Voices in the Stream: Phase 02 (The Eighteenth Shadow) Page 6

  Sheriff Proudstar dropped his hands to his brown leather gun belt, “Danny, I was suspicious of Abner myself when he first moved to town. We surveyed him in secret for months. I’ve since done an about face however, think he’s a good sort. Rich as sin and annoyingly pretty, but upstanding as the pope. The damn mayor takes her kids out to his farm to drink apple cider and go on hayrides and shit on Halloween. No. We gotta look elsewhere, cause if that soft-handed Sally’s a quantum hacker then I’m the Governor of Tennessee.”

  Brick chimed in, “I even played Frisbee with his dog, Ziggy. Or Siggy? Anyway those Rottweilers aren’t very good at fetch. Kinda stupid and slow really. They’re nice folks, though. A nice blonde lady gave me a free pass for bringing a date on a hayride in the fall when the pumpkins are ready. They make ganja cider too! Gonna take Lucy out there and get bleeended and score a fat jack-o-lantern for the porch!”

  Sheriff Proudstar massaged his temples in agony, “Talboy, I honestly feel sorry for the betty’s gotta let you pick her pumpkin. Jeezus. Why don’t you do something useful, get down to the range, start supervising those cadets before one of them incinerates their own foot?”

  Brick Talboy’s normally jubilant expression deflated, “Sorry sir. I’m gone. Good luck finding your missing lotto numbers in the computer code, tech-boy!” he said, giving Danny Everquist’s wispy hair a final tussle before walking out.

  “Don’t touch me!” Danny shouted after him to a closing door.

  “Oh, unbunch your panties, Everquist,” said the sheriff, grinding his chiseled jaw. “Get with me here.”

  “Yes sir.”

  “Now, for the sake of playing dumb as a donkey’s ass, let’s say an airship did dump off a bunch of cyborgs. You’re tellin’ me in less than ten minutes they kicked ass on what? Two heavily armed, maneuverable drones and eighteen feral Coyote cyborgs packing fusion? No civvy unit could do that. Even four civvy borgs couldn’t.”

  “Seems incredibly unlikely, sir.”

  “So what? Some rebel farmer has some late model MARX units? An airship? They hack local and Federal firewalls, cut a fugitive out of a collision sphere, then the airship returns, they fly away into the sunrise and not one Dogdamn sensor logged so much as a hover? It’s impossible!”

  “I know it’s impossible, sir,” said Danny wringing his hands. “But this hack, what I’m saying is that it’s like it is our computer. If what I think is going on is going on… well sir, it’s simultaneously manipulating multiple root systems, and 1,000’s of subsystems. My firewalls are redundant. If one’s compromised, seven more drop in its place at different nodes along the network hierarchy. But this guy, I mean, it’s like he’s breathing code. He hacks all seven firewalls at the same time.” Danny looked up, “Sir, it’s like he is the code.”

  “Supercomputer?”

  “Well yeah, of course, but unless there’s a superframe AI that’s making conscious decisions out there like: Activate a false feed on this stream, but not this one, and cause this black box to magnetize and self destruct with Pentagon level access commands… then what we’ve got is a cloud driver, who is the man. He’s running this superframe, and his code is sentient. It’s alive. It’s freaking awesome!”

  Sheriff Proudstar spit out some more mutilated cigar, “If it ain’t sentient for us, it ain’t awesome, Everquist. Now stop waving your arms about. You’re a Douglas County Sheriff’s Deputy, not an orangutan.”

  Danny realized he was grinning from ear to ear and composed himself, “Yes sir. Sorry sir.”

  “Everquist, I want you to make this your top priority. Crawl up its ass. Figure out where it’s coming from. Then send Talboy to drop a nuke on its power supply. End of story.”

  Proudstar turned to walk out but Danny called after him, “Sir?”

  “What, Red?”

  “I understand, yes sir,” he said, biting his lip. “What I’m saying is, there is nothing to really study. Aside from that eight character stream of numbers and the line breaks, it’s like looking at our own code. The hack is a perfect piggy back. To catch it, I’d have to be right there at the moment of insertion.”

  The sheriff turned back to him, a fierce grin across his face, “Red, we hired you to come down here from Harvard or Yale wherever the hell institution of fancy learning it was for one Dogdamn reason.”

  “It was MIT, sir.”

  “What the fuck ever. Here in the great state of Kansas, horse shit is horse shit. Even if it’s Ivy League horse shit.” The sheriff pointed his cigar at Danny and narrowed his steel gray eyes, “We hired you because you’re the best, won the law enforcement cyber scholarship. Let’s face it son, you’re too scrawny to be in the field, too ugly to be in public for long periods of time. So you got a back-end office in my HQ. You have your own supercomputer and a resume that reads like someone from NASA. We are the first line of defense for the graphene prairie and the silicon river that runs through it. So what I’m saying is… figure it out!” he bellowed. “I want you to catch this hacker and his disappearing battborgs and run his balls through an infrared meat grinder. Got it?”

  Danny was shaking at the amazing volume of the sheriff’s voice, “Understood sir.”

  Sheriff Proudstar grabbed Danny’s chair and spun him back around to face his workstation, “Well then, Red. Get yourself another soda, juice up, extract head from ass and make shit happen!”

  Danny Everquist waited until his office door closed before slumping in his chair, gulping down a throat full of anxiety.

  No one understands what I’m up against.

  He looked about the blank walls of his office despondently, then sighed and swiped his holotab. Dina’s tiny figure began to materialize on the desktop. She was still knitting, one of the colorful mittens now nearly complete.

  Once her form was solid, she immediately stuck out her tongue at the closed door, “They’re rude. Both of them. Rude, rude, rude! Call me a prostitute, that Brick?! If he ever come to the apartment I kick him in the sack of nuts!” she spat holographic spit.

  Danny said, “Computer, lower blinds,” then looked at her and extended his finger for a kiss. “I know they are rude. No one understands what I’m saying, honey-bunny. If I had a real supercomputer you wouldn’t be constrained to 30 cm, would you?”

  Dina stopped knitting for a second to give his fingertip a peck, “No, I wouldn’t. At least at the apartment I can be normal.” She cocked her head as she looked at him with affection, “Awww, why so blue, Danechka?”

  “Because I’m lost. I need inspiration, honey-bunny. Since I came here a year and a half ago there have been zero firewall intrusions. Then, in a ten minute period of time, someone takes over every system we have. I hate to say it, but this hacker is better than me. I need to see something I’m missing. It should be obvious, but it isn’t.”

  Dina looked around, “Maybe you should decorate your office with something besides empty Mountain Dew cans?”

  “I like Mountain Dew.”

  “I know you do, my sweet.” Dina’s eyes got bright as a summer sky, “Danechka?”

  “Yes?”

  “Can I have the sundress now? I don’t want to be dressed like a cheerleader anymore.”

  “Sure,” Danny smiled weakly, feeling defeated. “Anything for you, honey-bunny.”

  Excerpt taken from: The Peoples’ Progressive Encyclopedia 2066, Edition 16 Volume 6 Letter Frame 116:

  …brief yet famous acceptance speech given by Richard Laelius himself in February 2056 on the steps of the UN, marking the official dedication of The Office of The Architect, at which time control of the DEA and EPA was consolidated under an Office of the Architect oversight committee known as The White Council. The council is headed by Richard Laelius himself to this day.

  “Since the passage of the FCAPA laws over a decade ago, this nation has been born anew. For the future of this new nation I put forth a Vision, a Vision of the greatest society Terra has ever known. Do I stand alone? No! You, the citizens of the North American Uni
on, are the true sun that rises on this new day. You have spoken, and through my office your voice shall be heard! Fifteen years ago the ravages of hydraulic fracturing brought us the deaths of over 7,000,000 citizens. That day, we asked a question. What kind of world do we want to leave our children? A world of poisoned air and poisoned water? Fifteen years ago we were losing 350,000 citizens a year to alcohol related deaths. And we again asked a question. What kind of a world do we want to leave our children? A world where the most physically destructive, addictive drug ever unleashed on humankind is sold on every hovcorner? Your answer to both? A resounding no! The battle has been long, the opposition hard. Yet on this day, because of North American perseverance, we are on the way to once more breathing clean air, swimming in unpolluted streams and relaxing with a recreational substance that is both benign and benevolent. Let us forget the days of violent intoxication that have preceded this one. Let us forget the gasoline in our skies and the sickness of oversold prisons filled with innocent addicts. Today our magnificent cities run on fusion. Our benevolent hearts run on compassion. From this day forward, addiction shall be treated, not prosecuted. The enlightenment of jane shall fill our hours of leisure, not the forced depression of alcohol. In the end, fellow citizens, never forget it is your Vision that has lead us from darkness, not mine. Today we have chosen light, and my mission is to ensure that light never again is dimmed. Thank you.”

  Chapter 2.4 – The Tether

  William followed Dax Abner through the barn door, noting that it opened and closed without a touch. The barn was not old, just made to appear so from the sky. Once inside, it was tomb silent. Precisely aligned rows of industrial LED’s hung from the ceiling on long chains illuminating the clean asphalt floor. Two Kawasaki Solar-Mule, four person ATV’s were parked against the far wall, and there were larger open spaces to either side that William assumed were spots for the flatbed hovtruck and John Deere solar tractors. At the far side of the cavernous structure stood tall stacks of burlap bags labeled Pumpkin Seed.

  William remarked, “No dirt floor.”

  Dax Abner turned with a congenial smile, hands in his pockets, “Dirt? Good Dog no! A dirt floor made sense when the primary form of transportation had hooves and a tail or burned gasoline. The only vehicles in need of tires today are those that drive across agricultural fields, yet the wheel endures. It wouldn’t do to have your hemp seedlings ripped through a wormdrive every time a hovercraft flew by, now would it?”

  William conceded, “Right. What happened to all the tires in the world, anyhow?”

  “Good-Year Insulation happened. Rubcrete, asphalt hovcar pads and hovroads. The living Enduro-Grass field at Arrowhead Stadium, twelve hour, self-regenerating golf greens, the genetic splicing of grass with the organic components of recycled rubber…”

  “Got it.”

  “Phasing out rubber tires and their associated pollution was one of the few processes the EPA got right. Like advancements in battery storage density,” Dax waved his arms enthusiastically, “hovcars that can float thirteen hours on a charge, rubber reapplication is one of those mid-century industries we take for granted nowadays.”

  A humming noise got louder, coming closer. Another fat-bellied security drone that had escorted the hovtruck out of the barn returned, entering through its access port. William followed the drone’s path as it floated slowly to a platform in the rafters and dropped with a light thwack into a charging cradle beside a smaller unit. There was no loft in the barn, only a utility ladder that provided access to the drone nest.

  “How many birds up there?”

  “Well, several wild pigeons, three not so wild drones. Two Class B observation units with high def IR cameras and the obese one you just saw is a faster drone, an A7 combat class.”

  William inclined his head towards the hundreds of sacks labeled Pumpkin Seed, “I’m guessing that’s not…?”

  Dax led him towards the neatly organized sacks, dress shoes clicking over the asphalt, “Now you’re getting the picture. There is actual seed in the bags in front. The rest contain dehydrated potato powder sewn tight into the burlap. The cook uses the powder to make mash for our fermentation process.”

  “The cook? You don’t grow your own potatoes?”

  “Inefficient. Messy. We are a pumpkin farm, after all. The cook is my still master, Goran. You will be introduced directly.”

  “Why pumpkins?”

  “Psychological camouflage, my friend. No North American crop has more cultural associations with good, clean, flag-waving family fun than pumpkins. We give hayrides in October and November, I dress in overalls and puff a corn cob vapor pipe; it’s absolutely odious. But your average Kansan slurps it up like Pleasium-laced whipped cream. It gives Abner Family Pumpkin & Gourd a nice, forgettable association. We’re certainly not going to grow jane, we’d have regulators crawling weekly up our arse! I sit on the civilian advisory board for the local CNED office and am a generous quarterly donor. It is widely known to everyone in the municipality of Lawrence that I own The Rowdy Pony Coffee and Ganja bar as well.”

  “You donate money to CNED?”

  “Know thy enemy.”

  “Savage,” said William. “Damn smart, though. Front’s a speakeasy?”

  “The Green Lady Lounge, hidden beneath.”

  “I should have known.”

  “Most drinking takes place in private residences. However, there are five other functioning speakeasies in the region as well. Two in DeSoto, one in a barn in Topeka, and two in the basements of holoflix theaters in Leawood.”

  “You own them all?”

  “No. But I do provide them with still vodka, plus a hint of tech support. Each has a black side drone in service at all times.”

  “Impressive,” said William quietly.

  “Rudimentary subterfuge at best.”

  William smirked, “I ain’t the biggest fan of CNED.”

  “Who is?” Dax replied. “But please, enough potato talk. I have a few more surprises.”

  William lifted his cowboy hat and scratched his head, “After that borg outside, if you can surprise me again, I’ll hit that vapor stick with you. Lead the way, boss.”

  Dax grinned, then stopped as if remembering something, “I shall. First, pray tell, are you familiar with the legend of Tricyclic Summit Theory?”

  “Ain’t it funny,” said William morosely. “I can’t remember the house I grew up in. But I know what that is. Yeah, old timers out on safari range used to rumor over it.”

  “Then I shall not bore you with the various opinions on the matter, rather drive straight to the truth.”

  “The truth?”

  “The Adler code is not a myth, my friend. To date it is the most advanced OS language ever conceived. Marvin Adler stabilized his first version and downloaded it into Coyote One and the subsequent seventeen clones.Within three months of the final gestation, it is assumed that the Pack’s 1.1 level code destabilized, the cyborgs went rogue and slaughtered not only Dr. Adler but his entire support staff, including his biostructural engineer, Dr. Sam Goldstein. DOGS units still rely on Goldstein’s mechanical design and Adler’s code. The military has since overcome the danger of cyborg madness through the installation of behavioral control overrides. Overrides that, as you know, can shut a DOGS unit down like collapsing a holo. This turns DOGS units into very advanced robots, nothing better. Adler’s original vision was the creation of a creature capable of consciousness, experiential learning.”

  “An entry level Fido from PetSmart learns from experience,” William said.

  Dax raised his index finger, “Fidos and Felixes do theoretically learn, but theoretically is the operative term. They cross reference incoming data against an established lexicon of condition appropriate responses. Like any advanced binary computer, a chess game for instance, they are merely performing based on if event A, then response C, in correlation with past event B… logic cascade, and so forth.”

  “I don’t know much about science,”
William shrugged. “I just know I get on pretty well with any dog I ever met, ones wasn’t rabid at least. Blood or borg.”

  “In your personnel file, they call you the whisperer.”

  William took his sunglasses off, finally realizing he was inside, “Jeezus… yeah, this sounds daft. I can hear them, their thoughts.” He met Dax’s eyes, “Especially these Rottweilers of yours. You aren’t surprised.”

  “Hardly.”

  “I don’t know what it is. Even in safe mode back on the range, the cyborgs would talk. I can remember that. They were afraid.”

  “Fascinating,” said Dax. “Another question.”

  William nodded.

  “Do you know why all cyborg tech is legally constrained to Fido and Felix design?”

  “Because of us,” William said, “we’ve had domesticated dogs and cats around since we crawled out of the caves. Cyborgs give us that comfy, familiar brain hit, right?”

  “Correct. And do you know what makes a fusion unit running the Adler code different?”

  William shook his head.

  “The tether.”

  “The tether?”

  “The Adler code is a perfect digital blueprint of canine psychological engrams. When safety protocols are deactivated, the cyborgs immediately seek a human bridge to the outside world. Canines operate on structure. The Coyotes were seeking, and presumably even to this day are seeking, their pack leader. Their tether. For a cyborg running the Adler code, the tether completes their unconscious desire for human interaction.”

  “But dogs and cats survived for millions of years before we showed.”

  “True. But Dr. Adler did not base his scripting language on a wild animal’s engrams, rather those of his domesticated pet Dachshund, Mimi.”

  William squinted, “So… those Coyotes were spooled domesticated?”