"c221" - читать интересную книгу автора (Burt Andrew - Noontide Night)

8:16 P.M., Sunday, February 20, 2000
Halifax, Nova Scotia

Nate could hear Morgan in the bunk below scritching a letter, presumably again to his wife Desiree. The poor guy had written one every night, dutifully mailing it at the base post office on his way to the Rotten Core, as they called their claustrophobic cell in the middle of the elevator core. He'd told her everything, even asking Nate questions about his life, his family, his Y2K bunker. He asked Nate to remind him of each day's details. All these he described floridly so Desiree could feel as if she were here. Nate glanced below. "#15" it said; fifteen letters in less than three weeks. And no replies. Nate sympathized with him, but it was tainted with envy. At least he had someone to write to who loved him. Nate ached to think about it. Every day when Morgan mailed his letter, Nate announced that he'd write one to Amber tonight. Yet when he crashed into his bunk, and considered asking Morgan if he could borrow some of his paper (large greenbar sheets filched from middles of programs they'd triaged and logged as "hopeless"), or the official U. S. Army pencil Morgan had liberated, a pit opened in his stomach and ate all the eloquent, tender things he'd thought to say during the day. Reality smacked him in the face in the further daily remembrance that her apartment had no utilities, the building was last in the hands of lunatics, and he had absolutely no clue where to send such a letter. Or whether she'd read it. Instead he resolved, each night, to ponder where their relationship stood. Normally Nate pondered every future issue broadly and deeply. Had there ever really been an Amber and Nate? Did he love her not because of who she was, but because he hadn't found anyone else? Yet every time he tried to focus on Amber, to determine what his fundamental problem was, why he couldn't trust Amber, his attention slid off like the bars of soap he'd tried to balance on his knee during childhood baths. His relationship was a giant blind spot in the center of his vision. His mind wandered back to the beef inspection program each time these past few nights. It was as if it were a surrogate for all his problems. If he could fix this—which he could—then he could fix everything else. He merely needed to get the program back to its users, who and wherever they were, and all would be right. Nate leaned over his bunk. "Yo, Morgan, could you turn that thing down? I can't hear myself think." Morgan wore earphones, listening to a beat up portable radio he'd bartered away from Mohammed for an extra bar of soap. Tinny sound leaked out. Nate smacked Morgan with wadded up, dirty sock. "Cut the noise, will you?" Morgan looked up. "Union Pacific just declared bankruptcy," he said. "That makes five of the S&P 500 already, and almost a hundred of the Wilshire 5000. The economy is up shit creek, my friend." "Yup. So, you'll want to back me up on this beef inspection thing. I know you think this Don't Fix thing is hokey." Nate wanted to add, 'and downright fishy,' but he knew Morgan wasn't the conspiracy theory type. He'd have to convince him some other way. "Here, look." Nate dangled a fanfolded printout downward. "I wrote the fix on here like I told you about." Morgan groaned. "No, wait! We can talk Sam into it." Morgan removed his headphones. "Tell you what. You get me a pass into Halifax for some R&R, and I'll back you up." Though nobody had actually been "outside" and the programmers were naturally isolated from delivery trucks and whatnot, rumors had it that Halifax was almost back to normal. Morgan hadn't been able to find a local radio station, but he wanted to believe the rumors. He put his 'phones back on. Nate nodded, allowing a wry grin to creep across his face. Okay, if Morgan thought he'd dodge helping by asking for compensation, so be it. He could arrange a pass. Who said it had to be legitimate? He checked his watch. Still an hour until lights out. "I'll get right on it!" he said, dropping from his bunk and patting Morgan on the shoulder. Leon had been issued a pass last month so he could visit his brother in a hospital in Cape Breton at the tip of the province. Leon hung out in the base gym, where he'd organized a game of pickup basketball for the kids. Nate had originally been surprised to find kids on the base, then wrongly assumed they were family of the "real" Canadian forces stationed here. He felt glad when he found out they belonged to some of the draftees who'd actually been told to report here, and who'd simply driven up with families from New York, Boston, and so on. Wives and kids dumped on his doorstep, the base commander kindly scrounged up some family living quarters. Nate also felt what he called the Rock of Amber in his stomach, thinking that she could be here too, if he'd only known. God, how he missed kissing her cute little nose. Leon didn't play basketball much himself, being shorter than some of the older kids at five-six, and tiring quickly from his three hundred pounds. Among the hacks, as the draftees in his barracks dubbed themselves, Leon bared a fierce, leonine personality—to the point where Nate wondered if he hadn't picked the name Leon on purpose—but Nate saw that around the kids the guy was a pussycat. Well, Morgan had actually been the one to point it out, but Nate adjusted quickly. This was a guy who could help you out. "Hey, Leon, my man, wha's up?" "Yo, cuz. Que pasa?" Leon passed a basketball to a couple ten-ish year old girls; twins by the look of them. He trundled his bulk over to the bleachers and sat. "Sit your sorry ass down, man. Whatchyu need?" They laughed together. Leon normally spoke with an accent befitting his prim Connecticut family and Nate couldn't speak Spanish to save his life. They loved kidding each other. Men, when cooped up together under duress, Nate had observed after someone short-sheeted his bed, reverted to a frat-house mentality. "My God," Morgan had said on hearing this insight. "The world's fate is in the hands of John Belushi and Animal House." "You still got a copy of that pass from seeing your brother?" Nate asked. "It's possible it had a little encounter with the photocopier," Leon replied. It had not been entirely secret in the barracks that certain hacks had sneaked out to Halifax at night and shown up for duty the next day more tired and bourbon-eyed than their commanding officers might expect from a delightful night's rest on the ascetic bunks. Hackers loved to hack whatever was at hand, be it Coke machines or subway turnstiles. "What's the going rate? For two. I gotta get Morgan outta camp for a bit, loosen him up." "One good hack will do," he said. Hacking was for its own sake in the Hacker Credo. One good hack deserved another, so to speak. "Or some fresh oranges when you're in town. Damn, I don't care—any kind of fruit. I'm dyin' in here." "You got it, bro." The deal was sealed with a diddibop dap routine. At noon the next day Nate nudged Morgan by the elbow toward the mess hall. "Hey, dude, lunch." Or so Morgan would think. After they jogged down the stairs (now trusting the elevator, but preferring the exercise) and pulling their uniform jackets tight against the snot-freezing wind chill, Nate pulled Morgan between two buildings. "This way." "Mess is over there," Morgan pointed. "We're not going to the mess. We're going to get some real food." He whipped out the two passes, forged in his and Morgan's name. "Day passes. Twenty-four hours. Halifax got power back last week, you know." The longer Nate had held them the more anxious he'd become to "get some civilization" and the less it became an issue about Morgan. Saving the beef inspection hovered at the back of his mind like a moral cattle prod, but the thought of warm bagels and mocha cappuccino had him drooling. Morgan made a doubtful face, but inspected the passes. "And Sam didn't tell me about this because...?" he asked, pointing to Sam's signature. "It's a surprise, man! Isn't it—" Nate had an inspiration—"Isn't it like your birthday or something?" "No." "No? You mean I got you a birthday pass for nothing?" "What do you mean, birthday pass?" "Little known reg I stumbled on. CyberCorps personnel are entitled to a day pass on their birthday, with a chaperon." Nate shrugged and snatched the pass from Morgan. "Oh well. Guess I'll have to return it. You sure this isn't your birthday? I coulda swore..." "No. June 5th. What made you think you knew my birthday, anyway? I've never told you." Nate felt the deception was working well. Morgan had bit on the fake birthday pass thing. The trick of the con was to go two or three steps beyond believability, figuring the mark would discount only the last part. Now Nate only had to convince Morgan to use a pass that wasn't for the right day. "I thought you... Maybe it was Littlefield. I'll have to get Sam to change it. But he'll have to find some other chaperon. Damned if I'll tag along with that bastard." "Well, let me see that pass again." "Here." Nate cleared his throat. "You sure it isn't your birthday?" Morgan was almost there, Nate could see it in his eyes. Nate made a half-hearted attempt to take the pass back, but Morgan pulled it out of reach. "We could get some parkas..." The CyberCorps claimed they'd have warmer jackets for the men "any day now"; it had been any day now for weeks. "And tea." Morgan had frequently complained at the lack of tea. "Bet we might even find some Celestial Seasonings..." "I better check with Sam on this." Nate poker faced. "Sure. It's your own time off you're wasting." He couldn't flinch. Morgan was testing him, he knew. And if Morgan did stupidly ask Sam and blow the hack, well, too bad for Morgan. They'd never prosecute Nate for forgery or any such. Programmers were golden. "They've got power... stores..." Nate wanted to fidget he was so eager to find normality. He could practically taste that bagel. "Aw, what the hell. Let's move before they change the regs!" Half an hour later, shivering as the jammed ferry churned across the harbor toward Halifax, Nate wondered how soon it would be until Littlefield reported them AWOL. He shivered again, now from eager anticipation.

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Chapter 22.1

8:16 P.M., Sunday, February 20, 2000
Halifax, Nova Scotia

Nate could hear Morgan in the bunk below scritching a letter, presumably again to his wife Desiree. The poor guy had written one every night, dutifully mailing it at the base post office on his way to the Rotten Core, as they called their claustrophobic cell in the middle of the elevator core. He'd told her everything, even asking Nate questions about his life, his family, his Y2K bunker. He asked Nate to remind him of each day's details. All these he described floridly so Desiree could feel as if she were here. Nate glanced below. "#15" it said; fifteen letters in less than three weeks. And no replies. Nate sympathized with him, but it was tainted with envy. At least he had someone to write to who loved him. Nate ached to think about it. Every day when Morgan mailed his letter, Nate announced that he'd write one to Amber tonight. Yet when he crashed into his bunk, and considered asking Morgan if he could borrow some of his paper (large greenbar sheets filched from middles of programs they'd triaged and logged as "hopeless"), or the official U. S. Army pencil Morgan had liberated, a pit opened in his stomach and ate all the eloquent, tender things he'd thought to say during the day. Reality smacked him in the face in the further daily remembrance that her apartment had no utilities, the building was last in the hands of lunatics, and he had absolutely no clue where to send such a letter. Or whether she'd read it. Instead he resolved, each night, to ponder where their relationship stood. Normally Nate pondered every future issue broadly and deeply. Had there ever really been an Amber and Nate? Did he love her not because of who she was, but because he hadn't found anyone else? Yet every time he tried to focus on Amber, to determine what his fundamental problem was, why he couldn't trust Amber, his attention slid off like the bars of soap he'd tried to balance on his knee during childhood baths. His relationship was a giant blind spot in the center of his vision. His mind wandered back to the beef inspection program each time these past few nights. It was as if it were a surrogate for all his problems. If he could fix this—which he could—then he could fix everything else. He merely needed to get the program back to its users, who and wherever they were, and all would be right. Nate leaned over his bunk. "Yo, Morgan, could you turn that thing down? I can't hear myself think." Morgan wore earphones, listening to a beat up portable radio he'd bartered away from Mohammed for an extra bar of soap. Tinny sound leaked out. Nate smacked Morgan with wadded up, dirty sock. "Cut the noise, will you?" Morgan looked up. "Union Pacific just declared bankruptcy," he said. "That makes five of the S&P 500 already, and almost a hundred of the Wilshire 5000. The economy is up shit creek, my friend." "Yup. So, you'll want to back me up on this beef inspection thing. I know you think this Don't Fix thing is hokey." Nate wanted to add, 'and downright fishy,' but he knew Morgan wasn't the conspiracy theory type. He'd have to convince him some other way. "Here, look." Nate dangled a fanfolded printout downward. "I wrote the fix on here like I told you about." Morgan groaned. "No, wait! We can talk Sam into it." Morgan removed his headphones. "Tell you what. You get me a pass into Halifax for some R&R, and I'll back you up." Though nobody had actually been "outside" and the programmers were naturally isolated from delivery trucks and whatnot, rumors had it that Halifax was almost back to normal. Morgan hadn't been able to find a local radio station, but he wanted to believe the rumors. He put his 'phones back on. Nate nodded, allowing a wry grin to creep across his face. Okay, if Morgan thought he'd dodge helping by asking for compensation, so be it. He could arrange a pass. Who said it had to be legitimate? He checked his watch. Still an hour until lights out. "I'll get right on it!" he said, dropping from his bunk and patting Morgan on the shoulder. Leon had been issued a pass last month so he could visit his brother in a hospital in Cape Breton at the tip of the province. Leon hung out in the base gym, where he'd organized a game of pickup basketball for the kids. Nate had originally been surprised to find kids on the base, then wrongly assumed they were family of the "real" Canadian forces stationed here. He felt glad when he found out they belonged to some of the draftees who'd actually been told to report here, and who'd simply driven up with families from New York, Boston, and so on. Wives and kids dumped on his doorstep, the base commander kindly scrounged up some family living quarters. Nate also felt what he called the Rock of Amber in his stomach, thinking that she could be here too, if he'd only known. God, how he missed kissing her cute little nose. Leon didn't play basketball much himself, being shorter than some of the older kids at five-six, and tiring quickly from his three hundred pounds. Among the hacks, as the draftees in his barracks dubbed themselves, Leon bared a fierce, leonine personality—to the point where Nate wondered if he hadn't picked the name Leon on purpose—but Nate saw that around the kids the guy was a pussycat. Well, Morgan had actually been the one to point it out, but Nate adjusted quickly. This was a guy who could help you out. "Hey, Leon, my man, wha's up?" "Yo, cuz. Que pasa?" Leon passed a basketball to a couple ten-ish year old girls; twins by the look of them. He trundled his bulk over to the bleachers and sat. "Sit your sorry ass down, man. Whatchyu need?" They laughed together. Leon normally spoke with an accent befitting his prim Connecticut family and Nate couldn't speak Spanish to save his life. They loved kidding each other. Men, when cooped up together under duress, Nate had observed after someone short-sheeted his bed, reverted to a frat-house mentality. "My God," Morgan had said on hearing this insight. "The world's fate is in the hands of John Belushi and Animal House." "You still got a copy of that pass from seeing your brother?" Nate asked. "It's possible it had a little encounter with the photocopier," Leon replied. It had not been entirely secret in the barracks that certain hacks had sneaked out to Halifax at night and shown up for duty the next day more tired and bourbon-eyed than their commanding officers might expect from a delightful night's rest on the ascetic bunks. Hackers loved to hack whatever was at hand, be it Coke machines or subway turnstiles. "What's the going rate? For two. I gotta get Morgan outta camp for a bit, loosen him up." "One good hack will do," he said. Hacking was for its own sake in the Hacker Credo. One good hack deserved another, so to speak. "Or some fresh oranges when you're in town. Damn, I don't care—any kind of fruit. I'm dyin' in here." "You got it, bro." The deal was sealed with a diddibop dap routine. At noon the next day Nate nudged Morgan by the elbow toward the mess hall. "Hey, dude, lunch." Or so Morgan would think. After they jogged down the stairs (now trusting the elevator, but preferring the exercise) and pulling their uniform jackets tight against the snot-freezing wind chill, Nate pulled Morgan between two buildings. "This way." "Mess is over there," Morgan pointed. "We're not going to the mess. We're going to get some real food." He whipped out the two passes, forged in his and Morgan's name. "Day passes. Twenty-four hours. Halifax got power back last week, you know." The longer Nate had held them the more anxious he'd become to "get some civilization" and the less it became an issue about Morgan. Saving the beef inspection hovered at the back of his mind like a moral cattle prod, but the thought of warm bagels and mocha cappuccino had him drooling. Morgan made a doubtful face, but inspected the passes. "And Sam didn't tell me about this because...?" he asked, pointing to Sam's signature. "It's a surprise, man! Isn't it—" Nate had an inspiration—"Isn't it like your birthday or something?" "No." "No? You mean I got you a birthday pass for nothing?" "What do you mean, birthday pass?" "Little known reg I stumbled on. CyberCorps personnel are entitled to a day pass on their birthday, with a chaperon." Nate shrugged and snatched the pass from Morgan. "Oh well. Guess I'll have to return it. You sure this isn't your birthday? I coulda swore..." "No. June 5th. What made you think you knew my birthday, anyway? I've never told you." Nate felt the deception was working well. Morgan had bit on the fake birthday pass thing. The trick of the con was to go two or three steps beyond believability, figuring the mark would discount only the last part. Now Nate only had to convince Morgan to use a pass that wasn't for the right day. "I thought you... Maybe it was Littlefield. I'll have to get Sam to change it. But he'll have to find some other chaperon. Damned if I'll tag along with that bastard." "Well, let me see that pass again." "Here." Nate cleared his throat. "You sure it isn't your birthday?" Morgan was almost there, Nate could see it in his eyes. Nate made a half-hearted attempt to take the pass back, but Morgan pulled it out of reach. "We could get some parkas..." The CyberCorps claimed they'd have warmer jackets for the men "any day now"; it had been any day now for weeks. "And tea." Morgan had frequently complained at the lack of tea. "Bet we might even find some Celestial Seasonings..." "I better check with Sam on this." Nate poker faced. "Sure. It's your own time off you're wasting." He couldn't flinch. Morgan was testing him, he knew. And if Morgan did stupidly ask Sam and blow the hack, well, too bad for Morgan. They'd never prosecute Nate for forgery or any such. Programmers were golden. "They've got power... stores..." Nate wanted to fidget he was so eager to find normality. He could practically taste that bagel. "Aw, what the hell. Let's move before they change the regs!" Half an hour later, shivering as the jammed ferry churned across the harbor toward Halifax, Nate wondered how soon it would be until Littlefield reported them AWOL. He shivered again, now from eager anticipation.


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