"c111" - читать интересную книгу автора (Burt Andrew - Noontide Night)

7:36 P.M., Thursday, January 6, 2000
Manukau, New Zealand

"Remind me never to lie to terrorists," Morgan said through a cottony mouth. On reflection, he wasn't sure it felt cottony. It didn't feel anything. The rest of his body ached like it hadn't since the day after he'd lost a schoolyard fight to Jeb "Meathooks" Blaylock. Why, oh why, he thought, did I think I could lie to terrorists? Lying seemed to have become de rigueur these last couple years, what with Monicagate, Microsoft bigwigs caught lying in their anti-trust suit, tobacco execs caught in lies about the harm from cigarettes, not to mention so many companies saying they were Y2K-compliant when they knew a damn sight better. Well, maybe it was time that stopped. Morgan's vision stabilized. He was lying in the hospital parking lot beside his car. The sun was past the horizon, inflaming a brilliant pink-red-purple sunset. Must be about eight o'clock. He pulled himself gingerly into the driver's seat. He started the car, the radio jumping alive. "...States government has issued a plea for programmers to volunteer to help them repair their Y2K damaged systems. Response so far has been light. Analysts say—" Morgan clicked it off. Almost a week gone, and the subject had edged into the land of enough already. Yeah, the world had big problems, but he had his problems. Of course response was light. Everyone had their own problems. Society was built on the small bits of help people gave each other after they'd taken care of themselves. Maslow's Hierarchy of Needs, wasn't that what some business class called it? Food and shelter first, then the social acceptance of showing up for work. The government hadn't figured on this? Well, Morgan's need right now was at a pretty low level: Protecting his family. Hell, finding his family. A car revved up near him. He watched it pull out, then followed it. Perhaps this was the one that would lead him to the hostages' new location. But after an hour of stops at a bunch of closed convenience stores, it became apparent someone had only sent a stooge out hunting for cigarettes. The kid banged every empty cigarette rack in every looted store he found. Morgan gave up and headed home when the kid started driving back toward the hospital. Tomorrow he'd simply have to try posting their stupid manifesto again, and find some way to do it for real. He arrived the next morning at the hospital door, and was again denied entry and told to wait by the car. "Gonna get it done right this time, asshole?" the driver asked on the way. Morgan smiled falsely. "No, I'm going to—" He almost said, "download porno pictures of your mother," but thought better of it. He smiled falsely again. Unfortunately, the net had other plans. Morgan spent all day trying phone numbers to connect to from all over southeast Asia and even tried calls to the U.S., but reached nowhere. The next day was the same. The next day after that likewise, except that it rained. The third day he briefly connected to the free University system, but could get nowhere. It was sunny. Then a cloudy day. Morgan hadn't showered in days, and began to deny himself the one comfort of civilization left until he'd accomplished his goal. He knew it was ridiculous. He came to understand football fans who had to sit in that certain lucky chair with their certain lucky hat for every game lest their team lose. Not a religious man, he considered making deals with God. Each night he rationed himself one or at most two cans of what few food tins they had in the cupboard. The radio reported the water suspect for drinking purposes, and recommended boiling. Yeah right, he sniped. If I could boil water I'd heat up my creamed corn. Matty slept on the balcony most nights, generally rising after he'd gone to bed. They'd exchange friendly greetings in the morning when she came in and before he left for his "work" trying to get on the net. She relayed Jeremy's progress, since she was allowed free run of the hospital. She confirmed that there were no hostages there, only patients too ill to move. After the goons cut off his network hunting expeditions, he lurked about the hospital, hoping to tail a car to the hostages' location, but cursed that he could never catch a break. Deals with God seemed more appealing all the time. Once or twice he mused that Axton being such an odious creature made it easy to ignore his job. Of course, most people were, as evidenced by the traffic jammed up at every intersection and the hours long lines for drinking water and food rations. Imports onto the islands were at a virtual dead stop, as were flights off. Morgan learned from a line-stander that those with boats fished and stayed the hell away as best they could. The lines, at least, were getting more orderly, if no shorter. So little progress seemed to be happening—which Morgan understood, and tried to explain in idle conversation, that programming computers was not something that could be done fast. Just diagnosing problems often took weeks. People were getting philosophical. They had food, albeit cruddy and requiring hours to wait for. They had shelter, since New Zealand's warm summer climate made almost anywhere decent to sleep. What worried Morgan was how long it would take before people turned the corner, and began putting more work into building society back up than they took out in emergency supplies. He thought about calculating it as an exercise in queuing theory, but decided he might not like the answer and gave up. The other problem was that the corporate and government leadership had miscalculated on their contingency plans. "Do it manually" and "only fix the mission critical systems" sounded fine on paper; but when it came down to it, even if all the mission-critical systems were repaired, those non-mission critical systems did an awful lot of work that still had to be done. The demand for people to actually do anything manually exceeded the supply by a factor of ten. Or more. Unemployment in the U.S. had already been at a record low. And of the qualified people, many of them were at home dealing with frozen pipes, or in food lines, or simply had no idea where their skills were needed. At least, Morgan consoled himself, things didn't seem to be getting any worse. It was hard to go lower than "nothing happening." Perhaps a bottom had been found, though how wide it was he dared not guess. Finally, battling the snuffles of a stress cold, he hit paydirt. Dejanews was up. He almost fumbled the keys he cut and pasted the manifesto so fast. He hit 'post' and it was off. "Yes! It's done! It's done!" he shouted. He leaped up, dancing around the room like a giddy schoolboy. The next day, fidgeting only slightly because he'd realized he'd posted the Rights of the Strong under his own, real name, he sat eagerly awaiting the judgment of sub-commander Knaggs. He hoped their people in Australia or wherever they were had been able to connect. A stocky bearded fellow strode down the hall from the communications room where they kept their short-wave radio. He conferred quietly with Knaggs. Knaggs finally came over to Morgan, that same feral smile on his face as when he'd ordered Morgan beaten. "Congratulations, Hyland. Your mission has been accomplished." "Then you'll tell me where my wife is? Maybe, say, release her to my, um, protective custody?" "I'll do better." He motioned to two grunts. "Chain Mr. Hyland and escort him to the other prisoners." A short ride down to the Village Force Cinemas, thirty seconds of smothering Desiree with kisses until the guards shushed him with a prod from an AK-47, and he was a prisoner once again.

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Chapter 11.1

7:36 P.M., Thursday, January 6, 2000
Manukau, New Zealand

"Remind me never to lie to terrorists," Morgan said through a cottony mouth. On reflection, he wasn't sure it felt cottony. It didn't feel anything. The rest of his body ached like it hadn't since the day after he'd lost a schoolyard fight to Jeb "Meathooks" Blaylock. Why, oh why, he thought, did I think I could lie to terrorists? Lying seemed to have become de rigueur these last couple years, what with Monicagate, Microsoft bigwigs caught lying in their anti-trust suit, tobacco execs caught in lies about the harm from cigarettes, not to mention so many companies saying they were Y2K-compliant when they knew a damn sight better. Well, maybe it was time that stopped. Morgan's vision stabilized. He was lying in the hospital parking lot beside his car. The sun was past the horizon, inflaming a brilliant pink-red-purple sunset. Must be about eight o'clock. He pulled himself gingerly into the driver's seat. He started the car, the radio jumping alive. "...States government has issued a plea for programmers to volunteer to help them repair their Y2K damaged systems. Response so far has been light. Analysts say—" Morgan clicked it off. Almost a week gone, and the subject had edged into the land of enough already. Yeah, the world had big problems, but he had his problems. Of course response was light. Everyone had their own problems. Society was built on the small bits of help people gave each other after they'd taken care of themselves. Maslow's Hierarchy of Needs, wasn't that what some business class called it? Food and shelter first, then the social acceptance of showing up for work. The government hadn't figured on this? Well, Morgan's need right now was at a pretty low level: Protecting his family. Hell, finding his family. A car revved up near him. He watched it pull out, then followed it. Perhaps this was the one that would lead him to the hostages' new location. But after an hour of stops at a bunch of closed convenience stores, it became apparent someone had only sent a stooge out hunting for cigarettes. The kid banged every empty cigarette rack in every looted store he found. Morgan gave up and headed home when the kid started driving back toward the hospital. Tomorrow he'd simply have to try posting their stupid manifesto again, and find some way to do it for real. He arrived the next morning at the hospital door, and was again denied entry and told to wait by the car. "Gonna get it done right this time, asshole?" the driver asked on the way. Morgan smiled falsely. "No, I'm going to—" He almost said, "download porno pictures of your mother," but thought better of it. He smiled falsely again. Unfortunately, the net had other plans. Morgan spent all day trying phone numbers to connect to from all over southeast Asia and even tried calls to the U.S., but reached nowhere. The next day was the same. The next day after that likewise, except that it rained. The third day he briefly connected to the free University system, but could get nowhere. It was sunny. Then a cloudy day. Morgan hadn't showered in days, and began to deny himself the one comfort of civilization left until he'd accomplished his goal. He knew it was ridiculous. He came to understand football fans who had to sit in that certain lucky chair with their certain lucky hat for every game lest their team lose. Not a religious man, he considered making deals with God. Each night he rationed himself one or at most two cans of what few food tins they had in the cupboard. The radio reported the water suspect for drinking purposes, and recommended boiling. Yeah right, he sniped. If I could boil water I'd heat up my creamed corn. Matty slept on the balcony most nights, generally rising after he'd gone to bed. They'd exchange friendly greetings in the morning when she came in and before he left for his "work" trying to get on the net. She relayed Jeremy's progress, since she was allowed free run of the hospital. She confirmed that there were no hostages there, only patients too ill to move. After the goons cut off his network hunting expeditions, he lurked about the hospital, hoping to tail a car to the hostages' location, but cursed that he could never catch a break. Deals with God seemed more appealing all the time. Once or twice he mused that Axton being such an odious creature made it easy to ignore his job. Of course, most people were, as evidenced by the traffic jammed up at every intersection and the hours long lines for drinking water and food rations. Imports onto the islands were at a virtual dead stop, as were flights off. Morgan learned from a line-stander that those with boats fished and stayed the hell away as best they could. The lines, at least, were getting more orderly, if no shorter. So little progress seemed to be happening—which Morgan understood, and tried to explain in idle conversation, that programming computers was not something that could be done fast. Just diagnosing problems often took weeks. People were getting philosophical. They had food, albeit cruddy and requiring hours to wait for. They had shelter, since New Zealand's warm summer climate made almost anywhere decent to sleep. What worried Morgan was how long it would take before people turned the corner, and began putting more work into building society back up than they took out in emergency supplies. He thought about calculating it as an exercise in queuing theory, but decided he might not like the answer and gave up. The other problem was that the corporate and government leadership had miscalculated on their contingency plans. "Do it manually" and "only fix the mission critical systems" sounded fine on paper; but when it came down to it, even if all the mission-critical systems were repaired, those non-mission critical systems did an awful lot of work that still had to be done. The demand for people to actually do anything manually exceeded the supply by a factor of ten. Or more. Unemployment in the U.S. had already been at a record low. And of the qualified people, many of them were at home dealing with frozen pipes, or in food lines, or simply had no idea where their skills were needed. At least, Morgan consoled himself, things didn't seem to be getting any worse. It was hard to go lower than "nothing happening." Perhaps a bottom had been found, though how wide it was he dared not guess. Finally, battling the snuffles of a stress cold, he hit paydirt. Dejanews was up. He almost fumbled the keys he cut and pasted the manifesto so fast. He hit 'post' and it was off. "Yes! It's done! It's done!" he shouted. He leaped up, dancing around the room like a giddy schoolboy. The next day, fidgeting only slightly because he'd realized he'd posted the Rights of the Strong under his own, real name, he sat eagerly awaiting the judgment of sub-commander Knaggs. He hoped their people in Australia or wherever they were had been able to connect. A stocky bearded fellow strode down the hall from the communications room where they kept their short-wave radio. He conferred quietly with Knaggs. Knaggs finally came over to Morgan, that same feral smile on his face as when he'd ordered Morgan beaten. "Congratulations, Hyland. Your mission has been accomplished." "Then you'll tell me where my wife is? Maybe, say, release her to my, um, protective custody?" "I'll do better." He motioned to two grunts. "Chain Mr. Hyland and escort him to the other prisoners." A short ride down to the Village Force Cinemas, thirty seconds of smothering Desiree with kisses until the guards shushed him with a prod from an AK-47, and he was a prisoner once again.


back | next home