From the Shadows: The Complete Series
Page 5
Despite their distance, their hearts pounded as one as they spoke their names and IDs.
The screen dissolved to an image of a length of glistening red satin tape stretched across an expanse of stars. A deep, pulsing hum could be heard, like the throbbing of a huge engine. Soon, a pair of gigantic scissors moved into view at the top of the screen.
“It’s just like the battle cruiser in the beginning of that old sci-fi movie, Star Wars,” said Cameron.
“And remember the welcome screen?” said Rosa. “How the letters scrolled across the star field?”
“Yeah, that’s right. Whoever’s running the academy is some kind of mega-geek.”
As it approached the stripe of red, the pair of scissors rotated, opened wide, and cut through the red tape. As the tape snapped apart, an explosion filled the screen, and the room was washed with a triumphant flourish of trumpets. The explosion slowly faded as Cameron and Rosa came back into each other’s view.
“Incoming document,” Vee and Sam informed their users in perfect synchronization.
Rosa and Cameron waited impatiently as the pages came out of their respective printScans. It didn’t help matters that printScan pages came out face-down.
Cameron drummed his fingers nervously on the desktop, and Rosa paced the short distance from her bedroom door to the multiCom. After what seemed like forever—it was actually only about 17 seconds—the documents finished printing, and the anxious applicants whipped the pages from their devices. Hearts still pounding, their eyes focused on the document in disbelief. They were colorful certificates with intricate scrolling borders and fancy lettering. As if of one thought, Rosa and Cameron turned toward their multiCom screens and held up the document for the other to see.
Both documents were labeled:
Chapter 7:
Qubits
IT WAS ONLY MAY, and the temperature in Phoenix was already nearing the century mark. The WBN complex was not actually in Phoenix, but in a part of the metropolitan area referred to as the “East Valley.” The entire region was called the “Silicon Desert” because of the number of computer chips that were designed and produced in the vicinity. While the “Silicon Valley” in California got most of the press, the “Silicon Desert” was where the hearts of personal computers were created. That was, up until now.
Meagan Fletcher sat at her desk. The curtains were closed, fending off the intense glare of the mid-morning sun. In the weeks since the announcement, the reporter had contacted every source she could scrounge up in the world of technology.
She was surprised that they all were eager to talk with her—even corporate presidents and CEOs. It was usually hard to arrange an interview with men and women in high positions but, to a person, they were running scared and wanted to talk. Meagan flipped through her notes—the people she met would not let her record the interviews—and considered what they’d said about the IHT:
“Impossible. No computer big enough to do what that IHT thingy did. Had to be some sort of trick. Ha! Some sort of magic maybe.”
“Even if we linked several super computers together—hell, even if we linked ’em ALL together—they couldn’t make the calculations fast enough.”
“A six-inch cube hooked to an ordinary com line? Bull––!”
“Magic? I can’t believe old Vernon said that, even in jest. There’s no such thing as magic. This is genius, pure and simple.”
“Who made the damn chip? I don’t have industrial spies like some companies I won’t name, but I would have heard. You know?”
“We’ve been making chips for GundTech for [expletive] years, but I’m as [expletive] confounded as anyone else. And let me [expletive] assure you we have ways of [expletive] knowing no one else who [expletive] matters did either.”
“It’s funny, but nobody seemed to notice there was no power cord. Did you see a power cord hooked to that little cube, Ms. Fletcher? I sure as hell didn’t.”
There was only one conclusion that could be drawn: the technology GundTech was using must be revolutionary. It must be so advanced it would make current technology obsolete.
“How am I supposed to compete with that… that… IHT thingy? You know what this means, Ms. Fletcher? It means I’m outa business, kaput!”
“I’m fearful for my workers. Hell, I’m fearful for everyone in the industry. Do you realize how many people may no longer have jobs?”
“Okay, think of it this way. GundTech has owned [expletive] Boardwalk for years, you know? But with this new [expletive] technology, this [expletive] genie in a box, they now own Park Place as well. MONOPOLY! They [expletive] own the whole [expletive] board!”
Their fear was further underscored when they speculated on the potential risks the IHT posed.
“What are the risks of this new technology? Huh? This IHT thingy could be dangerous. Did GundTech ever really answer Philip North’s question: ‘Is it dangerous?’ ”
“Dangerous? You mean physical harm? Ha! That’s the least of my [expletive] concerns. This technology is more [expletive] sinister than that. Do you listen to your competition on WKX? Miss Michaels got it [expletive] right. Security, privacy, even [expletive] mind control are at issue here.”
But what could be done? What should be done? Meagan remembered her exchange with the head of the company that made GundTech’s chips.
“Look, the government broke up MacroWare way back when, didn’t they? Well, this is far worse. Why it’s… it’s a [expletive] national security issue!”
“MacroWare was an American company. GundTech is a European Union corporation. Our courts have no power in the EU.”
“Well, there’s [expletive] trouble brewing in Europe too. I heard some big [expletive] Swiss financier by the name of Calthern is coming out against this new technology. He’s determined to prevent GundTech from setting up that [expletive] academy of theirs.”
“What’s his problem?”
“Don’t [expletive] know. Don’t [expletive] care. I just hope he stops the [expletive] [expletive].”
• • •
ALL MEAGAN FLETCHER had uncovered, so far, was fear and speculation. What she needed now was a story. Speculation was not enough. She needed facts.
“Power,” she said.
“Good afternoon, Ms. Fletcher.”
“Manual mode. No vidCap, please.”
“Manual mode. No vidCap,” said the multiCom.
Meagan typed on the embedded desk screen.
OPEN ARCHIVE: GundTech Corporate Info
PASSWORD: ******
She added her interview notes to the rather meager file of information she had gathered during her investigation. Meagan’s contacts within the computer industry had not been able to give her any information about the new IHT technology, the Gund Fund, or the identity of the boy wonder. She was desperate for ideas.
She knew that, despite all the secrecy in the computer industry, there was no such thing as a real secret. There were always rumors. But in this case, there hadn’t been even a hint of a rumor before the IHT was announced. Or was there? She entered a new command line.
SEARCH: GundTech + rumors
Again, the screen filled with links. There were literally thousands of comNet pages that contained rumors and theories about GundTech and its creator. The multiCom search engine ranked the pages by both popularity and viewer reviews. At the top of both lists was a site called X-BOY’S GUIDE TO GUNDTECH. Meagan had grown up reading the X-Men comics and was a fan of the series of movies about human mutants.
“Yeah, this should be really helpful,” she said sarcastically under her breath.
Meagan hesitated. Her finger hovered above her touch-screen.
What am I doing? she asked herself. I’m a respected journalist, and here I am about to go into a rumor site for information!
She turned her head away from the screen and closed her eyes. She tried to convince herself that, if they were closed, calling up X-boy’s site wouldn’t be sinking to a new low in journalism. Af
ter her finger made contact with the screen, she halfway opened the eye closest to the multiCom screen. She expected to see a headline proclaiming “GundTech Run by Mutant Human,” but that was not what she saw. Her head swiveled forward and her eyes widened with interest as she read X-boy’s current page:
Solitaire
Ode to a Child Prodigy
Gaze upon
The solitary musings
of a delicate soul,
Daring to dream a life.
Encrusted in a tumult of passions
Tenuously bound
Like ripened seeds of a dandelion.
Easy prey
Of gusty gale
or buffeting breeze.
Marvel at
The solitary battles
Of a battered soul,
Joylessly trying to live the dream.
Feverishly fighting the need to be wanted
All the while
Desperately wanting to be needed.
Emotions scattered to the four winds,
Grounded by the aged taproot
Of unwithering love.
Wonder at
The solitary strength
Of a resilient soul,
Valiantly living to dream the dreams.
Barren stalk bending to the changing wind,
Youthful passions
Long since dispersed
By life’s currents.
Keenly aware of finite time
And infinite hope.
She studied the poem on the screen. Meagan had never thought of the young genius, whose work had changed the world, in human terms before—as someone lonely and filled with the usual teen angst. After all, he was just a boy—or girl, she thought momentarily. No! She felt positive the child prodigy was a boy.
Meagan tapped the button that opened the curtain, then rose from her desk and walked to the windows. She gazed absently toward the haze-enshrouded mountains as her thoughts focused on the child prodigy.
Did the mind that created the AI technology also think of things like soccer and trading cards? Did he go to the movies on weekends with his friends? Go to school dances? Have a girlfriend?
And what about the boy’s parents? How did they handle having a brilliant son? Obviously, they wanted to protect the boy. They wanted him to have, well, a childhood. They wanted to shield him from the press—from people like me.
But he must feel isolated from others his age. Isolated by thoughts—thoughts he’d want to express, but few could understand.
Meagan’s multiCom interrupted her musings. “Incoming message, Ms. Fletcher. Secure channel, Pvt03.”
“Connect, please.”
“Do you want the vidCap activated?”
Only certain people within WBN had access to Meagan’s number-three private message channel, so she asked her multiCom to activate the vidCap. A heavyset, older man with long, graying hair pulled back in a ponytail appeared on her screen.
“Ms. Fletcher…” It was Andrew Purlov from the research department. If you needed information and it was on the comNet somewhere, Andrew could find it, even though it was sometimes best not to ask how he accessed the information.
“I have that data you requested. First, copyright and trademark applications for the IHT were filed on the morning of the announcement. However, to the best of my knowledge, no patents relating to the IHT have been registered by GundTech.”
He raised an eyebrow as he continued. “Interesting, huh? Also, all I could find on the Gund Fund was the name of the law firm that manages it. I’ve sent the file with all the relevant information to your secure drop folder.”
“That’s all?”
“Yep. Whatever business they conduct, it isn’t done on the net. Or, if it is, it’s the most secure information I’ve come across.”
“Well, thanks for the effort.”
“There’s one thing…” Andrew sounded very tentative. “If you’re interested, I have an idea about how the IHT might work.”
He could see the skepticism register on Meagan’s face.
“Well, not how it works, exactly, but how they could get the computer power needed to run it.”
“I can use any idea at the moment,” she responded, her response tempered with doubt. A peculiar diagram appeared on the screen.
“Qubits,” said Andrew quite simply. “Qubits are the answer.”
Chapter 8:
Dummy
SPRING DRILLS had begun. For the past few days, Cameron had spent his after-school hours on the football field, running sprints and doing light workouts with the offensive players. This meant he had been spared the charming company of the incredible bulk, Chet Ames. However, that was about to change.
Coach blew his whistle and summoned everyone to the center of the field. “Listen up!” he barked as he flipped through some papers on his clipboard. “We’re gonna break into squads and start runnin’ some red/blue drills. Got it?”
“Yes, sir,” replied the team as one.
“What did you say?”
“YES, SIR!”
“That’s better. Now remember, work hard, but take it easy out there, we’re not in pads. We don’t want no one gettin’ hurt. Got it?”
“YES, SIR!”
“Okay, listen up, here’re the red squads…”
Cameron knew better than to hope to be on a red squad. Offensive and defensive red squads were for players who would be contending for first-string positions. Blue squad players were, for all practical purposes, live tackling dummies. That’s me all right, he thought. A real dummy.
When Coach blew his whistle again, Cameron went with the blue squad offensive players to the south end of the field where the red defensive squad was waiting.
Coach Rausch, the defensive coach, instructed Cameron and six other blues to pick up blocking pads and form a line.
“Okay, red squad,” said Coach Rausch, “you heard Coach. Nice and easy, we don’t want anyone getting hurt.”
The idea of this drill was simple. The reds formed a line with the first player—Chet, of course—crouched in a three-point stance in front of the first blue with a pad. When Coach Rausch blew his whistle, Chet extended from his ready position, gave the center of the blue’s pad a crisp pop with his forearm, spun to his left and got into his stance in front of the next blue player. Another red assumed his stance before the first blue player. The process repeated itself until all the red players had worked themselves down the entire line of blues.
Cameron, who was in the middle of the blue line, saw Chet eyeing him as the bulky boy made his way down the line of blockers. Cameron was at a loss for the reason Chet hated him so much. He didn’t even really know Chet. But this was high school and bullies didn’t need reasons to bully.
Chet was poised in front of the blue player next to Cameron. “You’re next, Rush. Hang on to your ass.”
The whistle blew.
Chet extended, popped, rolled, and positioned himself in front of Cameron, glaring. “Told ya you’re gonna be my personal tackling dummy.”
Cameron braced himself.
The whistle blew.
Chet sprang from his position like a striking panther, landed a daunting blow to the center of the pad, and knocked Cameron on his butt.
Before Cameron righted himself, Chet was already in his next position. Cameron noticed Coach Rausch looking in his direction as he braced himself for the next player.
Once the entire red squad had blocked down the line, they started again from the other end. This time, Cameron was ready for Chet, who once again hit him harder than anyone else. Cameron staggered back a step or two, but didn’t fall down.
The third time through, Cameron smiled at Chet. Chet glowered back.
The whistle blew.
Chet came hard and high. Instead of popping the center of the pad, he hit near the top, smashing it into Cameron’s face. Despite the searing pain in his nose, Cameron didn’t give any ground. He felt the trickle of warm blood on his upper lip. It look
ed to Cameron as if Coach Rausch was going to pull him off the line, but he didn’t. Cameron was glad, because he had a plan.
“One last time,” shouted Coach Rausch. “Form up.”
Chet was three players away.
The whistle blew.
Extend. Pop. Spin. Down. Set.
Chet was two players away.
The whistle blew.
Extend. Pop. Spin. Down. Set.
Chet was one player away.
The whistle blew.
Extend. Pop. Spin. Down. Set.
Chet was lined up in front him, a murderous look in his eyes. Cameron tensed every muscle in his body, preparing for the blow. Chet grinned as he readied himself to strike.
The whistle blew.
Cameron did several things at once. He relaxed, let the pad drop to his side, and twisted his body like a matador avoiding a bull.
Chet flew through empty space and landed with a heavy thud on the hard turf. He rolled over in a fury, scrambled to this feet, and lunged at Cameron.
Cameron spun about and smacked Chet on the back of the head with the blocking pad, sending him sprawling, face first, into the sod.
When Chet came up to face Cameron, he was spitting grass and his nose was bleeding. He didn’t lunge this time. Instead, he charged with swinging fists.
Cameron raised the pad in defense, warding off blow after blow. Cameron sank to one knee as Chet pummeled him into the ground. From the edge of his vision, Cameron could see the team circled about. Everyone was shouting. Coach Rausch had his whistle an inch from his mouth but did not blow it.
Chet swung wildly, for once failing to land a blow.
In what seemed like a blur, Cameron let the pad drop to the ground, positioned himself as the red team had been doing all afternoon, and sprang at Chet. He could hear the air go out of Chet as he struck the bully just below the ribs with his forearm. Chet crumpled to the ground, gasping.