by Tom Clancy
Wow, she thought. I’ve got to get it back! How can I get it back? Everything was clear, there, just for a moment—
Catie swept the key through the space in front of her, like a swordsman saluting an opponent, and reduced the huge structure before her to a gigantic tangle of bare code. Mark had been right. Objectifying the code just obscured the issue, concealing the instructions themselves. She needed to deal with them all at the component level.
Dad was right, she thought, in a different paradigm. It is all just electrons. But if you understand the most basic building blocks of your medium, it doesn’t matter whether you’re working with “wet” ones or “dry” ones, or how many of them are strung together, or on what kind of framework—
The code structure of the sealed server’s operating programs stood before her now simply as text, hundreds and thousands and millions of lines of it. There was a temptation to panic at the sight of it all, but Catie restrained herself. The nature of programming being what it was, not all these instructions could possibly be unique. A lot of them would be copies of one another. Many of them would also be calling routines from outside the program itself, complex variables or constants that were defined in the Caldera language itself and lived on the master Caldera servers. Given the connectivity of the Net and the hundred-layer redundancy cushion that a “fundamental language” source like Caldera would maintain as part of its server infrastructure, there was no need for an end-user like the ISF ever to worry that Caldera’s reference-variable resources would go down, and therefore there would be no need to waste space by keeping those variables and constants in ISF server space.
“Verbal input,” she said to the ISF server manager.
“Accepted,” said a woman’s voice, dulcet and calm.
“Fade down all nonunique instructions,” Catie said. “Highlight unique instructions, image calls, variable and constant calls to outside servers, and comments.”
The structure shimmered like a cityscape with cloud sweeping over it, parts of it going vague, others burning bright in various colors. The unique instructions Catie ignored for the moment. She wanted first to look at the simple things again, the image calls and variables. There were fewer of them, and once she’d gone over them and gotten rid of them all, she could get on with examining the unique code and trying to understand it. Which is going to take me until after the play-offs, probably…
But for the moment Catie put that self-defeating thought away and made herself busy with the image calls nearest her. One by one she started checking the instructions again, referring them back to the images they called. The syntax was straightforward enough — a “connect” command, the identifier for the command to which it interfaced, a “call” command, the name of an image file, the size of the file, a specification for the size of its “display” as related to the frame of reference of the person experiencing it virtually, and a list of other files which would display “adjacent” to the file in question, changing as the one in this particular command line changed. Slowly, in flickers, unpredictably but in fits and starts that got more frequent the longer she did it, the “whole vision” of each command strand began to reassert itself. She was seeing them as single constructs, whole commands, not needing to spell them out laboriously, piece by piece. It was like the difference between reading one word at a time and taking a sentence as a whole. Catie started to speed up, pushing herself faster. It’s working. It’s actually working—
She finished going over the image calls in that region of the program in a fairly short time, and then stood there looking down from her height at all the rest of it, almost afraid to stop for fear that this new way of seeing the program might forsake her. But what else is there really for me to do here? I should get out. At least, though, now I can pass this problem back to Mark with confirmation that the image calls are clear. No one is going to blame me if I can’t make much of the rest of this….
Catie breathed out, feeling a kind of satisfaction even though she hadn’t found anything really useful.
But, still…
Then, there alone in the darkness, she grinned. It wouldn’t hurt to spend just a little more time, just to make sure the new perception wasn’t a fluke.
“Down one,” Catie said to Tom Clancy’s Net Force Death Match pseudo-surface she was standing on. It obediently sank down a layer.
Catie grabbed another line of text, another image insertion call, she thought — then realized she had the wrong color of text: this one was a physical management command, one that handled the way people moved in this space. And a moment later, to her delight, she “got it” whole, without any real trouble — command, argument, force specifier, vector specifier, constant of mass, gravitational constant, constant of local light-speed in this medium, atmospheric density. Catie cracked the string of text like a whip, so that it burned briefly bright and dropped down all the additional notations and values for the constants, and she ran them through her fingers, pleased. She’d read this line as easily as the image calls, with all its dangling strings of digits and repeating decimals—
Catie paused for a moment, gazing down at one of the strands of digits hanging down from her hand from a glowing capital G, slightly larger than the other letters in that strand: the symbol for the gravitational constant. Below it the digits swung and dangled like a glowing chain: 6.6734539023956342…e-111, with the units signature “N m2/kg2” hanging there, like a charm, at the end.
…Now what the heck’s the matter with this? For it didn’t look right somehow. She had had occasion to use the gravitational constant once or twice when building the Appian Way scenario, because otherwise you couldn’t walk through it correctly…and even the birds that flew through the scene wouldn’t fly correctly until G was correctly in place. The fleeting thought of the former “George the Parrot” and his Gracie, and their chicks, made Catie smile a little at this connection, for she’d looked up the videos George had mentioned, and had seen the initial problems the birds had had in microgravity.
But Catie looked at that long decimal value of G now and couldn’t understand the difference between the way it looked at the moment and the way it had appeared when she installed G into her simulation of ancient Rome, plugging it in via a live link from the “best current value” reference kept on the Public Ephemerides server that was jointly managed by the National Bureau of Standards and the Naval Observatory. She’d noticed a particular pattern to the fraction, a patch where the digits 3 and 9 repeated,…393939, three times, and the peculiarity of the pattern had amused her. But now it went…39023956. And there was an extra digit at the end of it. What’s that, an exponent or something? But what would it be doing there? Anyway, the digit was below the main line of figures, not above it. A footnote? Since when do constants have footnotes?
“Where is this constant plugged in from?” Catie said.
“The constant is sourced locally,” said the ISF server management program. “No remote link.”
That’s weird. Why go to the trouble to store it in this server when reference sources outside have the “freshest” version of the value? “What does that digit refer to?” Catie said, putting her finger on it, so that it glowed.
“Subsidiary instruction call,” said the ISF server management program.
“I’ve never seen anything like that before,” Catie said.
“Subscript digits are an optional command syntax expression in Caldera,” said the server manager. “This is a ‘legacy’ expression common in earlier versions of the language and now routinely replaced in current command syntax by either the Boolean or expression or the ‘’ symbol and angle brackets enclosing the referent line or zone number.”
Catie digested that for a moment. “Display the subsidiary instructions being called here,” she said.
A text window opened off to one side, displaying about thirty command lines, one after the other. Catie started to read them.
They were all different versions of the gravitational constan
t. In some of them the numerical value varied just a little. In some, the variation was huge. What was even stranger was that many of them had an added string of data attached to them, vector specifications, as far as Catie could tell.
She shook her head, perplexed. If I’m reading this right — these instructions, when they’re called, would not only change the force of gravity in a space where they were brought into play, but change the direction in which it was pulling. Even the biggest of the numbers were relatively small. Catie wasn’t sure whether the changes would much affect something as massive as, say, a human being.
But a spatball—
Catie swallowed. George said it. The ball didn’t feel right. It didn’t go where it was supposed to.
And now she abruptly understood why. Because someone, at the right time, was invoking these changed values for the gravitational constant.
That’s — that’s—! The first word that occurred to Catie was illegal, though the word was faintly comical, used in this situation. Nonetheless, it was accurate; Catie was positively indignant at the sheer fraudulence of it. You can’t just change the laws of physics! And Catie couldn’t think of anything more basic to the way that objects in this particular frame of reference would operate.
And it’d be easy to miss. After all, who thinks about the gravitational constant? It’s a constant!
…I’ve got to call Mark!
She checked her watch. It was eight in the morning. Any other time she would have thought “It’s too early.” Now, though, Catie thought, If he’s not up, it’s about time he was! But she wasn’t comfortable about calling him from in here.
“Space,” she said.
“Listening.”
It’s gotten so it feels weird not to be insulted, Catie said, and couldn’t quite repress a smile despite the seriousness of the situation. “Save this configuration for me, voiceprinted again. Then close everything down.”
“Done.” The glowing tower of text vanished.
“Door,” Catie said. Her gateway back to her space appeared before her. She slipped through it, waved it shut.
The first morning sun was glinting through the windows around the top of the reading room dome as Catie made her way back to the Great Hall. “Space!” she said.
“Now what?”
She grinned again. “Get me Mark Gridley, right now. Flag it urgent.”
“Is he even going to be up yet? Growing boys need their rest.” The tone of voice, if not the voice itself, was almost exactly Mark’s.
“Get on it,” Catie said, and picked up from the floor beside the Comfy Chair the piece of paper which stood for the virtmail she had been intending to send James Winters. “And see if James Winters is available, while you’re at it.”
There was a pause. A second later Mark appeared a few feet away.
“Oh, good,” Catie said. “Listen, do you know what I found? There’s—”
But Mark was speaking. “—not available right now, and I’m not sure when I will be. If you’ll leave a message, I’ll get back to you as soon as I’m free.”
Oh, great! Catie thought. It was a recorded message again. It froze in place when it was done, leaving Mark standing there and looking slightly vague. Now what? I can’t tell James Winters about this! I wasn’t even supposed to be in that space!
But then Catie burst out in a sweat. If Net Force wasn’t told about this right away, there was no telling what might happen during the play-offs. It wasn’t just a matter of whether or not South Florida might win or lose. It was a matter of basic fairness, now, to all the other teams as well…. Not to mention not letting the bad guys get away with it!
And I have to talk to him anyway.
No point in putting it off.
Suddenly James Winters was standing there looking at her. “Uh, Mr. Winters,” Catie said. “I have—”
“—apologies for leaving you a canned message. Unfortunately I’m away from my desk at the moment. If you’d kindly leave a message for me, I’ll return the call as soon as possible. Thank you.”
“Uh,” Catie said. “Mr. Winters, it’s Catie Murray. Please call me back as soon as you can. It’s very urgent. Meanwhile I’m also sending you a report on a conversation I had with George Brickner. This is urgent, too…please get back to me soon. Thanks.”
The image of Winters vanished. Catie glanced over and saw that the one of Mark had taken itself away as well.
“Wonderful,” Catie muttered. There was nothing she could do now but go offline, go to school, and try to get hold of both Mark and Winters from there if she had time.
7
In a huge darkened space filled with the rustle and breathing of expectant people, one man in a dark All Over suit stood at a “virtual podium,” a reading window floating about chest height and tilted toward him. Off to one side, two other people stood by a table on which was a large cut-crystal bowl shaped like a spatball and containing a number of small opaque plastic balls.
“If our guests would go ahead and stir the choices—”
The two celebrity guests, a handsome tall dark man in a formal kilt and jacket with jabot and a blond woman wearing an electric-blue dress that covered her completely and yet left absolutely nothing to the imagination, both plunged a hand into the crystal bowl and started stirring. From somewhere a dramatic drum roll started to fill the space.
The stirring went on long enough and energetically enough to convince the most skeptical viewer that there was no way either of the celebrities in question could have picked a specific ball on purpose. “First choice, please!” said the ISF president, who was acting as the master of ceremonies.
The woman and man each came up with a ball and handed it to the ISF president. This worthy, a short earnest-faced gentleman of Eastern extraction, proceeded to crack the balls open one at a time. From the first one a small spark of light burst out, floated up into the air, burning and growing, spinning and throwing off sparks like a Catherine wheel, and gradually turned into the famous red M and owl logo of one of the play-off teams.
“First to play in the quarterfinal series: Manchester United High—” A roar went up from the gathered Man United fans as the ISF president cracked open the second ball. Another spark of light shot out of it, leaped up into the air, and after a certain amount of shining and spinning, turned into a stylized flame surrounded by the letter C.
“—plays the Chicago Fire!”
Shrieks of delight from the Chicago contingent. The two logos charged at one another in the air, did a brief waltz around one another, and finally settled down to hang above and to the left of the ISF president.
“Second choice, please!”
The celebrities stirred the bowl again, each picked a ball, and once again handed them to the ISF official. He cracked the first of the two balls.
A streak of light arched up out of it and exploded into a miniature fireworks display overhead; after a few moments the fire faded away to show a stylized green grass-hopper and the letters XZS. “In the second match, Xamax Zurich—”
The ISF president cracked the second ball open. The fireworks that went up were white at first, then turned yellow and black, leaving a yellow oval with two black spots at one end of it. “—plays South Florida Spatball Association!”
“Well, good,” Darjan said, sitting back in his implant chair with a satisfied expression.
“Listen,” Heming said to him, from nearby in the darkness of their joint experience of the lottery draw. “Didn’t you hear what I said? They’ve been in the server!”
Darjan waved one hand in a languid way.
“What’s the matter with you!” Heming said in an angry whisper. “If Net Force should find—”
“They nosed around for four days straight and didn’t find anything,” Darjan said, unconcerned, as he watched the draw for the third team to play begin. “We own somebody on the ISF’s server maintenance team. He was looking over the Net Force geeks’ shoulders the whole time. They went right through the sys
tem structure and couldn’t find a thing wrong with it.” And Darjan smiled.
“That they told your guy about, maybe!” Heming said. “What if they just want to catch our ops actually using the ‘flipflop’ instructions?”
“That’s not going to happen,” Darjan said. “The server issue is handled. Stop worrying about it, and just make sure those conditionals get used properly.”
“And in the third match, the Rio de Janeiro Rotans—” said the ISF president.
“You saw the tests,” Heming said.
“Tests are one thing,” Darjan said. “Just make sure your people function at least that well on Thursday. What about those ‘repairs’ to the South Florida team’s Net boxes?”
“—play the New York JumpJets—”
More shouting came from the selection ceremonies. “Which means that the Los Angeles Rams play Sydney Gold Stripe in the fourth match. And here’s the play-off schedule—”
Heming scowled and waved the volume down. “Almost all done,” he said. “The only ones not done now are the captains and two of the forwards. They’ll be done today or tomorrow…plenty of time.”
“Good.” Darjan’s smile persisted, and it wasn’t particularly pleasant. “Not that they’re likely to be a problem again in play. Xamax should wipe them up nicely even without help. But some of the principals want them out of the play-offs right away…they’re still pissed off at the ‘Kiwanis kids’ having the nerve even to get into the same volume with Chicago last time, much less draw with them.”
“Fine…we’ll take care of it. What about your invigilator?”
“I have a call to her scheduled for this afternoon, just before she goes to pick up her little honey from school. She’ll play our side, I think.”