Trouble and her Friends

by Melissa Scott

  “Treasury.”

  That figured. Cerise nodded. “Make me a copy of the autopsy and put it on disk for me, would you? What about copies? Any sign of them on the grey markets?”

  “Not yet,” Baeyen said. She touched keys, and slipped a datablock into one of her subsidiary drives. “I put Sirico on it; he should have a report for you within the hour. Someone’s been bragging, though.”

  “Shit.”

  Baeyen grimaced. “I know. It’s just the usual stuff, ‘look how smart I am,’ with nothing real to back it up—”

  “—but the board isn’t going to like it,” Cerise said. She sighed, made a face at the screen. “Make me a quick copy of what you’ve picked up so I can look it over before my meeting. So Treasury thinks it’s Trouble?”

  “That’s what the match says,” Baeyen said. “But Trouble was never one to boast, or so I hear, so the boaster and the cracker may not be the same hand, which would explain why nothing’s showed up on the markets yet. But it looks like she’s back—Trouble, I mean. It was a she, wasn’t it?”

  “Yes,” Cerise said, in her most colorless voice. Oh, yes, she added silently, Trouble’s a woman, all right, a tough and sexy, smart-ass broad who walked out on me—but she didn’t boast, and she didn’t take stupid chances. She accepted the datablock, glanced up to check the time. “I’ve got to get moving, but tell Sirico I want to talk to him as soon as I get back.”

  “All right,” Baeyen said, and turned her attention back to her displays.

  Cerise went back out of the office, past the rows of cubicles staffed by limp bodies, and the security checkpoint, rode the elevator to the executive dining area. The conference rooms were on the lower of the two floors, a maze of linked rooms with movable walls to accommodate groups of various sizes. Dining room three was smaller than she had remembered from the last meeting, just a single oval table with half a dozen chairs and place settings, but the view from the enormous window was just as she remembered it. The room faced northeast, and the towers of the city gleamed in the distance, bright as steel against the vivid blue of the sky. It looked best in the morning, before the daily haze settled in; the channels of the salt marsh that lay between Multiplane’s compound and the main connector flyway were full, reflecting the sky like a tarnished mirror.

  The others were there ahead of her, Lenassi of Marketing, Mr. Koichiro from the Executive Committee, Guineven from R-and-D and Brendan Rabin from the Corvo subgroup, looking distinctly uneasy at being in such high company, Coigne himself for Main Security—most of the important people on the Internal Affairs Committee, plus a representative of the group involved in the intrusion. Cerise nodded a general greeting, and took her place at the table. A young woman in a neat black uniform drifted over to take her order.

  “You’re late,” Coigne said.

  Cerise looked at him dispassionately, said to the waitress, “Just coffee, please, and a display stand for my system.” The woman nodded and backed away, and only then did Cerise turn her attention to the people at the table. “I know. I stopped in downstairs to see how the autopsy was going.”

  “Autopsy?” Lenassi asked sharply.

  “My people spent last night dissecting what was left of the intruding program,” Cerise said. “They’ve achieved a reconstruction, but I’ll want to look it over myself before I can say if we’ve got anything useful.”

  The display stand arrived then, trundling into place under its own power, and Cerise turned to fit her pocketbook into the cradle. Her coffee arrived a moment later, a full pot and a delicate cup-and-saucer displayed for a moment on a silver tray, before the waitress whisked everything into place in front of her. At the same moment, a rather handsome abstract painting slid aside to reveal the larger of the room’s two projection screens.

  “Are we all set, gentlemen?” Koichiro asked, and nodded to the waitress before anyone could respond. “That will be all, thank you, Consuela.”

  “Yes, sir,” the waitress said in a colorless voice, and slipped away, closing the door behind her.

  Koichiro looked at Coigne. “So. Derrick, you wanted this meeting.” As always, he sounded a little conscious of the first name, as though he were still getting used to the alien custom. He was older than most of the Board, older than most of the executive committee, and Cerise had never been able to determine if his posting to Internal Affairs was a sign of his rank or a graceful step toward retirement.

  “That’s right, sir,” Coigne said, and gathered the table’s attention with a look that was as eloquent as shuffling papers. “As you know, we had an intrusion yesterday, into the Corvo subgroup’s research net. As far as we can tell, no actual damage was done, but it remains possible that copies were made of crucial data. I felt that Internal Affairs should meet as soon as possible to discuss both the immediate consequences and any long-term effects. And, of course, any possible solutions to a continuing problem. Cerise, would you give us a rundown of yesterday’s event, and your department’s response to it?”

  “Of course.” Cerise reached across the display stand to touch the start-up key, cupped her hand around the remote, almost hiding the controls. Letters and symbols flashed onto the wall screen, shaping a schematic outline of Multiplane’s internal network. Bright blue lines formed a boundary around the image, showing the IC(E) that walled in the systems. “I’ve made disk copies for each of you as well, but this is the summary. The intrusion lasted about five seconds, realtime, before the syscops spotted it, and was directed into Corvo’s secondary storage volume—that’s the space linked to Bren’s principal workspace.” On the screen, the affected nodes glowed briefly red. “Five seconds is not a lot of time to make copies, but I have people checking for any signs that the intruder is trying to market stolen goods. The program used was a cracker’s tool, probably homebrew, or maybe a commercial product that has been extensively rewritten. We are autopsying what’s left of it, but we haven’t gotten a solid match to any known crackers.”

  She was taking a risk there, and knew it, but sixty percent wasn’t a solid match by any stretch of the imagination. She glanced from face to face, gauging their reactions. Both Rabin and Rand Guineven looked relieved—as well they might; most of their projects were too complex to be significantly affected by such a short intrusion. Lenassi still looked worried, which was no surprise. Public relations was part of Marketing’s concern, and he would have heard that someone was bragging already. Coigne wore his usual faint, faintly patronizing smile, but she couldn’t read Koichiro’s expression at all.

  “I was on the net when the intrusion occurred,” Cerise went on, “and tracked the incoming path to a dead-end node in the BBS. I’ve begun other lines of inquiry, but I don’t expect to hear much from those sources until later today.”

  She touched the remote again, dimming the big screen. It had not been the most useful presentation she had ever made, but the Board seemed to expect to see visuals no matter what the topic. There was a little silence, and then Lenassi cleared his throat.

  “I understand that there has already been publicity about this on the nets.”

  The shadow of a frown flickered across Coigne’s face, but he said nothing. Cerise said, “That’s right.”

  “Most unfortunate,” Koichiro murmured.

  Cerise glanced warily at him, saw no expression at all on his broad face. “But unavoidable,” she said. “A short intrusion like this is likely to have been made for advertising—to prove that someone can do the job, not actually to copy anything. Of course whoever did it is going to boast.”

  “And by boasting, tell every other cracker out there that we’re vulnerable,” Lenassi said. He shook his head. “It’ll get back to clients and shareholders at this rate.”

  “Not necessarily,” Cerise said. “Right now, the intruder doesn’t have anything real to boast about—and everyone on the net, at least, will know that. They’ll ignore it until the intruder comes up with something useful. And that we can prevent, now that we’re warned
.”

  “We’ve taken the usual precautions,” Coigne cut in smoothly, “doubling the sweep frequency, running more watchdogs, putting more syscops into the system. And we’re devoting a particular effort to tracking down the intruder, making sure she’s stopped for good.”

  “She,” Lenassi said. “Then you have an ID?”

  “A possible ID,” Cerise said, overriding whatever Coigne would have said. “A rumored ID. We have a name, nothing more.”

  “And a sixty percent match in the autopsy,” Coigne said, soft and deadly. “To a name that matches a known cracker. I consider it a little better than possible, Cerise.”

  Cerise smiled at him blandly, wondering which of her people had leaked the autopsy report. “I’d prefer to say possible until I’ve confirmed it. There are some important discrepancies involved, as well as the sixty percent match. It’s better to be conservative in this, I think.”

  “Who is this person?” Koichiro leaned forward in his chair, resting his elbows on the table. Age spots showed on the backs of his steepled hands.

  Coigne looked at Cerise, visibly passing the question to her. Cerise chose her words with care. “Rumor says it’s someone calling themselves Trouble—Trouble was a big name on the nets three or four years ago, but dropped out of sight, hasn’t been heard of since. There was some talk that she was dead. This person, this new Trouble, may be the old one returned, or just someone using her name and programs: as I said, this doesn’t match the old Trouble’s style in some significant ways.”

  Coigne lifted an eyebrow at that, a fleeting gesture, but said nothing. Koichiro said, “You’ll pursue this.” It was not a question.

  “Of course, sir,” Cerise said, and allowed herself a faint note of injury.

  Guineven said slowly, “I’m more concerned that this episode might lead to further attempts on the system. What can we do to prevent it?”

  “We’ve already set up extra security,” Coigne said, “and we’ll maintain it for as long as necessary. And catching the intruder should discourage any further attempts.”

  “How will that extra security affect the net?” Guineven asked, and Rabin nodded.

  “Yeah, we’re already high-loading—” He stopped abruptly, as though he hadn’t meant to speak.

  “It’s going to run a little slower,” Coigne said. “It can’t be helped.”

  “Mr. Rabin,” Koichiro said. “What would the intruder have been looking for?”

  Rabin gave a suppressed shrug, as though he wanted to be more expressive and didn’t quite dare. “We have the MADCo station shuttles on the boards, and the estimates would be worth something to anyone else making a bid on the project. Or there’s the Genii design.”

  Guineven shook his head. “I don’t think so. That’s so close to production that it wouldn’t benefit anyone anymore.”

  “Derrick,” Koichiro said. “I think you should also look into who would benefit from such a theft. You might be able to find your intruder that way.”

  Coigne hesitated, as though he wanted to refuse, and Cerise bit back the desire to grin. Looking into potential rivals’ activities would keep him busy, away from her investigation, and give her a chance to handle things her way. Lenassi said, “I can give you what we know about competitors’ bids, Derrick. If that would help.”

  “Thanks,” Coigne said, and sounded sour. There was no refusing either the offer or the order. “I’d appreciate it.”

  Koichiro nodded once, decisively. “Thank you, gentlemen. I think you are well on your way to controlling a potentially troublesome situation.”

  It was unmistakably a dismissal. Cerise sighed, worked her remote to close down the pocketbook, then reached to work the machine clear of the display stand. The others were gathering their belongings, too, collecting papers and mini-boards. Koichiro pushed his chair back and started for the door. Lenassi and Guineven followed more slowly, but Rabin hung back, paused to lean over Cerise’s shoulder.

  “I wonder if I could talk to you at some point about what the intruder got into?” he asked, softly.

  Cerise nodded, but before she could say anything, Coigne said, “Cerise. I’d like to talk to you now, if you can spare a minute or two.”

  Cerise sighed again—she had been expecting that command ever since Koichiro had brought up rival firms—and looked at Rabin. “I’ll try to get in touch with you this afternoon, Bren, if you’ll be free.”

  “I’ll be available until three,” Rabin answered, with a wary glance in Coigne’s direction, and eased away.

  “I’ll talk to you before then,” Cerise said, and looked at Coigne. “All right, what is it?”

  “My office,” Coigne said, softly, though the room had emptied around them. Cerise nodded, and slipped the pocketbook back into its case.

  “Fine.”

  She followed Coigne down the three-level staircase—supposed to be reserved for fire access, but everyone used it—and then around the curve of the building to his office. The two rooms faced directly east, over the ocean, and the windows were darkened against the morning light. Coigne seated himself behind his massive desk, ran his hand across an edge-mounted control bar to light the displays beneath the polished surface. Cerise settled into the chair opposite him, crossing her legs to display stockings and the bright-heeled shoes to their best advantage.

  “What do you mean, this doesn’t match Trouble’s pattern?” Coigne asked.

  Cerise blinked. “This person—even if it’s calling itself Trouble, it’s not behaving the way Trouble used to. Boasting, for one thing: that’s something Trouble never did.” The memory caught her unaware: Trouble pacing the length of their two-room apartment, swearing in rhythm with her drumbeat walk, all because a friend had boasted once too often, and now he was dead, another body rotted in the harbor water. “She said it was stupid, it used to infuriate her when other people did it.” Especially friends.

  “Maybe,” Coigne said. “Or maybe, since she’s been off the nets so long, she feels she needs the advertising.”

  That was plausible—if you didn’t know Trouble. Cerise said, “All right, but even granting that, the program autopsy isn’t conclusive, either. It’s like Trouble’s hand, but there are some tricks she never used.”

  “Again, she’s been off the nets a while,” Coigne said. “Why shouldn’t she have learned some new tricks?”

  “Where?” Cerise asked. “And besides, these aren’t new tricks. It’s old stuff—stuff she did differently—routines she always sneered at.” And it feels different, she wanted to say, it doesn’t taste or smell or feel like Trouble’s work. But that was arguing from the brainworm’s evidence, and she still didn’t know for sure that Coigne knew she had one installed. She was almost certain that he did—he would almost have to know—but until she was sure, she didn’t want to betray herself unnecessarily.

  “Could she be covering her trail?” Coigne asked.

  “Possible, but unlikely,” Cerise retorted. “Why is it so important for it to be Trouble?”

  There was a little silence, and then Coigne looked away, conceding. “It’s not so much that I want it to be Trouble,” he said, “as I want to be sure you’d tell me if it was Trouble.”

  “I do my job.”

  “If it is Trouble,” Coigne began, and let the words hang. Cerise watched him, unblinking. She had never wasted time justifying herself to him, refused to begin now.

  “At any rate,” Coigne went on, “I expect you to deal with the intruder. Which brings me to my next point.” He smiled, not pleasantly. “I want this person stepped on, and stepped on hard. In other words, Cerise, this isn’t something that I want to take to court. Find me the intruder, and give me the location. I’ll take care of the rest.”

  Cerise sat very still, not daring to move for fear of betraying her anger or the sudden fear. It had been years since the corporations had felt safe acting as their own law, since well before Evans-Tindale—since the Amsterdam Conventions, in fact—years since it ha
d been necessary. For Coigne to be trying those tactics now—it could only mean that there was something not quite right about Corvo’s project, something that wouldn’t stand the scrutiny of a proper trial. And if she was wrong, if Trouble was involved…. If any shadow folk were involved, they still had more claim on her loyalty than Coigne did. And at the very least, they deserved a trial, not Coigne’s goons jumping them from some back alley. She said, her voice carefully expressionless, “You’re taking a lot on yourself, Coigne.”

  Coigne looked back at her, pale eyes, grey as ice with a darker ring at the edge of the iris, utterly unreadable. “I have my—priorities.”

  Or your instructions, Cerise thought. “All right,” she said, “I’ll keep you informed.” She rose to leave, and Coigne’s voice stopped her in her tracks.

  “I want more than that. I want this intruder, Cerise. I’ve never been more serious.”

  Cerise looked back over her shoulder, wondering just what Coigne had been up to to produce what was, for him, a kind of panic. “I won’t forget,” she said, and slipped through the door before Coigne could call her back. It had been a petty effort—and useless, too; if Coigne wanted to continue the conversation, all he would have to do was ask for her—but it helped to take away the fear.

  She made her way back down through the familiar tangle of corridors and elevators to Network Security, waited again while the guards processed her ID and waved her through into the inner rooms. A trio of operators was off-line, clustered around a bluebox junction that looked homemade, and Cerise suppressed the temptation to stop and join the analysis. Instead, she went on into her own office, where Baeyen was still working at the lesser terminal.

  “Sirico’s got his report,” Baeyen said, without looking up from her screen, and Cerise nodded, glancing quickly over the other woman’s shoulder. Nothing new there, just the usual security schema, and she pushed open the door to her private office.

  The mail light was flashing, but she ignored it, touched buttons instead to signal the best of the three secretaries attached to the department. An instant later, her screen windowed, and Landy Massek’s sharp face looked out at her.