"c311" - читать интересную книгу автора (Burt Andrew - Noontide Night)

10:53 P.M., Friday, March 3, 2000
Washington, D.C.

Bob Hope was taking his third bow amid thunderous applause, and still hamming it up with the show girls. He finally made it off stage, and the crowd of CyberCorps Elite began filtering out. Morgan couldn't help but be amazed. Almost 97, Hope looked like he'd be playing a round of golf tomorrow. Morgan hadn't laughed so hard in years. Not simply because he hadn't had time for a joke in months, but the guy was genuinely funny, through and through. Morgan's sides ached. Back in his hotel-like room in Abrams Hall, Morgan collapsed into the bed. A whole queen-sized bed to himself. Such luxury was undeserved. It didn't matter a whit that he had to share the room with another recent arrival, Nguyen Nguyen (whose enthusiasm Morgan found perhaps a little irritating—"just call me win-win, since that's what we're here to do," he'd said by way of introduction—but he was nothing compared to Dick Littlefield). The bed was soft, the pillows deep, the spring-clean sheets perfume to his senses. Housekeeping had even turned down the bed and left a chocolate mint on the pillow. There was still a frat boy feel to the CCE, but it was more Top Gun than Animal House. Members of the Elite played one-ups-manship with bogeys they'd downed—Iraqi computer systems they'd wiped out. Or civvies they'd saved—civilian computer systems in the U.S. they'd secured from Iraqi hacking. They talked about them like sports—"Did you hear about the diving catch I made in the end zone?" or "Man, I homered that Iraqi power plant." He couldn't get over the fact that there was a war on, and nobody knew it. Well, rather, that anybody who found out was drafted into fighting it, and keeping it a secret. It rankled him that the cream of the crop weren't fixing Y2K problems, but then again, he hadn't figured out a better way either. He'd have to ponder that. Tomorrow. Nguyen wasn't back yet, or was perhaps on duty; everyone had some combination of sixteen hours and two days off per week, but the CCE worked round the clock. Morgan picked up the phone and dialed the base operator. "Any word on that—" "Sorry, Lt. Hyland, no luck contacting New Zealand yet." He'd tried to call when he first arrived, and the operator had graciously said they'd keep trying. "We've got your call on continuous retry; we'll ring your room as soon as we get through. And if we can't reach you, we'll send your message for you. We've got it right here in the system. Will there be anything else this evening?" Morgan was tempted to ask if they could have a cup of hot chocolate delivered, but he suspected they'd jump right on it before he could say he was only joking. "No, that's all. But ring it through even if it's three in the morning or something, okay?" Morgan went to sleep a weary, but pampered man. Sometime in the night he thought he heard Nguyen come in, but he was too comfortable to roll over to look. At six the computer by his bed bleeped him awake. He bolted awake, thinking it was The Call. But it was only the alarm he'd set the night before. He clicked around with the mouse until the beeping stopped. No phone messages. No email. He showered quickly; and dawdled over breakfast. The first real eggs he'd had in months. Toast that hadn't previously been about to declare independence. Bacon that wasn't half soy. Fresh orange juice, with or without pulp, his choice. He set off to find his new unit stuffed but happy. "Dude, you must be Hyland." A kid who couldn't have been more than seventeen waved him in. He had a stubble of soft down on his chin; his hair had been shaved to match. But here it was by choice. The other three in the circle had reasonably fashioned their couple months' growth of hair. "Have a seat." On the second floor of a large building, the floor plan had been laid out with blocks of large open areas, like cubicles, but the size of Montana. Within each, a team of five, sometimes more, sometimes less, sat around a quarter circle of monitors and keyboards. All the monitors faced the same way; the members of the various teams Morgan walked by seemed to sit and cooperatively discuss each window-filled screen. Occasional loners were to be found, sitting off at screens by themselves, usually on the opposite side of the giant cubicles. "These are Lieutenants Dan, Sasha and Jade. I'm Captain Zach." Dan was perhaps thirtiesh, a little paunchy, and probably glad his blond hair was short to hide his balding spot. Sasha was the oldest, pushing fifty, her black hair streaked with grey, cut to regulation length, and framing her quiet blue eyes. Jade had somehow managed to keep all her hair from the butcher; the tresses down to the middle of her long back dyed assorted shades of orange, purple, and pink. Zach pursed his lips. "So, ground rules. I'm the boss, but if everyone agrees on something else, I go along. Otherwise you do what I say. The basic motto of the Elite is that Competence Doesn't Suck. So just park your carcass," he said, jerking his thumb toward a comfortable-looking managers chair. "Jump in where you can." "What he means is," Dan elaborated, "You do a good job, you get ahead." "Yeah. It's an anti-Peter principle." Morgan looked at Zach, not comprehending the last remark. "Peter Principle: You get promoted to your level of incompetence. Anti-Peter Principle: You get demoted to your level of competence." "Our last member," Sasha said, "is now peeling potatoes. He couldn't handle being even an office mom." "Yeah. Got a lot of hangers on." Jade said. She snapped her bubblegum. "Why not send him back to the regular CyberCorps?" Morgan asked. "Basically," Zach said in an you'd-know-this-if-you-thought-about-it voice, "nobody knows we even exist. They monitor your phone calls; ground the call if you try to encrypt out that there's a war. Etc., etc. Nobody leaves the Elite once you're in. They just decrement the status of your jobs." "But other than that it's pretty cushy," Dan said. "It's an ask and ye shall receive sort of thing. Just click on the 'mom' icon and they'll bring it. Whatever you want." "Wow. Sure beats going Mitnick," Morgan said. He was met with sour faces. "What?" "He doesn't know," Jade said. "Know what?" Morgan asked. "Mitnick was the CC's first non-success," Zach answered. Morgan looked at them quizzically. "Government wouldn't delete his prison term." Dan gave a short chuckle and filled in. "They asked him to help. They said they'd keep him locked up for years more if he didn't—well, you know, wouldn't let him out sooner with good behavior. He took the deal, got out, then defected to Iraq. Works for them now." "Or so they say," Sasha said. "Could be only a story to keep us motivated." "Whatever," Dan added with a shrug. "It's partly what helped the CyberCorps realize they had to treat us geeks better, or we'd all walk. Works for me." "So, what's your story, Morgan?" Jade asked. Morgan wasn't sure if she might be thinking of hitting on him, or genuinely curious. He couldn't figure these people out yet. He definitely felt ill at ease. Either he was in the company of geniuses—or bullshit artists. He told them his story, ending with his fear that he'd unintentionally hurt Jeremy. "Wow. That'd suck big-time," Jade said. Zach seemed to have crossed his banter limit. "All right, bit cadets, can we...? Morgan, just watch and jump in where you can." Morgan watched—they were breaking into an oil refinery in Iraq, to shut it down—but he hadn't screwed up his nerve to pay attention yet. Their lack of concern about Jeremy irritated him; but more it was that he'd spent all last night enjoying himself instead of finding out what happened. Okay, yes, he'd put in a request with the operators to call Desiree, but he needed to do more. Something more. "Hey," he said quietly, not wanting to interrupt the intent brooding of his teammates, "I'm just going to look over some of your mission logs and stuff, over here, and, uh..." they weren't listening. He wheeled over to the one PC that sat on the opposite side of each cubicle. Apparently the Elite had determined that one lone PC on the other side was some kind of optimal configuration. At any rate, it suited him. Morgan clicked on the 'mom' icon. "Yes, dear, what can I get for you?" popped up the prompt. Gaagh. How cutesy. However, he knew it belied a ferocious competition among the Elite. He typed his request; "please find all you can about casualties at the police raid on Middlemore Hospital in Manukau, New Zealand." The problem was, what to do now. He should wheel over to help his group. But he didn't. Maybe it was their reaction when he'd asked whether they were afraid they might accidentally blow up the Iraqi refinery: "Way cool!" He couldn't be a part of this. Damnit! He'd hurt enough people already. This wasn't part of his deal with the universe, not killing people. It wasn't. But if he refused to uphold his end of the bargain...

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Chapter 31.1

10:53 P.M., Friday, March 3, 2000
Washington, D.C.

Bob Hope was taking his third bow amid thunderous applause, and still hamming it up with the show girls. He finally made it off stage, and the crowd of CyberCorps Elite began filtering out. Morgan couldn't help but be amazed. Almost 97, Hope looked like he'd be playing a round of golf tomorrow. Morgan hadn't laughed so hard in years. Not simply because he hadn't had time for a joke in months, but the guy was genuinely funny, through and through. Morgan's sides ached. Back in his hotel-like room in Abrams Hall, Morgan collapsed into the bed. A whole queen-sized bed to himself. Such luxury was undeserved. It didn't matter a whit that he had to share the room with another recent arrival, Nguyen Nguyen (whose enthusiasm Morgan found perhaps a little irritating—"just call me win-win, since that's what we're here to do," he'd said by way of introduction—but he was nothing compared to Dick Littlefield). The bed was soft, the pillows deep, the spring-clean sheets perfume to his senses. Housekeeping had even turned down the bed and left a chocolate mint on the pillow. There was still a frat boy feel to the CCE, but it was more Top Gun than Animal House. Members of the Elite played one-ups-manship with bogeys they'd downed—Iraqi computer systems they'd wiped out. Or civvies they'd saved—civilian computer systems in the U.S. they'd secured from Iraqi hacking. They talked about them like sports—"Did you hear about the diving catch I made in the end zone?" or "Man, I homered that Iraqi power plant." He couldn't get over the fact that there was a war on, and nobody knew it. Well, rather, that anybody who found out was drafted into fighting it, and keeping it a secret. It rankled him that the cream of the crop weren't fixing Y2K problems, but then again, he hadn't figured out a better way either. He'd have to ponder that. Tomorrow. Nguyen wasn't back yet, or was perhaps on duty; everyone had some combination of sixteen hours and two days off per week, but the CCE worked round the clock. Morgan picked up the phone and dialed the base operator. "Any word on that—" "Sorry, Lt. Hyland, no luck contacting New Zealand yet." He'd tried to call when he first arrived, and the operator had graciously said they'd keep trying. "We've got your call on continuous retry; we'll ring your room as soon as we get through. And if we can't reach you, we'll send your message for you. We've got it right here in the system. Will there be anything else this evening?" Morgan was tempted to ask if they could have a cup of hot chocolate delivered, but he suspected they'd jump right on it before he could say he was only joking. "No, that's all. But ring it through even if it's three in the morning or something, okay?" Morgan went to sleep a weary, but pampered man. Sometime in the night he thought he heard Nguyen come in, but he was too comfortable to roll over to look. At six the computer by his bed bleeped him awake. He bolted awake, thinking it was The Call. But it was only the alarm he'd set the night before. He clicked around with the mouse until the beeping stopped. No phone messages. No email. He showered quickly; and dawdled over breakfast. The first real eggs he'd had in months. Toast that hadn't previously been about to declare independence. Bacon that wasn't half soy. Fresh orange juice, with or without pulp, his choice. He set off to find his new unit stuffed but happy. "Dude, you must be Hyland." A kid who couldn't have been more than seventeen waved him in. He had a stubble of soft down on his chin; his hair had been shaved to match. But here it was by choice. The other three in the circle had reasonably fashioned their couple months' growth of hair. "Have a seat." On the second floor of a large building, the floor plan had been laid out with blocks of large open areas, like cubicles, but the size of Montana. Within each, a team of five, sometimes more, sometimes less, sat around a quarter circle of monitors and keyboards. All the monitors faced the same way; the members of the various teams Morgan walked by seemed to sit and cooperatively discuss each window-filled screen. Occasional loners were to be found, sitting off at screens by themselves, usually on the opposite side of the giant cubicles. "These are Lieutenants Dan, Sasha and Jade. I'm Captain Zach." Dan was perhaps thirtiesh, a little paunchy, and probably glad his blond hair was short to hide his balding spot. Sasha was the oldest, pushing fifty, her black hair streaked with grey, cut to regulation length, and framing her quiet blue eyes. Jade had somehow managed to keep all her hair from the butcher; the tresses down to the middle of her long back dyed assorted shades of orange, purple, and pink. Zach pursed his lips. "So, ground rules. I'm the boss, but if everyone agrees on something else, I go along. Otherwise you do what I say. The basic motto of the Elite is that Competence Doesn't Suck. So just park your carcass," he said, jerking his thumb toward a comfortable-looking managers chair. "Jump in where you can." "What he means is," Dan elaborated, "You do a good job, you get ahead." "Yeah. It's an anti-Peter principle." Morgan looked at Zach, not comprehending the last remark. "Peter Principle: You get promoted to your level of incompetence. Anti-Peter Principle: You get demoted to your level of competence." "Our last member," Sasha said, "is now peeling potatoes. He couldn't handle being even an office mom." "Yeah. Got a lot of hangers on." Jade said. She snapped her bubblegum. "Why not send him back to the regular CyberCorps?" Morgan asked. "Basically," Zach said in an you'd-know-this-if-you-thought-about-it voice, "nobody knows we even exist. They monitor your phone calls; ground the call if you try to encrypt out that there's a war. Etc., etc. Nobody leaves the Elite once you're in. They just decrement the status of your jobs." "But other than that it's pretty cushy," Dan said. "It's an ask and ye shall receive sort of thing. Just click on the 'mom' icon and they'll bring it. Whatever you want." "Wow. Sure beats going Mitnick," Morgan said. He was met with sour faces. "What?" "He doesn't know," Jade said. "Know what?" Morgan asked. "Mitnick was the CC's first non-success," Zach answered. Morgan looked at them quizzically. "Government wouldn't delete his prison term." Dan gave a short chuckle and filled in. "They asked him to help. They said they'd keep him locked up for years more if he didn't—well, you know, wouldn't let him out sooner with good behavior. He took the deal, got out, then defected to Iraq. Works for them now." "Or so they say," Sasha said. "Could be only a story to keep us motivated." "Whatever," Dan added with a shrug. "It's partly what helped the CyberCorps realize they had to treat us geeks better, or we'd all walk. Works for me." "So, what's your story, Morgan?" Jade asked. Morgan wasn't sure if she might be thinking of hitting on him, or genuinely curious. He couldn't figure these people out yet. He definitely felt ill at ease. Either he was in the company of geniuses—or bullshit artists. He told them his story, ending with his fear that he'd unintentionally hurt Jeremy. "Wow. That'd suck big-time," Jade said. Zach seemed to have crossed his banter limit. "All right, bit cadets, can we...? Morgan, just watch and jump in where you can." Morgan watched—they were breaking into an oil refinery in Iraq, to shut it down—but he hadn't screwed up his nerve to pay attention yet. Their lack of concern about Jeremy irritated him; but more it was that he'd spent all last night enjoying himself instead of finding out what happened. Okay, yes, he'd put in a request with the operators to call Desiree, but he needed to do more. Something more. "Hey," he said quietly, not wanting to interrupt the intent brooding of his teammates, "I'm just going to look over some of your mission logs and stuff, over here, and, uh..." they weren't listening. He wheeled over to the one PC that sat on the opposite side of each cubicle. Apparently the Elite had determined that one lone PC on the other side was some kind of optimal configuration. At any rate, it suited him. Morgan clicked on the 'mom' icon. "Yes, dear, what can I get for you?" popped up the prompt. Gaagh. How cutesy. However, he knew it belied a ferocious competition among the Elite. He typed his request; "please find all you can about casualties at the police raid on Middlemore Hospital in Manukau, New Zealand." The problem was, what to do now. He should wheel over to help his group. But he didn't. Maybe it was their reaction when he'd asked whether they were afraid they might accidentally blow up the Iraqi refinery: "Way cool!" He couldn't be a part of this. Damnit! He'd hurt enough people already. This wasn't part of his deal with the universe, not killing people. It wasn't. But if he refused to uphold his end of the bargain...


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