Fatal Error

by F. Paul Wilson

  After that, his ladies would be home where he could watch over them.

  7

  “Looks like they might pull it off,” Jack said.

  Abe swallowed a bite of the hot pastrami on rye Jack had brought him. Jack wasn’t eating. Not hungry.

  “Pull? Who? What?”

  “The Order. Looks like they may be bringing down the Net. Munir thinks they can do it.”

  “When?”

  “Maybe this weekend.”

  “Oy. So soon? What can I expect?”

  “According to Munir, a real mess. Business—”

  “Business, schmizzness. What about social order and such?”

  Jack and he had had long discussions about civilization. Abe thought it was a veneer, easily stripped away. Jack disagreed, believing there were lots of civilized people about. Trouble was, those folks had no clue how to handle the wolves among them.

  “Depends on how badly communications are hit, I suppose. I think things will hold together.”

  “But not your friend, the Lady.”

  Jack felt a wave of sadness. “No, I’m afraid not. She’ll be dead.”

  “Well, she’s not really alive, is she?”

  True, but . . .

  “She is to me. I first knew her as Mrs. Clevenger, and Mrs. Clevenger was a real person as far as I was concerned. And now that she’s been stuck in this grandmotherly mode instead of switching her looks, she’s more of a person than ever.”

  “I’m sorry for your coming loss.”

  Silence settled between them. Finally Abe broke it.

  “So . . . we should maybe head for the hills?”

  “We? I’ve got Gia and Vicky coming back from the middle of nowhere tonight.”

  “After you gather them to your bosom, then—the hills?”

  The hills . . . Abe’s code name for his hideaway in the wilds of Pennsylvania. He’d been predicting an economic holocaust and subsequent social and civic meltdown for as long as Jack had known him. The economy had crashed, though inflation hadn’t achieved the Weimar levels Abe had envisioned. Civilization, such as it was, had managed to remain intact.

  “I don’t think that will be necessary . . . yet.”

  “ ‘Yet’? What’s this ‘yet’ already?”

  “Well, there’s the Change.”

  “Ah . . . the Change. This is where you lose me. This is where you start to sound a little farblondjet in the head.”

  “You accept the Lady but not the rest?”

  “The Lady, well, I can buy the noosphere—that’s rational and makes a certain amount of sense—but this Otherness-Ally business . . . maybe you’re buying into some narishkeit.”

  Jack frowned. He’d listened to Abe talk for so many years that he understood most of his expressions. This was a new one.

  “You got me on that one.”

  “It means nonsense, foolishness.”

  “Yeah, well, a couple of years ago, I’d have said the same. But I’ve seen too much. I mean even the rakoshi could have a rational explanation—like mutants, or something. But even if I’d had any doubts left, the Fhinntmanchca blew them away.”

  “Let me keep my doubts, already. I’ll sleep better.” He looked around. “Speaking of sleeping, maybe I’ll sleep here tonight.”

  “Downstairs?”

  “Where else?”

  Jack had seen the bunk Abe kept in the armory downstairs. It looked a little small for him, but he didn’t mention that.

  “Yeah, well, short of a fire, I guess you’ll be safe down there.”

  “Even with a fire, I’ll be safe. You want some ammo while you’re here? You may need it if things fall apart for a while.”

  Jack hesitated, then, “What the hell. Might as well stock up.”

  “They say you can have too much of a good thing. They’re wrong. Ammo is a good thing and there’s no such thing as too much ammo.”

  Jack couldn’t argue with that.

  8

  Ernst Drexler’s caller ID showed nothing but he took the call anyway. You never knew . . .

  “Hello?”

  “She’s dead.”

  No greeting was necessary. He recognized the One’s voice, and he sounded . . . happy.

  “Who, sir? The Lady?”

  “If only that were so. No, no one you know. She was what one might call an innocent victim. But those are the best kind, are they not? And after all, no one is really innocent.”

  “I don’t understand.”

  “Of course you don’t. No need for you to understand any of this. She died just a little while ago, and it was tasty.”

  “Tasty . . .”

  “But she was merely an aperitif. The main course comes from the effect of her death on those closest to her . . . especially a certain someone. It will send him spinning out of control again, and just when he thinks life can do no worse to him, the Change will be upon us.” The One paused—savoring his anticipation? “This will be wholly delicious.”

  “Yes, sir.”

  Ernst had no idea what he was talking about.

  “When exactly is it due to begin this evening?”

  He could mean only one thing: the virus.

  “Eight o’clock Eastern Time.”

  “Perfect.”

  The One broke the connection without another word.

  Ernst noticed that his hand was shaking as he laid his phone on the table.

  Eight o’clock . . .

  Six hours away . . . after all this time, all this preparation, the plan—his plan—was about to come to fruition.

  And he was terrified.

  Terrified it would fail.

  Terrified it would work.

  If it failed, the One would be furious. He might vent his murderous rage on Ernst, and he would never see the Change.

  But did he want to see the Change?

  The possibility of success terrified as well.

  If bringing down the Internet diminished the already damaged noosphere to the point where it could no longer support the Lady, she would vanish, and with her, the last obstacle to the Change would be removed.

  The Change . . . it fascinated and frightened him.

  The end of the world as we know it.

  An old and overused expression, and even the title of a once-popular song. But that was what the Change would mean. And he, among all of humanity, would be most responsible for making it possible. For which he would be rewarded.

  Humanity consisted of the Moved and the Movers. He would ascend to Mover status—Master status.

  But master of what?

  What would the world be like after the Change? A different place, to be sure. But in what way? The Order’s lore was vague about that. It did say that those who served the One before the change would become his overseers in the aftermath.

  Overseeing what?

  Those who fought the Otherness swore it would be a place of horror, but who could believe them? They were simply trying to frighten their followers into compliance, just as Christians tried to keep their faithful in line with tales of hell and damnation if they strayed from Church doctrine.

  But could they be right?

  Ernst had never had the nerve to ask the One what he could expect. Could the Otherness be as inimical to humanity as the enemies said? That didn’t seem likely. Else why would the One have spent millennia working to usher it in? Some of the Order’s lore spoke of the One transforming with the Change, and his chosen transforming as well so that they could thrive in the new, Otherness-ruled world.

  Ernst wasn’t so sure now that he wanted the world or himself changed.

  All fine and good when it was simply lore, something to expect in a nebulous future. But it was nebulous no more. He stood before the door to that future, waiting for it to swing open . . .

  . . . terrified of what might step through.

  9

  After settling Eddie in his new digs—which didn’t take much since he had little more than the clothes on his back—and
letting him shower and change into the sweatshirt and jeans Weezy had bought him this morning, they hit the streets.

  He hadn’t been able to empty his bank accounts entirely, but he’d walked away with a load of cash. Jack wanted him to use his remaining credit to confuse anyone who might be tracking him.

  So they all hopped the A train at West 4th and took it to 207th Street in the Bronx—the end of the line. There Eddie used an ATM to withdraw some of the cash he’d left in the account. He did some quick shopping and charged some essential clothing, then trained back to the Village.

  “I get it,” Eddie said as they dropped off his purchases. “Next time I train to Brooklyn and buy stuff. And maybe Staten Island after that. Drive them crazy if they’re tracking me.”

  Jack shook his head. “Maybe so, but they’ll know you’re somewhere in the five boroughs. You’ve only got a few hundred left in the accounts, and we can put that to better use.”

  “How?”

  “Grab some of your cash and I’ll show you.”

  They hopped a cab uptown to Ernie’s place. The folding sign set on the sidewalk before his narrow storefront said it all.

  Ernie’s I-D All Kinds Passport Taxi Drivers License

  Cheap metal and pewter castings of the Empire State Building and the Statue of Liberty shared the front window display with snow globes of the Manhattan skyline and other souvenirs. A buzzer sounded as they opened the front door. Jack led the way toward the rear of the tiny store, passing a display of DVDs. Eddie stopped, pointing to one of the titles.

  “Didn’t that just open yesterday?”

  Jack didn’t bother looking. A Pakistani bootlegger down on 32nd Street kept Ernie supplied with the latest titles.

  “Wouldn’t be surprised. They’re okay, I guess, if you don’t mind people standing up and moving about in front of the movie.”

  Eddie pointed to a display of Spade, Vuitton, Gucci, and Prada accessories.

  “Bootleg too?”

  “Not just bootlegs—bootlegs of bootlegs.”

  Ernie took pride in never selling anything but knock-offs.

  The man himself waited by the rear counter, whippet thin with thick, longish black hair and a nervous tongue that flicked in and out between Sten-gun sentences. His eyes lit when he saw Jack wasn’t alone. He knew that often meant a payday.

  “Hey, Jacko. How y’doin, how y’doin?”

  “Good, good. Ernie, meet Eddie, Eddie, meet Ernie. You alone?”

  “Just me and my dreams of winning Powerball. The pot’s up to seventy mil. Need some tickets?”

  “No.” He’d probably printed them in the back this morning. “But Eddie needs to disappear and reappear.”

  Ernie didn’t hesitate. “Not a problem. We can help.”

  He’d supplied all of Jack’s many identities through the years. And he knew anyone Jack brought in would be stand-up.

  He hurried to the front of the store where he flipped the OPEN sign to CLOSED.

  When he returned he said, “We’ll take some pics and pick out a nice new name. I don’t know if Jack’s told you, but I recommend keeping the first letter of your first name. Saves awkward moments when you sign something. May I suggest Ernest?”

  “He also needs to be in two places at once.”

  Eddie looked at him. “What?”

  “You’ll see.”

  Ernie glanced at Jack. “Money in the accounts?”

  “Some.”

  “Good, good.”

  “What are we talking about here?” Eddie said.

  “Ernie’s going to clone your card and give it to someone—where this time, Ern?”

  “Got someone in Tennessee.”

  “Perfect.”

  “I don’t get it,” Eddie said.

  “He’s going to give all the info off your debit card, plus your PIN to someone in Tennessee who is going to make a new card.”

  “What?”

  “Then they’ll use that new card all over the state to buy whatever they want till the money runs out.”

  The light dawned in Eddie’s eyes and he smiled. “I get it. Whoever’s tracking me will think I’ve run to Tennessee.”

  “Exactly.”

  “Works beautiful,” Ernie said, neglecting to mention that he’d be collecting a fee on both ends.

  “He did the same for Weezy last year. Where was that?”

  Ernie thought a moment. “Wyoming, wasn’t it?”

  “Yeah, I think so. But hang on to this till Monday, okay?”

  “Not a problem. Come on into the back so I can steal your soul.”

  Eddie gave Jack a bewildered look.

  “Photos, Eddie. He’s going to take your picture.”

  As they disappeared behind a curtained doorway, Jack wandered to the front and stared through the glass door at the traffic on Tenth Avenue.

  Should he have waited? If the Jihad virus worked and brought down the Net this would be an empty exercise.

  Nah. Wrong mind-set. Play it like victory was a sure thing, otherwise you’ve already lost.

  But wasn’t that the case?

  10

  “Who’s that?” Jack said as a new tune started thumping from Weezy’s iPod. He liked it.

  “Moby.” She began swaying to the beat. “From The Bourne Identity.”

  “Moby’s awesome,” Dawn said.

  Weezy had invited her over. She seemed channeled into mother mode with the teen.

  Eddie had opted out. He’d been fragged. He hadn’t slept well the past few nights so they let him crash and returned to Weezy’s.

  Weezy opened her refrigerator door and checked out the shelves within.

  “Hungry.”

  He knew from his own inspection a few minutes ago that they were bare. He glanced at the clock on her kitchen wall.

  “Almost eight. We forgot to eat.”

  Almost eight . . . that meant Gia and Vicky were on their way. She’d called from O’Hare to say they were in safe and their flight to LaGuardia was on time.

  Almost home free . . . almost.

  “And I didn’t have lunch,” she said.

  “You only eat veggies anyway.”

  Though Jack had to admit her diet was working.

  “I’m feeling decadent tonight,” she said. “Like Chinese takeout.”

  “My treat,” Dawn said.

  Weezy smiled. “Not necessary.”

  “I have money,” she said. “And I need to contribute something here. You’ve both been so good to me.”

  Jack glanced at Weezy. How could they tell her what they knew about her baby? They’d discussed it earlier and decided it was better to leave some things unsaid.

  “No, I totally insist,” Dawn said, misinterpreting the look. She turned to Jack. “I mean, you went over there and checked out his place.”

  Jack shrugged. “No biggie.”

  He was glad he did. It had been a revelation.

  “I still can’t believe they’re gone . . . just up and left. You think Mister Osala has the baby?”

  He shrugged again. “Who can say? But you’ve got to admit, the timing is suspicious. He keeps you there until you have the baby, then the baby disappears and so does he.”

  “But Mack told you he never saw a baby.”

  “No. But I’m going to talk to him again and get the name of that moving company. This Osala guy has got to be somewhere.”

  “See?” Dawn said, tearing up a little. “That’s what I mean. You’re going to all this effort for me.”

  Not just for you, Jack thought. For me.

  He hadn’t thought to ask Mack for the name of the moving company yesterday—realizing Osala’s true identity had blown everything else out of his mind—but he’d remedy that tomorrow. He wanted to know where Rasalom was setting up shop next. He’d promised Veilleur to keep his distance, but as far as Jack was concerned, that promise was voided if the Lady went down.

  Then it was war . . . all-out war.

  But right now, a change
of subject was in order.

  “Like I said: No biggie. But we can talk about this later. Right now we’ve got food to order. Shrimp egg foo yung for me, and maybe—”

  “That’s not a real Chinese dish, you know,” Weezy said.

  “If it’s served in Chinese restaurants, that’s Chinese enough for me.”

  “It’s served in Chinese-American restaurants, but you can’t get it in a real Chinese restaurant—i.e., those in China—because they’ve never heard of it. In Shanghai they have fuyung egg slices, but it’s not the same dish.”

  Where did she dig this stuff up?

  “Fascinating, Weez. Absolutely fascinating. But I still want egg foo yung—shrimp egg foo yung, if you don’t mind—and an egg roll. Or are you going to tell me egg rolls were invented in Peoria?”

  “Were you two ever married?” Dawn said.

  “No!” they replied in unison, perhaps a tad too loudly.

  “Oh, because—”

  “We go back a long way,” Jack said. “A real long—”

  “Wait,” Weezy said, holding up a hand. “Do you hear something?”

  Jack listened and heard a voice coming from the spare bedroom. Sounded like a woman.

  He looked at Weezy. “Someone here?”

  She looked baffled, and a little worried. “No way.”

  Jack stepped up to the darkened doorway and peered within. The computer was running, with a black-and-white film playing on the monitor. It looked familiar.

  Weezy came up behind him and peered over his shoulder.

  “What the . . . ?” She squeezed past and flicked on the light. “I turned that off before I left to go to Eddie’s place. And what’s playing?”

  “Dark Victory.”

  “You think?”

  He pointed to the actress speaking. “She’s got Bette Davis eyes.”

  Weezy looked at him. “But I don’t have any movies on my—” Her hand shot to her mouth. “Oh no!”

  Jack’s gut clenched as Munir’s theory flashed through his brain.

  “Video . . . it’s downloading a video. It’s started.”

  Dawn joined them. “What’s started?”

  “The Jihad virus,” Weezy said as she leaped to her keyboard and began tapping madly. “I can’t stop it. And it won’t shut down.” She leaned over and pressed the power button on the tower. The screen went blank. “There—” The screen came to life again. “It turned itself on!”