Infectress
Infectress
Scott shrugged the pack
higher up his aching back, then cinched the belt tighter. He stood in the middle of a
switchback of a path that ascended the western face of the Santa Lucia Mountains. In only
one hour of hiking, he had climbed a kilometer in altitude. From here, he could see beyond
the tree-covered foothills out onto the glimmering wrinkled surface of the Pacific Ocean.
The ocean looked strangely vast, because from such a great height, his horizon extended
one hundred miles.
Scott turned and continued to climb. The
sun was near the horizon. He wanted to crest the mountain and descend into the high valley
to make his camp before the light failed.
Grunting, gasping, he strode up the path,
each footfall higher than the last. His heart pounded so hard that he could feel the shock
of each pulse as it hit the base of his brain. He felt dizzy. An older man would have
slowed down, but Scott continued, confident that his body would never betray him.
I can't fail, he thought. I
won't fail. I refuse to fail.
Joe Bender and Scott McMichaels had
attempted to execute the Meta program, but it had failed and had continued to fail.
Sometimes it refused to execute at all. Sometimes it executed, but produced gibberish.
After two solid weeks of failures, Dellazo's comments had grown increasingly sarcastic.
This Saturday afternoon, after another
failure, Scott had felt trapped. He stormed out of Taradyne. He drove to the Pfeiffer Big
Sur State Park, registered with the rangers, parked his car at the trail head and began to
climb. Now Scott arrived at the summit as the sun stood a few diameters above the rim of
the ocean. Before him, the path plunged down into the high valley. Scott glanced over his
shoulder at the glory of the Pacific sunset. He began to descend.
Here, he hiked in shadows. Soon he
realized that he would never reach the tree line before nightfall. When the path flattened
out under a protruding rock, Scott stopped. The ground was rocky, the ledge was only a few
meters wide, but here he had shelter from the winds. Gratefully, he unshouldered his
burden. Under the rock, he unrolled his ground mat and spread his sleeping bag. He laid
down and watched the light on the distant peaks turn from pink, to red, to purple.
So this is what they meant by purple
mountain's majesty, he thought. I had no idea that the mountains actually turned
purple.
For a while, his thoughts meandered, but
then he began to contemplate the design of Meta. The unaccustomed grandeur and beauty of
the wilderness stimulated his thinking. He saw new possibilities and fresh perspectives.
He made mental notes for the perfection of Meta.
He wondered whether Meta would ever
succeed. He wondered why he couldn't content himself like other people with just living
life day by day. He knew he was obsessed, but in a world full of time servers and pleasure
seekers, he had always been proud of his obsession. Yet, how much of life was he missing?
If he failed, wouldn't he be a pathetic fool?
It's all nonsense, he thought. I
do what I can. Anything less is unworthy. It's given to me to attempt this thing. My life
is that attempt. If I succeed, everyone will know my dignity. If I fail, only I will know
it. But I will know it.
A sea breeze began to clear the sky.
Slowly, the brightest stars pierced the thinning haze. As the night air cleared, from the
mountaintop, far from the city lights, Scott could see dozens, then hundreds, then
thousands and hundreds of thousands of stars. Scott was able to witness the broad, shining
path of the Milky Way arcing from east to west. He lay in his warm sleeping bag and
contemplated his native galaxy, viewed edge-on from a vantage point in one spiral arm.
One hundred billion stars . . . just
one galaxy. And there's one hundred billion galaxies. Ten to the eighteen suns. Big
number.
Even if the evolution of intelligent life
is a weird stroke of luck, a cosmic fluke, with such a big number of stars, it would still
happen, again and again, but spread apart, in a sparse statistical distribution. Say, one
there, near that bright star. Another, way over there, near that oscillating star. Each
home world, a far-off, distant place. Each civilization, isolated by wastelands of stars
and gases and lifeless planets and great, great distances full of nothing, nothing, just
cold and black nothing, just emptiness, just vacuum. So lonely. Each civilization,
maturing probably for hundreds of thousands of years, before they're able to reach out,
telecommunicate, understand, then much later meet. Yes. Happy day. When we finally meet
our closest, incredibly distant neighbor, will we show them Meta? Will Meta or some
descendant of Meta be among the treasures that we offer to share?
A machine that emulates thought.
Massively parallel, able to think ahead, think deep. In an information age, the equivalent
of the nuclear bomb. Synthesize and advance knowledge. Create new medicines. New
foodstuffs. Redesign DNA, eliminate diseases. Strategic advice on our hardest problems. A
new world . . .
Scott thrilled with the idea that he could
contribute so powerfully to the history of mankind.
Life . . . almost infinitely precious,
he thought, his mind moving more slowly as he began to cross the threshold into sleep. I've
got to do what I can, to help . . . to help . . .
He fell asleep, convinced of the nobility
of his struggle. He awoke in the middle of the night to find the heavens alive with a
meteor storm. Brilliant points of light streaked across the starfield. He realized that he
had been dreaming about the design of Meta. A new way to connect the modules suddenly
seemed obvious. He dug out a small flashlight and scribbled notes. After several hours of
intense scribbling, he was surprised by the sunrise. He stood, mentally exhausted, dizzy
now in the thin air, as he watched the slanting rays of sunlight slowly seek out the
valley floors, where the deepness of night still lingered.
***
Arabella invited Freddie
sailing. They met on the dock of the Sun King Marina in the coastal village of Saint
Charles. Arabella, wearing a white jumpsuit and white Topsiders, and Freddie, sporting a
sailing outfit fresh from store boxes, walked down the dock to the boat, a twenty-meter
Imperiazi cruiser. It was a white ceramic monohull with teak decks. The scarlet mainsail
and jib were furled with cables wrapped, indicating automatic sailworks.
"Doying!" Freddie said, too
impressed not to say, "Doying!"
"Yes, doying," Arabella said.
"Is this yours?"
"No. Actually owning a boat like this
would ruin anybody."
"So we're chartering it?"
"No," Arabella said.
"Somebody else is chartering it. We're just posing as somebody else."
Arabella stood behind the wheel. Freddie,
the last bag of supplies in hand, stood on the dock.
"What do you mean? We're . . ."
he said, groping for the word.
"Swindling?" Arabella suggested.
"Yeah, I guess."
"Yes, that is right, Frederick J.
Hanson. We are swindling the Fair Winds Charter Corporation out of the value of its
capital asset, the cruiser Serendipity, for two days. That means stealing about
twenty thousand dollars worth of services. A felony."
Freddie shifted his feet. "I don't
know, Arabella."
Arabella pulled a long lock of hair across
her lower face like a veil, almost concealing her smile.
"Which is one way to think about
it," she said. "The other way is, we're just borrowing this thing which was
gonna sit here idle this weekend, anyway. So all we're doing is beating Fair Winds out of
the wear and tear. Unless we sink the thing, of course. Then the insurance company
loses." She smiled slyly.
"I don't know, Arabella."
"Come on, Freddie. It's not like
we're stealing food from orphans. We're just stealing a drop of cream from rich men. Come
on, dear Freddie. I'm setting sail. All aboard."
"What if we get caught?"
"I can prove I am whoever I say I am.
No crime will take place until Monday, when I decide not to be the person I say I am now.
Come on, baby. It's the perfect crime."
"You're sure? You've done this
before?"
Arabella laughed victoriously. "That
would be telling. All aboard."
Freddie stepped from the dock onto the
boat.
"Cast off," Arabella commanded.
"The lines are manual."
Freddie hopped back onto the dock, undid
the lines and then stepped back aboard.
"Serendipity!" Arabella
shouted. "Take us out to sea."
Under their feet, they felt the engines
vibrate. Atop the main mast, the radar began to rotate. Robotically, the wheel spun to
starboard. The cruiser eased away from the dock. Once in the open basin, flanked by moored
pleasure craft, the Serendipity accelerated to eight knots, its motors humming
audibly.
"Serendipity!" Arabella
shouted. "When we're clear of the basin, set course one- two-zero and make
sail."
Freddie placed his arm around Arabella.
Her body relaxed and she lay her head on his shoulder. The sunlight sparkled atop the
waves. As the Serendipity departed the windbreak of the yacht basin, the
northeasterly wind laid the boat gently to starboard.
The Serendipity passed the channel
marker and began to bound on the ocean rollers. After voice warnings, the yacht came about
to a course of one-two-zero degrees and unfurled its mainsail and jib. The perfectly set
sails caught the strong wind. Engines cut, the boat gracefully lay over to starboard and
began to swoop on a beam reach, bravely shouldering aside the crests.
"Hooray!" Arabella shouted.
"Yea!" Freddie shouted.
Freddie turned his face windward, and then
eyed the wind-hard sails, admiring the perfection of their set. He pulled on a floppy hat
and donned sunglasses.
"Where are we going, Arabella?"
"Beyond the limit," she
answered. "Twelve miles out into international waters."
"Then what?"
"Then we'll see."
"So mysterious."
Arabella smirked.
Freddie and Arabella enjoyed a perfect day
of sailing. Once they reached international waters, they suspended robotic controls and
worked the boat themselves. By three in the afternoon, their gloved hands ached and their
appetites were sharp. They surrendered control to the Serendipity's robot and
lunched in the wheel well. They ate sandwiches made with fresh French bread, shredded
lettuce and onion, tomato slices and chipped ham and turkey. They swilled cold bottle
after cold bottle of Clausthaler alkohol-frei beer. For dessert, they ate Hawaiian
frozen fruit bars. Exhilarated by the afternoon's sport and the taste of the Clausthalers,
Freddie asked Arabella if she had stocked real beers.
"Sure, Freddie," she said.
"Brewed by Belgian monks. But the hot sun and the wind dehydrate you, you know. If
you drink beer, you may get a headache. I want you in top form tonight, lover."
"Why?" Freddie asked.
Arabella laughed at Freddie, and Freddie
laughed with her.
By the time the sun set, they were far out
to sea. The wind died. The boat moved slowly through gentler waters. A strip of clouds on
the western horizon blurred bloody red, the clear band of sky above them a vibrant gold.
"I wish it would never end,"
Arabella said.
"It's beautiful," Freddie said.
"Oh, it's so wonderful sailing,"
Arabella said. "This is how life should be, don't you think?"
"You're right."
"Just you and me, Freddie,"
Arabella said. In the growing darkness, her voice was deep and compelling. "Beyond
the limit. Alone. Free the way people should be. Ashore, it's so crowded. Too many people,
too many people made so small. So small by the system. Do you understand what I
mean?"
"Yeah, sure I do. I feel that way a
lot. Everyone does, I think."
Arabella snuggled up to Freddie and ran
her fingernails along his forearm. "Can't you feel it, Freddie? Breathe the air.
We're free. This is the way it should be, Freddie. Free men, free women. Living real
lives. Not just tiny cogs in the machine."
The sun set. Freddie bent his head and
found Arabella's lips with his own. Her returning kiss was warm and accepting. They
explored each other's bodies, the day's undercurrent of sensual desire rising quickly and
strongly. Soon their young bodies were aroused to the level of mindlessness.
"Let's go below," Freddie
breathed. The horizons were dark. Their lone boat rolled and pitched languorously over the
lapping seas. Overhead, the first stars were penetrating the night's humid ocean air.
"No, Freddie," Arabella said.
"Let me take you now, here, under the sky."
* * *
The next day, as they were
sailing on the open ocean, Freddie asked Arabella if she could spend the following weekend
at his place.
"I can't, lover," she said.
"Why not?"
"I have to go to Hawaii."
"Oh, really? Let me go with
you."
"Can't. Sorry."
"Why not?"
"Can't say."
Freddie pouted for an hour, proving that a
thirty-meter vessel is too small for two people and one attitude.
"There is a way that we could
go together to Hawaii," Arabella said.
"Yeah? How?"
"You'd have to travel with me as my
husband."
"I can live with that."
"You'd have to use a different name,
Freddie."
"All right."
"Using a fake name for interstate
travel is a federal offense, Freddie. It's a felony these days." "Oh. Well.
Jeez."
"But it's an easy one to beat. I
could make all the arrangements. Only you and I will ever know about it."
"Do you want me to? To go?"
"Yeah, lover. Come to Hawaii with
me."
"All right," Freddie said.
"I'm a player."
The next morning, while they drank coffee
and watched storm clouds slanting a gray barrier of rain down on the southern horizon,
Freddie said, "Arabella, can I ask you something?"
"What?"
"How do you manage to change
identities? You know, fingerprints, retinal scans, DNA analysis, all that. They're
foolproof ways to tell your real identity."
"Oh, yeah, sure," she said.
"Foolproof. But not geniusproof."
"What? Do you refuse to let
them--"
"Not always," Arabella said.
"When you cross the borders at checkpoints, the trained dogs will have at your
blood and your retina and your fingertips. What you do is corrupt the databases where that
data goes."
"How?"
Arabella laughed musically. "How,
Freddie? It's a lovely science. It involves network intrusions, erasures, installation of
hardware parasites, corrupted records. You got to learn and then beat each system, one at
a time. Attack the hardware, the software, the slimeware."
"Slimeware?"
"Yes, slimeware. People. Not always
the weakest link, but usually weak enough. People's lack of dependability is something you
can usually depend on. Not always."
"So what are you talking about?"
"Bribery, Freddie. The Global
Identification Net, you know, the GIN. Like prohibition, like narcotics laws, one of the
reasons it exists is that too many people make money from violating it. So you bribe
presidents and you bribe pissant clerks."
"That's a nasty business,
Arabella."
"Oh, yeah, sure. People are nasty.
And their memories are hard to erase. So they're treacherous."
"How do you do it, then?"
"Sometimes directly. Sometimes
through second and third parties."
"Who?"
"Depends. Sometimes, the Japanese
social club called the Yakuza. And then there's your fun-loving Jamaican posses. Or your
Sicilians. Nice easygoing bunch of guys, those Cosa Nostra. The Chinese, the triads.
Colombians, the cartels. Here in America, congressional staffers."
"Congressional staffers? You're
kidding!" Freddie laughed.
"No. And let me tell you, they are a
scary crew."
"But those other guys . . . those
crooks. You really do business with them?"
"The other crooks, you mean. Not that
they know. But, yeah, I do."
Freddie glanced around nervously at the
sail boat.
"Aren't you afraid of talking about
this stuff, even here?"
"Yeah."
"I mean, there could be a listening
device, somewhere on the boat."
"I checked. There are two. Exactly
two."
Freddie's head swiveled, as if he could
spot a listening device.
"Where? Where are they?"
"There's the Serendipity's
voice command facility, which I'll wipe slick. And there's one other."
"Where?"
Arabella reached forward and tapped
Freddie's forehead.
"Here, lover. It's here."
Freddie looked into Arabella's eyes. Her
dark irises seemed bottomless pools. He felt himself losing his will. Underneath them, the
boat began to roll sickeningly, as waves from the southern storm began to pass under the
hull.
"You're not kidding."
"No, Freddie. I'm not."
"How long have you been doing
this?"
"A long time, but not too long."
"Who knows who you really are?"
"I know."
"Who else?"
"No one. Absolutely no one.
Alive."