Springboard (8 page)

He opened the door of the 914 and slid in, jamming the key into the slot. He entered the comp code as well; a necessary evil that allowed him to drive on streets with other cars of later make.

Now the car would be recognized by the city traffic computer for what it was, and should he deviate from traffic laws in the presence of other cars, the onboard computer would force him to the side of the road.

A small smile played across his face. He’d be forced over if he
let
the computer do so. Seurat was not one to put his fate into the hands of others, safety laws or no. A carefully hidden switch on the autocomp would disable its ability to override his driving if he so chose. For the moment, he left it engaged. As with so many other facets of his life, it was useful to appear as one of the herd.

The two-liter engine roared and the acceleration pushed Seurat back in his seat as he ran through the first two gears. He lived on the new Rue de Soie—the Silk Road—part of an expensive development of both new and refurbished homes, and none of them cheap. He found it very amusing that his house was but a short trip away from Euro-Disneyland. Had it been possible, he would have bought a home on Rue de Goofy—just to irritate the traditionalists still trying to keep the language “pure.”

What a waste of time and effort
that
was.

It had taken him months to find this particular 914, and even longer to restore the car to the condition in which he kept it, but the effort had been worth it.

Patience. It was all about taking the time.

The attack on CyberNation had ended. Saens, who had called on his comset, had explained that the network would be back up in minutes; had Seurat waited but a little while, he could have gotten a full briefing in a secure CyberNation chatroom without leaving his home.

But the drive to the city would give him time to think, to plan out the best response for what had happened. Like his distant ancestor, Charles Seurat liked to work deliberately and thoughtfully.

The attack had been bad. According to Saens, it had blacked out most of the continent, with tendrils of the blackout spreading to the U.S., South America, and Asia. Reports were still coming in.

Worse, prior to the actual shutdown, the attackers had spoofed servers for passwords and had removed some of the careful barriers that separated bits of CyberNation—protected chatrooms had suddenly been joined by on-line sex groups, personal information of all sorts had been dragged out into common areas, and other doors that were normally closed had opened.

It hadn’t lasted long, according to Saens, but any amount of time was too long.

Throughout his life, Seurat had found that every strength held a weakness. CyberNation—with true liberty, equality, and brotherhood for all—was a nonphysical ideal. That removed most of the grime and grit of the world and made it impervious to destruction from physical attack, but its noncorporeal state made it susceptible in other ways.

Like this.

The question was not, “Who would do such a thing?” There were many who were jealous, more who were simply malicious, and there were those who were afraid of CyberNation and what it stood for. No, the question was, “Who is
capable
of such a thing?”

CyberNation had security second to none. Whoever had done this thing was more than expert.

The CyberNation leader knew that he wouldn’t be needed to repair the network—his people were already working on that.

But more than the network needed repair. Those who had lost service could lose faith—might even lose belief in the new nation that was supposed to shelter them. If the citizens of CyberNation could lose their perfect world for any reason—well, it wouldn’t be perfect, then,
non
?

They would want an explanation—and satisfaction.

And so did he.

Seurat signaled to exit to the Boulevard Périphérique, the ring road that circled the center of the city, and accelerated, overtaking a large hauler. The truck driver shook his fist at Seurat as the little sports car sailed past. It was currently de rigueur to hate older fossil-fuel cars. Seurat didn’t know if it was due to jealousy or environmentalism, although he suspected the former. Not everyone could afford to operate an older car.

Once on the ring road, he stayed in the right lane. The Porte d’Orleans was just one exit ahead. Another hauler was ahead of him, this one painted with signs extolling the virtues of fresh produce.

The lingering thread of his thoughts hung there, waiting.

What would be the best way to give his people what they craved? How could he promise safety and freedom for all? He was the leader of something more than a mere nation. For a moment he saw himself on the spectrum of world leaders: How it must have been throughout the ages for such, trying to satisfy the people they led, promising them what they needed, while trying to deny reality. To offer safety, even where it did not exist.

He supposed that they had found what he did: Sometimes it worked, sometimes it did not.
C’est la vie.

Ah, yes,
vive la CyberNation—
when it works!

This had to be resolved, and quickly. They had an enemy, one who was adept enough to damage them. This could not be allowed.

He must be found.

And destroyed.

Ahead finally sat the Nouvel building, a postmodern masterpiece that he and the other leaders of CyberNation had chosen for its aesthetics as much as for its functionality and fully integrated net-backbone.

Nearby, parked under the light of a street lamp, was a newsvan.

Ah. No surprise there. The media was ever alert. Like sharks, they came at the merest whiff of blood in the water.

Well, no matter. Someone had handed him a sour lemon, and he was going to make a refreshing drink from it.

He slowed his car and, instead of going into his private underground parking spot, he pulled over on the street outside the building. As he stepped from the car, lights came on from near the newsvan, forcing him to squint slightly as he walked toward them. He squared his shoulders and smiled. He would spin them a story, and they would serve him as he would have it.

Lying naked and sweaty upon the bed, Mayli looked up at Locke as he dressed. She smiled. “You know that Wu would probably kill you if he knew we were doing this.”

Locke smiled in return. “Me? I doubt it. Besides, I am certain that he does know. General Wu did not rise to his current position by being a fool. I imagine that he is having you and me watched—I would in his place. I’d guess he doesn’t care what we do together—as long as we do our jobs.”

Her smiled vanished, turned into a pout.

He laughed. “What? You think he is so jealous of your favors that he would kill his partner for indulging in them?

Wu is a pragmatist. Nothing you and I did today will lessen what you and he do tomorrow. If anything, it might make it better—I’ve shown you some tricks even you didn’t know. Those would be to his benefit, no?”

She sat up suddenly and threw a pillow at him. “Beast!”

He laughed as he reached out and caught the pillow in one hand. “That’s not what you said earlier.”

She smiled. “I cannot stay angry with you, can I?”

“No. I am too lovable.”

“No, not lovable. But . . . something.”

Locke tossed the pillow back at her, not hard, and went back to tying his tie. He had heard that plenty of times:
Why do you fancy me? I don’t know, it’s hard to say, exactly. . . .

As for Wu, Locke was not only sure he was having him followed, he was pretty sure this apartment, for which Wu paid, was bugged. Audio at the least, maybe video. Locke hadn’t bothered to look for the microphones or cameras, but in Wu’s position, he would have made very sure he could verify what Mayli told him about Shing—at least enough of it to feel some confidence. There was probably a recording of Shing and Mayli rolling around on the bed in Wu’s desk, and no doubt he had watched such a thing if it existed.

Locke’s own performance with Mayli? Certainly nothing to feel insecure about—and no doubt at all much superior to Shing’s rootings . . .

“When will you return?”

He finished the Windsor knot and straightened the gray silk tie. Against the lighter gray of his tailored shirt and darker silk jacket, the tie was perfect. There were still some excellent tailors in Hong Kong, and with the British gone for decades, easier to get one whose work you liked. A five-thousand-dollar suit didn’t look that much better than a three-thousand-dollar one to most, but those who knew such things could spot the differences. Clothes might not make the man, but among the rich and powerful, they were badges that identified you as somebody with taste and means.

“I don’t know,” he said. “But maybe I’ll call you when I do. If I can’t find anybody better.”

By the time she had thrown the pillow at him again, he was already on his way to the door.

Jay Gridley sat in the back of an open-wall ragtop jitney with fifty other passengers; an oppressive, cloying, heat and humidity wrapped the bus like a sodden blanket. Had they been moving, there would at least have been some hot wind, but the vehicle was, like the hundreds of others he could see on the road, jammed to a full stop. Even the people on bicycles and Segways weren’t moving, and the air was as still as a tomb.

Around him, the passengers talked to each other in Malay or Bahasa or English, apparently unaffected by their lack of progress.

Jay shook his head. Whatever VR scenario he conjured, the military’s super-computers were not easy to navigate. The hardware, software, protocols—everything was a pain. Even with full access, delving into these things was as difficult and complex as anything Jay had ever done. The place was a rat’s nest of back alleys and twisted roads, with buildings looming over the narrow streets, far too many people—read information packets—and a host of other complicating factors Jay hadn’t even begun to sort out.

His respect for Major Bretton ratcheted up several notches. If the man could negotiate this mess at all, he was good.

Next to him a local man, probably seventy, and dressed in a white short-sleeved shirt and a sarong, smiled, showing better teeth than Jay expected.

“Selamat. You Thai?” the man asked. His voice was raspy and full of phlegm.

As it happened, that was partially true. “Yes.”

“You have children? I have five—four sons and a daughter, plus nine grandchildren.”

“I have a son. Only one.”

The old man laughed, a cackle. “You young. Plenty of time.”

He pulled a cigarette from his shirt pocket and offered it to Jay. “Smoke?”

Jay declined.

The old man lit the coffin nail and inhaled deeply. Gray tendrils rose in the hot and still air. The smoking explained the raspy, phlegmy sound to old man’s voice. Even though Jay had created the scenario, he sometimes fell into a kind of schizophrenic state where things for which he was responsible, such as the old man’s voice, came as a surprise to him, as if somebody else had built the program.

“Is it always like this?” Jay asked. He waved to encompass the gridlocked traffic.

The old man shrugged. “This a good day. Some times, much worse.”

Great. Just what he needed to hear.

The old man looked out through the open sides of the jitney. “Rain is coming soon. Cool things off.”

Jay nodded. How bad was it when a tropical storm, with lightning, thunder, and rain blasting down in sheets angled almost horizontal, was something you were looking
forward
to?

Ick.

This was going to be a long, long day. . . .

The U.S. Air Force was doing a terrific job—the thousands of smart antimine bomblets, TDO-A2s, known unofficially as “garden weasels,” had cleared major pathways in the minefields on the NK side of the wire, so when the new M10A3 gasoline-powered heavy tanks began roaring across the line, they were able to make good speed. The tanks’ 105mm cannons added noise and smoke to the already shrouded battlefield, but the tin can drivers didn’t need to see anything outside their sensor screens—fog, rain, smoke, darkness, none of these were impediments to the electronic gear the heavies carried.

Overhead, the scores of fighters and bombers continued to roar—no need for stealth now—dropping huge pay-loads, ranging from the ten-ton BLU-84a “Big Blue” daisy-cutters that would chop down enemy soldiers like a lawn mower in dry grass, to the GBU-27B smart bombs from the F-111s that could find a chimney and go down it like Santa Claus bringing coal to the bad kids, to the BU- 28 five-thousand-pound bunkerbusters.

That section of North Korea was, for the moment, the most dangerous place on the planet, more so than an active volcano. You might outrun lava. No way could you outrun 20mm machine-gun rounds from a jet fighter chasing you.

Yes, the North Koreans had a huge army, and much armor and all, but with the full force of the United States military brought to bear all at once, there was no way anybody on this planet was going to stop it—

Except that it did stop.

Just like somebody switching off a lamp . . .

Thorn removed the VR headset and blew out a sigh, still astonished by the power of the simulation. It was as if he had been there, standing just behind the action, hearing and seeing and feeling the thrum of all-out war, smelling the gunpowder and cooked earth. . . .

General Roger Ellis, U.S. Marines, head of Special Projects Command—SpecProjCom—for the Pentagon, and Thorn’s new boss, leaned back in his chair and looked at him.