The readout was on the screen before Sam’s reaction. The figure was almost twice what it should be.
“No wonder I was having trouble crunching numbers during that shoot-out,” Sam said. “What is all that junk? Can’t be just supervisor programming.”
“Doubt it,” I said.
“Lemme try to get a listout, see what the hell it is. Dammit. Why ain’t I surprised that it won’t list out?”
“You’ve lived too long. Switch the buffer to the dash terminal and let me try.”
Sam did, and I punched up the Main Menu: I tried various ploys to get a listout of the mass of bytes taking up space in main memory, but couldn’t, though I did get an address for it, and a program ID.
“At least it has a name,” Sam commented. “WPA0001. Mean anything to you?”
“ ‘WPA’ rings a bell somewhere. Otherwise, no, it’s meaningless.”
“Not surprising. Lessee, what else can we do? What about this …?”
Half an hour later, we had an empty trick-bag and still had a main memory clogged with what was undeniably a mole program of puzzlingly major proportions that stubbornly refused to show itself or give some clue as to its nature. It was everywhere. As well as claiming squatter’s rights in the CPU, it had nestled itself in Auxiliary Storage, but we couldn’t pinpoint exactly where. It was as if it had checked into a motel and left a suitcase in every room. The thing was intractable. When we erased it from main memory, it would load right back in when we IPLed the system again. And we couldn’t erase it from AuxStorage without the risk of wiping out something we wanted to keep. I grew frustrated. In a last-ditch effort, I spent two hours coding a diagnostic program which, while it would not tell me directly what the phantom program was, would by a process of elimination tell me what it wasn’t. It wasn’t a conventional supervisor program. It would not relinquish control to any other program once it started operating. What it did when it operated was a mystery. With the engine off, it seemed to do absolutely nothing. When we fired up the rig, something happened in the radioactive waste management system, but whatever was going on was too subtle to detect.
After two hours of test runs, I finally got an inkling of what the thing could be.
“I’d say it was an artificial intelligence. Generation Ten, possibly higher.”
“That’s what I make it out to be,” Sam said. “Which means…”
“We have a stowaway.”
“Entity X,” as we came to call it, proved a tough nut to crack. When we’d completed all other repairs and still had no success, we threw in the nutcracker and left.
The phantom program obstinately resisted analysis, no matter how cleverly we devised the probe. We couldn’t get too tricky, though, for fear the thing was booby trapped. I didn’t want to risk damaging the CPU or maybe even the rig itself. No telling what the thing could or would do if provoked. So we gave up. Whatever Entity X was, it wasn’t inhibiting business as usual. Sam’s Vlathusian Entelechy Matrix was firmly in control of 99 percent of the computer’s functioning, and the mysterious program’s claim on the rest seemed harmless, though we strongly suspected it wasn’t. We still didn’t know exactly what it was up to in the waste management system, but we could guess.
“So you think it’s dropping off a trail of waste products, is that it?” Sam asked.
“Maybe,” I said.
“But most vehicles leak a little stuff now and then. How could the trackers find the trace?”
“By spiking our fuel with something. They filled you up on Talltree, right?”
“Right. You may be on to something here.”
“Best guess I can come up with,” I said.
“And we can’t do anything about it, either. Beautiful.” “Not unless we want to fiddle with the waste system, and we’re certainly not equipped for that.”
“No, we’re not. One thing, though. Why would they need a major artificial intelligence to do the job? A dumb little Trojan horse program would’ve sufficed.”
“Maybe not,” I countered. “We could deal with one of those. A program that’s a computer in itself can keep itself hidden and resist attempts to ferret it out.”
“Set a computer to avoid getting caught by a computer, so to speak.”
I nodded. “So to speak.”
We said good-bye to the Ahgirr, with no little, regret and sadness. I still felt Tivi’s loss, and many others had come to be friends. Darla was especially loath to leave a fascinating alien species that was so much like us. No race in the known mazes approached them in their similarity to humans. The Reticulans ran a distant second, which is to say they weren’t close at all. It made sense that we had found them here, in a noncontiguous maze. The Roadbuilders had probably wanted to separate species who might compete for colonizable worlds.
In the shade of the cave-mouth, Ragna’s eyes brimmed with tears.
“We shall invariably be missing each of you as individuals,” he said, clutching the hand of Oni, his wife—the term seemed applicable here, even though Ragna and Oni were lifecompanions in the truest sense. The Ahgirr were given to life-long monogamous relationships. There was no word for “divorce” in their language, though separations were not unheard of.
Hokar wiped his eyes with the sleeve of his plain gray tunic. “Yes,” he said, “we shall be missing you much.”
“And we you,” John said, enveloping Hokar’s hand in both of his.
About thirty cave dwellers had come up to the entrance to bid us farewell. We had come to know most of them. In the shadows toward the rear, glowing eyes of shy children peeked out at us from behind stacks of crates and cylindrical containers. I waved, and the eyes disappeared. Susan saw me smiling as the children dared another peek.
“They’re adorable, aren’t they?” she said, coming up to me.
“Cute as buttons,” I said.
“Always makes me wonder…” she began, then gave me a wan smile.
“About having children? Or not having them?”
“I made that decision long ago, but it’s not irrevocable. So I have second thoughts when I see a bunch of darling little things like that—and these are nonhuman kids, so you can imagine.”
Taking her arm I said, “I usually ask long before this, but… uh, do we have anything to be concerned about in that area? You said it wasn’t irrevocable.”
“Hm? Oh, no way. I went in for old-fashioned surgery. My tubes are tied. Those three-year pills are so damned expensive, and with my brain I’d forget when the next one was due. The other nonsurgical options aren’t very attractive either. They’re irrevocable, and who the hell wants to go into premature menopause? But undoing a tubal ligation is easy, so I’m always safe, and I always have the option of changing my mind.” She grinned and put her arms around my neck. “And…”
“And?”
“If I ever do change my mind about having children—”
“Whoa there,” I said, undraping her arms from around me. “I’d have to think about that for a good long while.”
She was annoyed. “Why, you big egomaniac. Do you think I necessarily want to sign a lifecompanionship contract with you simply because I might want to bear your child? I say might.” She put her fists on her hips and tossed her head defiantly. “Think I want to be a truckdriver’s wife, stuck at home with half a dozen screaming brats while you go highballing around the universe picking up skyhookers?”
“I never indulge, my dear. Don’t like diseases in the groinal area.”
“Don’t make me laugh.” She poked me in the ribs with two stiffened fingers. “You’re good stock, is all. Prime genetic material.” She kept poking till I flinched. “Healthy as a horse, good teeth, no inheritable defect—”
I reached and bobbled her right breast. “You’re not so bad yourself, kid.”
She squealed. “You creep! Groinal, huh?”
I tried to stop her hand as it shot out and under, but missed. I jumped half a meter.
“Susan, really,” I groaned. “W
hat will our friends think?” Our friends were regarding us bemusedly, and I caught a particularly curious stare from Ragna as Susan ceased her attack upon my privates and jumped up, locking her legs around my hips, hugging me, laughing, kissing me.
Ah, this is being some strange courtship ritual, perhaps, invariably?
Well—actually, yes.
14
The road, the road. Always the road, the endless black ribbon, like the one that’ll be around my casket probably, tying off my life in a tangle topped by an enigmatic floral bow, Möebius-looped and infinite.
Planet after planet rolling impassively by, barely glimpsed at as I keep my eyes caged dead ahead. But I do notice some. Here a gray-skyed leaden lump of a world in the loosening grip of Pleistocene ice-lock, looking crushed and glacier-scarred; here a tropical seraglio blanketed in feather-plume trees; here relentless plains of pinkish grasses edged in distant blue-black mountains. Another: this one is all rolling hills of raw red clay landscaped in brush with mauve foliage. It looks like spring here, telltale yellow buds everywhere. Another world comes up, and we roll across the pale corpse of winter, powdery snow heaped in wisp-tailed drifts along the road (which, by the way, is completely clear of snow, as usual). Then, another portal, to the dark towers we come once again, hot-rodding blithely into the gap between the worlds, between here and there, wherein there is neither space nor time, wherein there is no now or then, no past, no future. And we come to a fairy garden of purple rocks with beds of multicolored flowers laid in between, set against a painted backdrop of violet sky.
“I’m getting sick of scenery,” Susan announced.
“Already?” I said. “We’ve only been on the road, what? a couple hours?”
“Six,” she told me. “Thought I’d be fresh after a five-week break, but it’s already wearing thin.”
“Well, try bearing up. We only have ten billion light-years to go.”
“Great.”
This is good road-straight and flat. We were going along at a fair clip, making excellent time (as if we had some kind of schedule to keep—absurd, of course). The worlds went sliding by. Back in the breakfast nook, John and Roland were puzzling over the Ahgirr maps, now and then yelling out contradictory directions. They were very confused. So far, none of the planet descriptions matched what we were seeing out the ports. We were still in the Nogon Maze, that I was sure of, because we were still seeing their distinctive middle-tech vehicles with smiling blue faces behind the windscreens. We had a complete map of this maze, along with others, so John and Roland should have been able to figure out where we were. “I have no idea where we are,” Roland admitted.
“Sam,” I said, “can you help those guys out?”
“Not really. All I can do is display the maps on my screens. Nobody programmed me how to read them.”
“I thought Oni did.”
“She was supposed to, last week. But then we found Entity X.”
“Oh, that’s right.”
Roland had come forward and taken the shotgun seat. He was struggling with the many-folded paper map, trying to match a section of it with what was showing on the main screen.
He had been growing irritable. “Why can’t any race in the universe learn to make roadmaps simple?” he grumbled. “Now where the hell—?”
“What’s the problem?” Sam wanted to know. “Here’s where we are on the star chart. See the flashing cursor?”
“Uh…” Roland scrunched up one dangling section of the map, rotated the whole thing ninety degrees and looked back and forth between map and screen. “Yeah. Right. Okay.” He squinted at the map. “I think.”
“I thought you weren’t programmed to read them,” I said.
“I’m not,” Sam answered. “Sort of figured it out for myself.”
“Sam, what you didn’t figure,” Roland said, “was that the Ahgirr draw their maps upside down. Right is left and vice versa on these things.”
“What?”
“I think.”
“Well now, that’s crazy.”
“Sort of like an astronomical map.”
“But this is an astronomical map… more or less.”
“Mostly less,” Roland said.
“Gentlemen,” I broke in, “exactly what difference does it make?”
“Eh?” Sam said.
“Where, exactly, are we supposed to be going?”
“We want to enter a maze belonging to a race with an unpronounceable name. Call ‘em the Grunts,” Roland said.
“And how do we get to the land of the Grunts?” I asked.
“Well … Sam, give me a 3D graphic on that maze, will you? And show our entry point, too.”
“Like this?”
“Yeah. Now on this screen, can you give me the Nogon Maze, showing the exit point?”
“There you go.”
“Now, rotate this one a little. No, counterclockwise.”
“How’s this?”
“Good,” Roland said, sitting back and folding his arms officiously. “Now,” he said, then frowned.
“Now what?” Sam said.
“Look,” I said. “There’s a fork ahead, isn’t there?”
Roland threw up his hands. “I really don’t know.”
“Oh, come on, there has to be a fork. We just ingressed here. There should be a mad leading to the double-back portal and one leading to a next-planet portal. Unless this is a threehole planet. Is it?”
“Way I figure,” Sam said, “it should be. There’s a doubleback to the left fork, a next-planet to the right, and the middle road should lead to an interchange world. Big one, too, with about three major routes junctioning.”
“Great. Let’s take the middle road.”
“Why?”
“When we get to the interchange, we’ll flip a coin.”
“Suits me.”
“I don’t know, Jake,” Roland said. “Don’t you think we should try to get ourselves back on Winnie’s Itinerary?”
“That means going back to the Outworlds, doesn’t it?”
“Well, I suppose.”
“No chance. We’d be dead as soon as we poke our nose through the portal. Besides, I have a very strong feeling that you can’t get there from here.”
“Jake may very well be right,” John said, leaning over our shoulders. “Ragna and Hokar told us that they’ve never heard a road story describing anything like Terran Maze. The Ahgirr have had their ears pricked for news of beings akin to themselves since they came to the Skyway. I gathered that the known mazes around here have some rather strange occupants. Harmless sorts, but you wouldn’t be inviting them for tea.”
“Well, it’s settled then,” I said.
Susan broke in, “Good of you men-folk to make all the heavy decisions for us women-folk.”
Roland showed a crooked smile. “Something tells me we’re going to hear from the distaff side.”
“Do you see anyone spinning wool back here?”
“You’re showing your age, Susan,” Roland remarked acerbically.
“You shut up. Jake, I just wanted to let you know that the quote-unquote distaff side would like to be consulted now and then in matters that may affect their lives and general wellbeing … or is that too much to ask for a truck-drivin’ he-man like y’all?”
“Shucks, ma’m,” was all I got to say before Darla interrupted.
“Susan, do you mind speaking for yourself?”
“Certainly not,” Susan answered, arching one brown eyebrow a bit haughtily. Or maybe it was just surprise.
“I think we all need to be reminded now and then that this is Jake’s rig. I think it’s only right that he should have the final say in which direction he should steer it.”
“Well, excuse me, Darla-darling—”
“Don’t call me that,” Darla cut through icily.
“Pardon me. But may I remind you that I never asked to come along on this joyride. I was dragged.”
“That’s neither here nor there.”
&
nbsp; “Bullshit. I demand a say in decisions that affect me.”
Darla’s voice was coldly ironic. “ ‘Demand’?”
“Yes, dammit, demand. I think it’s my right.”
“The universe doesn’t grant rights easily, dearie. You have to fight for them.”
“I’m not demanding them of the universe. Actually, I’m merely asking—”
“You haven’t offered an opinion on anything important up till now. In fact, you haven’t done much of anything but complain. Why the sudden interest in the decision-making process?”
“I’m tired of everyone taking it for granted that I don’t have an opinion. Or not one that counts.” Susan crossed her arms huffily. “And don’t call me ‘dearie’!”
“So sorry. And what is your opinion?”
“Thank you for asking. As a matter of fact, I agree with Jake. I think it’s about time he finds his legendary shortcut back home—wouldn’t you agree?”
“I’m not sure,” Darla said, her voice more subdued.
“Well, that’s his Plan.”
“Plan,” Darla repeated, a note of sarcasm returning.
“Yes, Plan. Call it Fate, if you will. Use any word you want.”
“I call it merte.”
Susan’s voice stiffened. “That is your privilege.”
“Anyway, if you’re agreeing with Jake, why the sudden need for self-determination?”
“It’s not sudden, and it’s not a need. It’s a—”
“Well, I do know you have plenty of those. Needs, I mean, and you’re fairly systematic about meeting them.”
“Just what is that supposed to mean?” Susan said, voice tightened with rising anger.
“Interpret it any way you wish,” Darla said airily.
“On second thought,” Susan said, “I know exactly what it means and it’s just the kind of shitty remark I’d expect from a scheming, hypocritical bitch who can’t—”
I heard a slap and looked back. Darla and Susan were tussling in their seats, inhibited greatly by their safety harnesses. Each had a handful of the other’s hair, and Darla was trying mightily to land a left hook somewhere in the vicinity of Susan’s nose, while Susan was blocking nicely.
Red Limit Freeway Page 19