Up and Coming: Stories by the 2016 Campbell-Eligible Authors

by Anthology

  “Of course I want to be friends, Febby,” LAD said. “I just need to talk to Mr. Mundine, and I can’t do that unless I’m touching him.”

  “I can talk to him,” Febby said. “Just tell me what to say.”

  LAD had not considered that option, but it seemed feasible. “Okay, Febby. Please repeat exactly what I say.”

  Febby listened, nodded, and leaned forward. “Mr. Willam Mundine, this is your wake-up call!”

  LAD heard rustling, groaning, and then a sharp intake of breath. “Who—what?” Mundine’s voice was a hoarse rattle.

  Mundine’s eyes struggled open, and LAD received video from his retinal feeds. A young girl sat cross-legged on the bare concrete floor under a single, dim, fluorescent light panel. She wore a white tank top and orange shorts. Long, straight black hair tumbled over her shoulders and framed a round face with large, brown eyes. She spoke, and LAD heard Febby’s voice.

  “Mr. Willam Mundine, L-A-D says: ‘Your K-and-R stripe is inoperable, and there is no broadband wireless coverage at all in this location.’”

  “Ah,” Mundine coughed. He struggled up to a kneeling position. His wrists and ankles appeared to be tied together. “That’s unfortunate. And who are you?”

  “I’m Febby.”

  “Pleasure to meet you, Febby. I suppose you already know who I am.”

  “Well,” Febby said, “the necklace says you’re his friend. And he’s my friend now. So maybe that makes you and me friends, too?”

  “I’ll go along with that,” Mundine said. “So tell me, friend Febby, where am I?”

  “In my basement.”

  Mundine coughed again. “I mean, what city?”

  “Oh. We live in Depok,” Febby said.

  “Did you get that, Laddie?” Mundine said.

  LAD had never considered asking Febby for this information. Most of LAD’s programming focused on retrieving data from automated systems to fulfill user requests. LAD updated local guidelines to note that humans were also valid data sources, even when the data might be more efficiently provided by tech.

  “Febby, please tell Mr. Mundine I have recorded our location data,” LAD said, searching for information about Depok in the travel guide.

  “He says yes,” Febby said. “So his name is Laddie?”

  “That’s what I call him,” Mundine said. “He’s very helpful to me.”

  “Why were you arguing with my Pa?” Febby asked. “Why did he hurt you?”

  Mundine inhaled and exhaled. “These are all very good questions, Febby. But whatever disagreements I might have with your father, I hope they won’t affect our friendship.”

  “Okay,” Febby said. “What are you doing in Depok? Did you come to visit my Pa?”

  “Not precisely,” Mundine said. “I work for a company called Bantipor Commercial, and we build many different kinds of electronics. Like computers. Do you know anything about computers, Febby?”

  “A little,” Febby said. “We’re learning about them in school. My brother has one at home, but he only uses it for shooters. He plays online with his friends.”

  “Thank heaven for video games,” Mundine said. “Febby. Your brother’s computer, do you know what kind it is?”

  ***

  “Okay, I think I got it,” Febby said. “Yes! What do you think, Laddie?”

  LAD waited for the pendant lights to finish the cycle Febby had encoded. Unlike Mundine, who wanted fast replies, LAD found that if he responded too quickly, Febby would get upset, because she felt LAD hadn’t taken enough time to consider what she was saying.

  “It’s very colorful,” LAD said after 800 milliseconds.

  “It’s a secret code,” Febby said. “In base three counting. Red is zero, green is one, and blue is two. Can you tell what it says?”

  LAD knew exactly what it said, because LAD could see the actual lines of computer code that Febby was transmitting from Jaya’s previous-generation gaming PC into LAD’s necklace over a Bluetooth 2.0 link. There was more computing power in Mundine’s left big toe—literally, since he kept a copy of his health care records in an NFC node implanted there—but the big metal box on Jaya’s desk had a wired Internet connection, which LAD needed to call in a recovery team for Mundine.

  “If I interpret the colors as numeric values in base three,” LAD said, “and then translate those into letters of the alphabet, I believe the message is Febby and Laddie are super friends.”

  It had taken Febby less than an hour to write this test module. LAD noted that she worked more efficiently than many of the engineers who performed periodic maintenance services on LAD and Mundine's other bodytechs.

  “You got it!” Febby clapped her hands. “Okay, the programming link works. Now we need to set up the—what did you call it?”

  “A wired-to-wireless network bridge,” LAD said, “so I can connect to the Internet.”

  “Right.” Febby started typing again. “You know, I could just look things up for you. Would that be faster?”

  LAD had considered asking her to make an emergency call, but LAD couldn’t trust that local police would take a child’s complaint seriously. LAD also didn’t want Febby’s father to catch her trying to help Mundine. LAD estimated that Mundine’s best chance of a safe rescue lay with his employer, Bantipor Commercial, which would dispatch a professional search team as soon as they knew Mundine’s precise location. And only LAD could upload a properly encrypted emergency message to Bantipor’s secure servers.

  “I have a lot of different things to look up,” LAD said to Febby. “I wouldn’t want to waste your time.”

  “It’s not a waste,” Febby said. “This is fun! I can’t wait until Hani gets back next week. She’s going to freak out when she sees you!”

  “Hani is your friend?” LAD asked. Requesting data from Febby was an interesting experience. She always returned more than the expected information.

  “Yeah,” Febby said. “We sit together in computer lab. She showed me how to—”

  A clanging noise came from downstairs, followed by loud male and female voices. Febby sighed, got up, and closed the door to the bedroom.

  “What was that transport proto-something you said I should look at?” Febby asked.

  “Transport protocol,” LAD said. “Look for TCP/IP libraries. They may also be labeled ‘Transmission Control Protocol’ or ‘Internet Protocol.’”

  “Okay, I found them,” Febby said. “Wow, there’s a lot of stuff here.” She was silent for 1,100 milliseconds, then made a flapping sound with her lips. “Are you sure there’s not an easier way to do your Internet searches?”

  “I’m afraid not,” LAD said. “I actually need to send a message to Mr. Mundine’s company in a very specific way.”

  “You can’t just do it through their web site?” Febby asked. LAD heard typing and mouse clicks. “Here they are. Bantipor Commercial. There’s a contact form right…here! I can just send the message for you.”

  This procedure was not documented anywhere in LAD’s behavior or system guidelines, but the logic appeared valid. LAD forked several new processes to calculate the most effective and concise human-readable message to send. “That’s a great idea, Febby. Is there an option to direct the message to Bantipor Commercial’s security services?”

  “Let me check the menu,” Febby said. Then, 5,500 milliseconds later: “No, I don’t see anything that says ‘security’. How about ‘support and troubleshooting’?”

  “That’s not quite right.” LAD was at a loss until the new behavior guidelines from last night kicked in. “Can I get your opinion, Febby? I’ll tell you what I’m trying to do, and you tell me what you think is the best way to do it.”

  “Like a test? Sure. I’m good at tests.”

  “Cool,” LAD said. The voice command UI had started prioritizing that word based on recent user interactions. “I need to tell Bantipor Commercial’s security services that Mr. Mundine is here in Depok. Normally I would upload the message directly to their server
s myself, but I can’t do that without an Internet connection.”

  “Security,” Febby said thoughtfully. “Do they monitor this web site, too? Like for strange activity? I remember last year the BritAma Arena had trouble with hackers, and the police caught them because their software bot was making too many unusual requests to the ticketing site.”

  LAD couldn’t research those details online, but Mundine’s bodyNet also had standard protections against denial-of-service attacks. If the same client made too many similar requests within a specified time period, that client was flagged for investigation. “Yes. That is very likely. And the server will automatically record your IP address, which can be geolocated to this neighborhood. This is a very good idea, Febby.”

  “I’ll write a script to send the same message over and over,” Febby said, starting to type again. “How long should I let it run?”

  “As long as you can,” LAD said.

  “Okay. I’ll make the message…Dear Bantipor security, Mr. Mundine is in Depok. From, Laddie.”

  LAD’s behavior guidelines could not find an appropriate response to these circumstances, so they degraded gracefully to the default. “Thank you, Febby.”

  “Here it goes.”

  Someone pushed open the door and walked into the room. LAD had been so busy evaluating Febby’s proposals, the incoming audio analysis had been buffered, and the sound of footsteps coming up the stairs had not been processed.

  “What are you doing?” Jaya shouted at Febby. “That’s my computer!”

  “I’m just borrowing it,” Febby said. “I’m almost done.”

  “Don’t touch my stuff, you’ll mess it up!”

  LAD detected vibrations, as if Febby’s body were being shaken. There was more shouting, and Febby fell and hit the floor. Someone else banged on the computer keyboard.

  “What is all this garbage?” Jaya said. “You better not have lost my saved games!”

  “Don’t do that!” Febby said. “No, don’t erase it!”

  “Don’t mess with my stuff!” Jaya hit some more keys, and LAD heard the unmistakable sound of a desktop trash folder being emptied.

  Febby’s body collided with something, and Jaya screeched. The fighting continued for several minutes until Arman and Nindya came upstairs to separate the children.

  ***

  After breaking up the fight in Jaya’s room, Arman dragged Febby back to her own bedroom and scolded her for nearly half an hour, then left her alone to cry. It was now nearly noon, local time, according to LAD’s internal system clock.

  LAD noted that Arman wasn’t angry because Febby hadn’t asked permission to use the computer; he was angry because he didn’t think his daughter needed to know anything about technology. That was what he said when Febby tried to explain what she had been doing. Arman wasn’t interested when she told him the LAD necklace was actually a piece of sophisticated bodytech, and he wasn’t impressed when Febby showed him the blinking lights she had programmed.

  There was a knock on the door, followed by Nindya’s voice asking if Febby was hungry.

  “No,” Febby replied. “I was doing something, Ma.”

  Nindya walked into the room and closed the door. “You don’t need to know all that computer stuff.”

  “Why can’t I learn about computers?”

  “You can learn anything you want, Febby,” Nindya said. “But you have to think what people will think of you. Boys don’t want a girl who knows computers.”

  “Boys are stupid,” Febby said. “Can I go to the library?”

  “Maybe tomorrow,” Nindya said. “Pa doesn’t want us to go outside. He thinks some men might be watching the house.” Nindya sighed. “Don’t worry, Febby…”

  The rest of her sentence lost priority as system behavior overrides kicked in. LAD modulated the necklace antenna to seek for spread-spectrum radio signals, which a recovery team would use for secure communications, and ultra-wideband pulses, which they would use to create precise radar images of the building structure.

  Nindya left the room while LAD was still scanning. The radio analysis jobs took so many clock cycles, it was nearly 1,200 milliseconds before LAD checked the audio buffer again and heard Febby talking.

  “Did you hear that noise?” she asked. “What was that? Laddie, can you hear me?”

  “I’m analyzing the sound,” LAD said, switching priority back to the audio software and analyzing the sound spike just before Febby’s question. The matching algorithms came back in 50 milliseconds: .22-caliber rimfire cartridge, double-action revolver, likely Smith & Wesson. From the basement.

  LAD increased the audio job priority for the noise immediately following. The gunshot had attenuated the microphone, so LAD also had to amplify the input and run noise reduction filters on it. The result came back in 470 milliseconds: hard impact, metal projectile against concrete surface. Not flesh and bone.

  LAD flipped job priority back to the voice command UI. “That was a gunshot. Febby, I need you to go downstairs, please.”

  “A gun?” Febby ran to her bedroom door, then stopped. “Who has a gun?”

  LAD heard Arman’s muffled voice echoing in the basement, but couldn’t make out the words. On the ground floor, Jaya and Nindya shouted at each other.

  “It’s your father,” LAD said. “He’s in the basement. Please, Febby, I need you to go downstairs so I can hear better. I need to know if Mr. Mundine is hurt again.”

  “That was really loud,” Febby said, her voice trembling. “I’m scared.”

  “I’m afraid too, Febby,” LAD said. “But Mr. Mundine is in trouble. Please, Febby. I need to help my friend.”

  Febby sobbed once, then rubbed some kind of cloth against her face. “Okay.”

  “Thank you, Febby.”

  ***

  “You stay here! Stay here!” Nindya shouted.

  “I have to go back!” Jaya said. “Pa said to get him—”

  “I don’t care what he said! You’re not going down there while he’s shooting a gun!”

  Their voices grew louder as Febby approached the kitchen. She stopped at the bottom of the stairs and whispered, “I don’t think I can sneak past them. Can you hear better now?”

  LAD filtered the incoming audio, passed it to the translation process, then re-filtered the sample using a different algorithm and tried again. No good. The translator still couldn’t understand what Arman was saying.

  “I’m sorry, Febby, we’re still not close enough,” LAD said. “But your mother and brother are on the other side of the kitchen. Your mother’s facing away from you. If you crawl along the floor, the table should hide you from your brother’s line of sight.”

  Febby dropped to the floor and started moving. “I thought you couldn’t see.”

  “I can’t. I’m analyzing the sound frequencies of their voices and extrapolating propagation paths using a three-dimensional spectrograph.”

  “Cool. Is that a software plug-in?”

  “It’s a dynamically-loaded shared library. Let’s talk about it later, okay?”

  LAD could tell when Febby reached the end of the hall by the echoes of Nindya’s and Jaya’s voices. Febby sat up and put her ear against the door leading to the basement. The translator software began producing valid output.

  “You want to talk now?” Arman shouted. “Are you ready to talk?”

  LAD heard rustling noises, and then Mundine’s voice. “Sorry, friend, it doesn’t work like that.”

  “You came here to make a deal,” Arman said. “I know how it works. You don’t bring cash, but there’s a bank. Tell me which bank! Tell me your access codes!”

  “It doesn’t work like that,” Mundine repeated.

  LAD was just about to ask Febby to open the door—hoping her presence would distract Arman long enough for LAD to do something, anything—when the radio monitoring job started spewing result codes into the system register. 20 milliseconds passed while LAD examined the data: multiple ultra-wideband signals, overlappi
ng and repeating, likely point sources in the front and back of the house, approximately one meter above ground level.

  “Febby,” LAD said, raising output volume above the shouting from the kitchen and the basement, “Febby, please lie down on the ground now.”

  “Why?” Febby turned her head away from the basement door. “What’s happening?”

  LAD turned output volume up to maximum. “Down on the ground! Get down on the ground now, Febby, please!”

  Febby dropped and flattened herself against the floorboards 150 milliseconds before the first projectile hit the wall above her. That was enough time for LAD to analyze the background audio and estimate there were two squads advancing on the house, four men each, walking on thermoplastic outsoles and wearing ballistic nylon body armor, likely carrying assault rifles.

  340 milliseconds after the first team broke down the back door, the second team charged the front door, and another spray of tiny missiles tore into the kitchen. Something thumped to the ground, and Jaya cried out. He ran three steps before a burst of rounds caught him in the back. He crashed against the wall and slid to the floor.

  Febby was still screaming when the first team reached her.

  “I’ve got a girl here! Young girl, on the floor!” called a male voice (H5).

  “Where’s the IFF?” asked another male voice (H6). LAD checked to verify that Mundine’s identification-friend-or-foe signal was broadcasting from the necklace.

  “It’s right here,” H5 said. “I’m reading the signal right here!”

  “Febby,” LAD said. “Febby, please listen to me. This is very important.”

  Febby stopped screaming. LAD took that as an acknowledgement.

  “Please roll over, slowly, so these men can see me,” LAD said.

  Febby rolled onto her back. LAD drove 125 percent power to the OLEDs on either side of the pendant, flashing Bantipor Commercial’s distress code in brilliant green lights.

  “It’s her!” H5 said. “The girl’s wearing the admin key.”

  “Damn,” H6 said. “Target’s probably dead. Search the house, weapons free—”

  “Febby,” LAD said, “please repeat exactly what I say.”