was provided for free, was everything so readily available? And why, in a place where everything had been provided for free, had nothing been available? I wondered, but I had no time to discover the answer.

  After renting a furnished apartment, I slept for a couple of hours. Then, too unsettled to sleep longer, I took the Cheetah back to my workplace.

  The rocket sculpture was still bathed in its nighttime spotlight when I reached the quiet grounds of MAS. At four-thirty in the morning, the buildings were sparsely lit, and only a few vehicles dotted the parking lots.

  A notice posted at the entrance announced the closing of the plant tomorrow, Friday, for the holiday of Reckoning Day. Tomorrow also marked a week since Feran began hunting for me in Rising Tide, as well as my twenty-third day on Earth. And because Kristin had insisted that I must have a birth celebration, she used my estimate of my age in Earth time to declare Reckoning Day as my twenty-second birthday. With Kristin planning my birthday and Feran my funeral, I figured I would have some type of ceremony in either case.

  As my mind whirled with the problem that consumed me, I opened the door to my office and entered the narrow canyon of bookshelves that held the colorful manuals and electronic devices of my new life.

  At my desk, I called up on my computer the memo that Dr. Merrett had sent to his employees announcing the cancellation of Project Z. I had already read this document, which was accessible to everyone at MAS. Now I reread it, wondering if there was a clue I had missed. The legend at the top noted that Dr. Merrett wrote the memo two months ago, on a Sunday in late August, and the computer sent it to all electronic mailboxes at MAS the next morning. It read:

  Today I decided to cancel Project Z. There will be no delivery of its product tomorrow as scheduled, or at any other time, because I have just dismantled it. Because MAS has spent considerable time, effort, and resources on developing Project Z, I know that my sudden and unexpected action calls for an explanation. I can say only that a grave problem, which plagued me from the beginning, and which I had confidence would be solved by the time of product delivery, remains unsolved. In light of this, I have decided that I cannot release to the world a new invention with far-reaching and irrevocable consequences.

  Because MAS is now in breach of its contract, we are required to return all payments received for our work on Project Z and to pay a significant cancellation penalty. This means MAS will suffer a temporary, but quite serious, financial setback. I deeply regret any layoffs that will result. I will diligently be seeking new ventures to replenish our revenue stream, and those of you whose departments are affected by the slowdown will be given first priority when we are hiring again.

  I stared at the memo on my screen. From the little I knew of Dr. Merrett, the communication seemed typical of him. It was in plain text, with no fancy formatting, images, or videos. I was struck by the difference between the simple memo before me and the mode of communication of my former leader. Whereas Feran coated his messages with honey to hide their true meaning, Dr. Merrett spoke directly, absent any sweet words to soften the truth. Whereas Feran’s fiendish portrait was stamped on all directives and hung in every room of every Asteronian building—with penalties for people who did not dust and maintain the images—I had seen Dr. Merrett in only two pictures, both with him busy at work and unaware of being photographed—one in which he wore a helmet and was coming out of a cockpit, and another with him on a ladder and with his head poking inside an aircraft’s engine in a hangar. Whereas Feran was consumed with power, Dr. Merrett seemed consumed with work. Of all the contrasts between my homeland and my new planet, I wondered if the difference in its leaders was the most startling of all.

  I leaned back, pondering the memo. What did it mean? What was developed under Project Z? An invention. What kind of invention? One with far-reaching consequences. But many projects at MAS had far-reaching consequences. For example, my own project in the asteroid belt had consequences that would affect the future direction of space exploration and mining. Dr. Merrett’s invention also had irrevocable consequences. But my going to the asteroid belt also had irrevocable consequences, because I could not undo my trip once I made it. It seemed as if another word should be added to Project Z’s far-reaching and irrevocable consequences for them to disturb Dr. Merrett, a word he had neglected to mention: dangerous.

  I sighed. What did I know? Feran had a protective suit in his spacecraft that linked him to Project Z. This project involved an invention whose effects were dangerous and irreversible. Could an Asteronian spy have found out about the invention? But how, if the plant and project were under tight security, and if no one could access the computer files or spy through his office windows on the one man who knew all the details of the project? Could Feran have wanted the invention? But why? Even if Feran had learned of the invention and wanted it, Dr. Merrett himself had dismantled and destroyed it. Was it not out of Feran’s reach now?

  I rubbed my eyes as if trying to make them focus more clearly on an answer to these riddles, but all I could picture were Feran’s spies closing the distance between him and me. Did I dare tell Kristin my story? I remembered the look of hatred, so startlingly out of place in her eyes, when she spoke of Asteron. If I told her the truth about my origin, could she turn against me?

  Did I dare tell Mykroni or Dr. Merrett my story? If spies masquerading as officers of Earth wanted me for questioning, whose side would my employers take? On Asteron everyone knew the officials were corrupt and no one trusted them. On Earth, however, people respected their officials, a view truly shocking to me. Because the power of Earth’s civil authorities was tightly confined, their potential for corruption and cruelty also seemed limited. Why would anyone want to bribe the officials, when they controlled none of the citizens’ businesses or personal affairs? What peaceable citizen would be afraid of an officer’s cruelty when the police had no power even to search an apartment without a warrant? Even if Mykroni or Dr. Merrett believed I did nothing wrong, they could nevertheless turn me over to Feran’s spies, thinking that those men were civilized Earthling officers who would release me when I explained my innocence. And besides, I thought guiltily, why would my employers side with me after I had lied to them about my homeland?

  Did I dare go to the authorities? With Feran’s spies impersonating Earth’s officials, how could I? How far had his spies infiltrated their ranks? Because seeking help from Kristin, my employers, or the authorities was fraught with danger, I decided against it. I would first try to learn more on my own.

  I rose from my chair and slipped into a port in my watch a small electronic cylinder called a pin drive, containing a program I needed. Then I left my office to commit my worst breach of the trust given me by the people who had welcomed me into their world.

  Ever since I had seen the flexite suits at MAS and learned about Project Z, I knew it would come down to this, and I had prepared for it. A few days ago, I had feigned losing the personal password I used to access the computer terminal in my office. I called our systems administrator for help. Jill Thomas had arrived in my office to assist me. She spoke competently and ha
d a cheerful face, which gave me hope that she would be helpful without also being suspicious.

  After instructing me on the need to commit my password to memory and avoid this problem in the future, Jill installed a program on my computer to retrieve the code that would unlock it. On the screen flashed the words Code Cracker, introducing the program in an impressive graphic display that suggested the software was what the Earthlings called a commercial program, available to the public. Many such programs were used at MAS.

  Code Cracker employed an incredible array of dictionaries and algorithms to search for the exact combination of letters, numbers, and special symbols that formed the password. It bypassed the computer’s operating system and was able to test millions of password possibilities per second. As Code Cracker was running, I tried to gain information about it.

  “Tell me, Jill, are there no security screens on my computer to resist such an attempt to unlock it?” I asked.

  “Oh, absolutely,” she replied. “There sure are safeguards on your computer against cracking a password, but the software to bypass them keeps getting more and more sophisticated. What I’m using here is the latest program, and it does the trick most of the time.”

  After Jill’s various manipulations and attempts, the program did indeed come up with a code it presented on the screen. “Does that look about right to you, Alex?”

  “I think that may be it!” I already knew that the result she had arrived at was indeed correct.

  She tried the code and was able to unlock the computer and pull up my files. While working, she elaborated on what she had done. “Code Cracker doesn’t let you see anything new. It just retrieves your password so you can see what you already were able to access.”

  “Okay.”

  “I should also mention that the program doesn’t crack other codes you may use, only your password. For example, if you buy things from this computer, Code Cracker won’t give you the separate codes you use to access your customer accounts. And if any directories or files require an additional log-in, you’ll have to supply it.”

  “Do any of the systems here use biometrics?” The matter interested me more than my casual tone revealed.

  “We use fingerprints, DNA, and retinal patterns in some cases. But they can be cracked too, and some people find it intrusive to have to give that kind of information, so we don’t require it on their personal terminals.”

  With her work completed, Jill uninstalled the Code Cracker program. Before leaving she gave me pointers on picking a good password, and then commented: “Most people here are pretty relaxed about security—too relaxed, if you ask me.”

  After Jill had left, I visited a store in Rising Tide that sold these kinds of programs, and indeed I found Code Cracker on the rack. Here was a program of great power—and it was available to any person who wanted to buy it. Just as I marveled at the openness of Earth and the power and reach of the average person here, I felt a stab of pain at the thought of taking advantage of this wholesome environment by planning to do something . . . unwholesome. I bought the program and learned how to use it. Now, a few days later, I carried it on the pin drive in my watch.

  I glanced at my watch as I walked across the parking lot to the executive office building. At five o’clock in the morning, I figured it was still early enough to perform my task without unwanted company. My security pass opened the entrance door. To remain unseen by anyone who might be in the building, I avoided the elevator and took a staircase up to Charles Merrett’s office.

  The door was locked that led to the outer reception area where his assistant, Margaret, worked. There was no keypad there to try the code I knew for the inner office, and I had no way of getting in. Then I remembered the conference room that was part of Dr. Merrett’s inner office space. It also had a door to the hallway, the next one down the corridor. I glanced at it and saw that it did indeed have an electronic keypad, similar to the one on the other side of Dr. Merrett’s inner office. Would the code I knew for the keypad entry through the reception area also work on this side of the inner office, through the conference room? I tried it, and the door opened. I walked in quietly and closed the door behind me.

  In a moment I was sitting at Dr. Merrett’s desk and starting his computer. Every sound reverberated in the stillness—from my chair swiveling to the computer starting to my pin drive sliding into a port on his terminal. I muted the computer so that it would communicate with me through written words, not speech. That way I could remain as silent as possible. I paused to listen but heard no sounds in the outer hallway. I glanced outside the window but saw no one entering the parking lot or walking toward the building at this early hour.

  Soon the fancy graphic for Code Cracker came up on the monitor, announcing that the program was installing on Dr. Merrett’s computer. I followed the prompts, activated functions, and set the program’s powerful algorithms into motion scanning the hundreds of millions of possibilities to find the one combination of letters, numbers, and symbols that would allow me to discover the terminal’s contents.

  Like a safe cracker of old times, patiently turning the dial to find the right combination and release the tumbler, Code Cracker took time. While the program was engaged, I stared at the empty box on the screen labeled Password. If the cracking was successful, a password would appear in that box. I waited. Every noise seemed magnified in the stillness. A car door slammed outside in the parking lot, and then two people walked across the front of the building. I heard a clamoring that startled me, but then I realized it was a robot moving through the hallway. I glanced at my watch. At five-thirty in the morning, I did not have much time left.

  Finally, the small box on the monitor filled with a password. I committed it to memory and attempted entry. Success!

  I did a search for Project Z, but nothing came up. Could the data I sought be intentionally hidden from a search? This meant I would have to probe the complex array of databases and files on the computer. I saw various directories and was able to enter them. There I found multiple layers of subdivisions. I dug deeper, opening some of the folders that looked promising. I encountered a wide range of information on the company’s business—a prototype of a new plane, designs for a space station, financial reports, departmental reports, agreements to manufacture various types of products to customers—but I found nothing that resembled the project I sought.

  With my hands perspiring onto the keyboard, I raced against time. Finally, in a remote folder buried several layers within a database innocuously labeled “Notes,” there it was. I found a directory named, simply, Z.

  My heart speeded in anticipation. I selected the database named Z and waited for it to open. Soon I would see before me the files of Project Z. At last I would be enlightened about the one thing I must understand.

  But unlike the other directories, this one was not opening. Instead, a window appeared on my monitor, requiring that I enter an additional code word to access the folder. I knew there was no function in Code Cracker to find additional codes beyond the password into the computer. On the remote chance it might work, I tried Dr. Merrett’s password, but it was, predictably, rejected. Remembering how close Kristin was to her father, I tried her birthday followed by her name as a code, then her name followed by her birthday—but these wild guesses were immediately rejected. After these rejections, as a security measure, I was prevented from making another try during this session.

  Stymied, I pondered the matter but came up with no solution. I would not unlock the secret of Project Z after all! The mystery that enveloped my life and involved Kristin, her father, MAS, and—by his having one of the project’s special suits—Feran would remain unsolved for me.

  I had been at my task for two hours. By now, people were arriving for work. I saw several vehicles park in the lot. I heard doors opening and voices outside in the hallway. I nervously glanced out the front window to see someone walking toward the entrance. It was Margaret.

  I quickly deleted all trace of
the Code Cracker files and turned off Dr. Merrett’s computer. Just as I heard the door to the reception area opening, I made a dash for the conference room door, and then slipped out into the hallway and down the stairwell.

  Chapter 16

  Later that morning I sat in a classroom, staring at a board filled with equations on the atmospheric science of planets. As I waited for class to begin, I tried to figure out how to rid my own mental atmosphere of the two pollutants poisoning it—Feran’s spies. A reprieve came when the air suddenly filled with the scent of Kristin’s perfume. She sat next to me, the whole of our special moments reflected on her expressive face. I had to strain to return a similar glance because my encounter with Feran’s spies had drained me of all feeling that could be called romantic.

  Kristin whispered excitedly that she had arranged for me to meet her father at five o’clock that afternoon. “I told my dad that I wanted him to meet my boyfriend. I figured that would get his attention,” she explained.

  At the scheduled time, I arrived at the executive office building to find Kristin holding a small bundle of blooms to take to her father. “You’ll forgive him if he’s preoccupied, won’t you, Alex? He’s been so upset since he canceled Project Z.”

  We arrived on the third floor and entered Dr. Merrett’s reception area, where Margaret was working at her desk. “You just missed him, Kristin,” she said regretfully, raising her head toward the open door of Dr. Merrett’s inner office. “He just left.”