by Tom Clancy
Art and science coming together, the height of French ambition.
So a PC car: French, and enviro-friendly. All for the movement.
The early morning sun painted the trees with golden light as he drove along the Route du Parc. A heavy cloud layer was coming in, but it didn’t look like rain yet. With any luck the weather would hold, and he could make an outdoor dinner this evening with some of CyberNation’s friends in Cannes, a little farther north on the A-8.
But first, business.
Today he would meet with Michael LeBathe, CEO of Azure Telecommunications. They manufactured new optical-gate switches and routers that could vastly improve throughput on CyberNation’s net backbones. And if his information was correct, LeBathe was a believer, one of the CyberNation faithful, even if the company he led remained publicly neutral.
It is up to me to give him a reason to change that.
He drove across a roundabout with some older statuary in the center, surrounded by lush flowers. The stone faces looked like they might have been prerevolution, possibly brought in from somewhere north, or taken from an old estate.
Revolution.
It was what he was about, the revolution of the world, its essence expressed by the slogans of two centuries past: liberty, equality, fraternity. Only this time it wasn’t just for France.
It was time for a change—the nations of the world continued to grow faster and faster, populations skyrocketing, and still they did not yet possess those three key traits. Fraternity, certainly not. Fighting in the Middle East continued, ethnic cleansing, religious rivalries. Liberty? Only in some countries, and even there, true freedom did not ring. Most nations traded freedoms for security, all to protect their territories, arbitrary lines on a map.
And of course there was no equality. The world had shrunk in this day of instant communication, the stage dominated by the greedy West, countries like the United States taking the role of a deranged Sun King, gobbling everything it could to keep its excessive lifestyle and feed its overweight children.
The parallels to the French Revolution were there if you but looked. Seurat had been looking since the early days of CyberNation.
He did not plot to take over the world, no. He did not need to. When CyberNation gained power, when they began to have the political clout they needed to give their citizens new freedoms, there would come a time when enough people were a part of things that there would simply be no need for any other government.
There would be no need for the seizing of a Bastille, le Guillotine, the Terror, or bloody guerrilla war. Instead, there would simply be a critical mass of desire, an acceptance of the equality of peoples from all over the world who could join an ideal world of no poverty, physical equality, and no language barriers by stepping into CyberNation. True liberty, equality, and fraternity.
Given this ultimate freedom, the ability to live in a world of platonic ideals, where everything could be the best, the most stylish, who would want to settle for less in their own homes and towns? Even dictators had to answer to the people at some point.
And that point was coming.
But first there was work to do.
As a child, Charles had studied the famous paintings of his distant ancestor, Georges Seurat, the Impressionist. The huge canvases were filled with static and serene images that had comforted him throughout his turbulent childhood. Because of his link to the artist, he’d looked beyond the paintings themselves, researching the techniques and methods by which the man had worked.
Months of preliminary painting on smaller canvases had gone into the creation of each great work, extrapolations of how colors would visually mix from a distance, the calculated effect of a tiny yellow dot and a tiny blue one side by side making green, the position of a figure lying down or standing up—all to a purpose.
This understanding had shown him a method for dealing with the complexities of the world through careful planning, research, execution, and a purpose.
Today, for instance.
LeBathe, the man he was going to see, was the CEO of a publicly traded company: He had to explain his decisions to shareholders, to justify his actions based on profits alone.
One of CyberNation’s key selling points to its erstwhile citizens had been the eventual cessation of taxes. The advertising from major corporations would pay for everything, and it would all be free.
Seurat knew this was more marketing than reality: No company would want to foot the bill for the web access of an entire nation. And for now, at least, there was no way he could extend any taxation benefits to a corporation, even if they did agree to join CyberNation as an entity.
But, like his ancestor, he had made careful studies and plans; there were other considerations.
He would offer LeBathe a possibility: supplying the switching gear for the entire CyberNation network. He happened to know that Azure Communications had not yet distributed their gear to major clients; their work was still new enough and untried enough that most corporations didn’t want to bleed at the cutting edge.
Such a large order would give publicity to Azure, and would make other clients sign up. Certainly there would be an immediate benefit from this that the CEO could sell to his board of directors. Perhaps throwing in some extra equipment for nothing would seal this exclusive deal, no? Economies of scale, oui?
And then Seurat would wave another banner for LeBathe and the board of directors: patriotism. The management at Azure was known to be extremely nationalistic. Seurat might point out how the expansion of French technology could impact the world now, and the possible world offered by CyberNation in the future.
Where the Toubon law from the last century had failed to stem the influence of the outside world on France—by removing words like “cheeseburger,” “jumbo jet,” and “e-mail” from the language—the expansion of French technology into a new nation would succeed. And if Azure were to get in on the ground floor, why, perhaps it would have more say in the shape of things to come.
Vive la France.
Of course, if Azure’s equipment hadn’t truly been the fastest his team could find, CyberNation would have gone with another supplier, whether it be Japanese, Chinese, or American. But CyberNation had to have the best, and in this case, that was French. Charles’s patriotism, his loyalty, was not to France, but to the dream that was the heart of CyberNation. Eventually, there would be no borders, only a single, unified, information-based world. What was the phrase? Geography was history?
He looked forward to the day when he could dispense with the machinations and sleights of hand he was required to perform to achieve this glorious end. The men at Azure would of course never be allowed to impact the shape of CyberNation with their own biases; but their believing so was necessary. For now.
Ahead, Seurat saw the turnoff to Rue Albert Einstein. He smiled as he drove toward Azure’s building, imagining the future, a huge canvas made from carefully worked-out plans and studies, each one helping build a masterpiece that would change the world. It was still a ways off, but it was coming.
It was a heavy responsibility, the future of humanity, but he accepted it gladly.
Vive la CyberNation!
2
People’s Computer Concern
Ürümqui, Xinjiang Uygur Autonomous Region, Northwestern China
Chang Han Yao sighed and shook his head at the image on the computer screen. Pornography, and from a Chinese website no less. At least the server was in Beijing, thousands of kilometers away from him.
It was not particularly inspired, the picture, a plain-vanilla Chinese man and woman, both naked, coupling, nothing perverse about it. They appeared young, but they were not children. They might even be married, so that what they were doing could be perfectly legal in and of itself, although the posting of it in public to drum up sales for more of the same was certainly not.
Chang ran the simple backlook bot he had gotten in England the last time he’d been there, a basic, no-frills, easily fooled piece
of software he’d been using for almost a year—a lifetime in computer circles—and it took all of two seconds for the program to render the address of the person who had posted the image of the young couple. A telephone call, and the People’s Police would drop round and gather up the sleaze artists. And that would be the end of that—at least as far as Chang was concerned.
If only all his work was this easy.
Fortunately, most Chinese were still not as sophisticated as the rest of the world when it came to computers, and that made some of Chang’s job relatively simple.
Unfortunately, that was changing. Once his people had gained access to the international net, the home-grown product had started to improve dramatically. Now there were people in his country who would not be caught so easily as this would-be smut peddler, those who could rascal their addresses from all but the most cutting-edge huntbots. Chang’s generally superior software and abilities were constantly being overtaken by a new breed of operator, and his goal of running a Chinese agency at the sophisticated level of the United States’ own Net Force was a very long way from being realized.
Still, if one reached, one should reach high.
Pandora’s box had been opened, the cat allowed to escape from the bag, the thousand-year-old egg hatched—and there was no turning back. This new breed of hackers and sysops was smart. More, they had grown up enjoying private enterprise, so they had money, and money gave access to better and better software and hardware, not all of which was legal.
Chang himself, only thirty, had been one of the Xaio Pangzi children—the “small fatties,” so called because they grew up in a time when food was plentiful for the middle class. A fat child was a testament to his parents’ wealth. Chang knew those with whom he was dealing.
It was a long way from Beijing to Ürümqui. Were it not for the computer school established here only eighteen months past, and the new chip plant still under construction, Chang would not have been sent to this town. Yes, he had others working for him, and certainly they did their jobs as best they could, but the government still did not understand so much. If they would just—
He smiled, laughing at himself. Yes, yes, yes. And were there no sun, it would always be night.
Chang shook his head. There was no point in traveling along the what-if road. It led nowhere.
He constantly had to struggle to convince the powers that be that he needed to upgrade his systems just to keep pace, to say nothing of staying ahead of the criminal elements. As a Muslim who had the right to put “Haj” before his name, having made the pilgrimage to Mecca only two years before, Chang had a strong sense of morality. Evil would ultimately be punished by Allah, but in the meantime, Chang was able to offer his small part in this world.
Getting some help himself now and then would be nice, Insh’allah. . . .
Aboard the Rock Pusher Bergamo The Asteroid Belt
Captain Jay Gridley looked at his crew. They were down a man, the air in the ship was stale and smelled like lube, but the alien that had killed Hobbs wasn’t going to get any more of them. They were still more than ten light seconds away from the Mars Skyhook, almost two million miles, clearing the Bussey Cluster with a cruise-ship-sized chunk of nickel-iron on the pusher, and nobody was anywhere near close enough to help them.
“All right,” Captain Gridley said, “here’s how it is going to be. Everybody is armed at all times. Nobody goes anywhere alone. We stay together constantly, no exceptions. If you hear a funny noise, you don’t go to check it out, we all go. If you are hungry, we will all go to the galley and have a snack. We sleep in shifts, and you will have a blaster under your pillow. If you see the alien, you shoot it first and tell the rest of us later. If you see somebody start shooting, you aim your weapon in the same general direction and you cook, too.”
He paused to let that sink in, then continued. “We aren’t going to go into the air duct system looking for this thing, nor are we going to roam around in the storage areas where the lighting is dim. If it wants us, it is going to have to come and get us and we will make it cross empty space to do it. No matter how tough its skin is, it can’t withstand the fire of seven blasters hitting it at once. If we see it—when we see it—we kill it. If it is the last of its kind, too bad—it should have thought of that before.”
He paused again, making eye contact with each individual member of his crew. “This, people, is how you stay alive when faced with this kind of threat—you’ve all seen idiot-plot movies and you ought to know by now that the first rule is: You don’t do anything stupid so the monster has a chance to get you. Any questions?”
There weren’t any.
Jay grinned. In the real world, he was in Quantico, Virginia, at Net Force HQ, initiating a virus protection program with half a dozen sub-routines, wired and taped and shrouded in VR gear, running cutting-edge software on the latest hardware. Here in virtual reality, he was on a space tug, protecting it from a nasty alien monster, which was definitely a lot more fun.
Most people didn’t realize that specialized computer hacking was normally about as exciting as watching grass grow. With the advent of VR, you could kick that up a bunch of notches, and improve your own effectiveness in the process.
Not that he needed much help in the effectiveness department. The truth was that most computer criminals weren’t all that bright, and so far, none of them had been brighter than Jay Gridley, who sat atop Net Force’s electronic food chain. This particular virus was only a threat to people who didn’t know how to deal with it, and Jay could take care of the beast with one hand tied behind him and one eye closed. . . .
“Jay?”
Net Force HQ
Quantico, Virginia
The com override cut into the scenario. Only a few people could do that—his boss, his ex-boss and his ex-boss’s wife, and Jay’s wife. And the voice was that of Saji, his spouse and mother of Mark Jefferson Gridley, the world’s most beautiful baby.
Jay killed the scenario. “Hey, babe. What’s up?”
“Your son just laughed at me.”
“Really?”
“I know he’s not supposed to be doing that at two months, but he did. He smiled and he laughed!”
Jay smiled, too. “The boy is a genius, no question about it. He takes after his father, obviously.”
“I’ll let you get back to work,” Saji said. “I just wanted you to know.”
“Thanks, sweetie. I’m almost done here. I’ll be home in a couple hours.”
“I love you,” she said.
“Me, too, you.”
After she discommed, Jay smiled again. He did that a lot lately. Being a husband and a father had not even been on his horizon a few years back, and it was a big change, but it was so much more than he had ever thought it could be.
He was about to restart the VR scenario, when the com lit again.
It was Commander Thorn.
“Jay?”
“Right here.”
“Come by my office when you get a chance, would you? There has been an . . . interesting development here.”
“Sure thing, Boss.”
Had to be more interesting than this by-the-numbers virus hunting, Jay figured. He switched off the system and began to shuck the VR gear.
Colonel Abraham “Abe” Kent was lying on his back in the Net Force gym with his feet propped up on a chair, his knees bent at right angles, doing crunches. He had done four sets of twenty-five, and figured he needed at least two more before his abs burned enough so he had to stop. It wasn’t fun, and it wasn’t interesting, but it was part of the regimen. A man his age didn’t get to slack off on keeping fit. Once it was gone, he might not be able to get it back. The days when he could party all night long and then run the Marine obstacle course faster than anybody else on the base were thirty years past; now he was happy if he could run the course and beat anybody without injuring something.
He frowned through the ache in his belly muscles, still doing the crunches, alternating now from s
ide to side, touching his left knee with his right elbow, then the right knee with the left. He wasn’t standing with one foot in the grave—at least he hoped not—but once you hit forty, you were on the downside; fifty, and the wrinkles started winning. You had to fight to keep your muscles and flexibility. Not that he had to do a lot of running if he didn’t want—at his rank he could decorate a chair and no one would think anything about it, though he couldn’t see himself doing that.
After thirty years in the Marine Corps, the switch to commanding Net Force’s military arm was a big change. Technically, he was working for the National Guard now. Nothing wrong with the Guard, he’d known some fine soldiers from that branch, but nobody did things quite like the Corps did.
And, as it had recently, the memory of the assassin who was also a classical guitarist came back to haunt him. Natadze, the Georgian, remained free, and that grated on Kent. He hated to fail at anything, and even though nobody else blamed him for the man’s escape, he knew he was responsible. Natadze was his job, and sooner or later, he was going to have to do something about it—
His virgil tweeted. He stopped exercising and picked it up. This was the work phone. Whoever was calling would be more important than a few sit-ups.
“Colonel Kent here.”
“Abe, Tom Thorn. Would you drop by my office when you get a minute?”
“On my way, sir.”
Thorn sat in the conference room. Abe Kent was already there, and he saw Jay Gridley being directed this way by Thorn’s secretary.
When Jay arrived, Thorn nodded at him. “Gentlemen, Net Force is about to undergo a radical change.”
Both men looked at him, but neither one spoke.
“A few minutes ago, John Howard came by to talk to me. What he had to say will be made at least semipublic by tomorrow, but he wanted to give me a heads-up, and I wanted to pass it along. I took the liberty of recording General Howard’s visit, so it would be easier if you saw it for yourself.”