From: Shadowmar@cup.portal.com (Paul Joseph Furio)
Subject: Digital Storm, Chapters 1-10
Date: 23 Apr 92 02:23:23 GMT
Digital Storm
by Paul J. Furio
Chapter 1 - Ghosts from the Neon
I arrived back at my apartment to find Goust on the vidphone.
"What's up?" I dropped my nylon carryall on the floor and walked
over to the wall monitor.
"Found that file you wanted. On the Mitsushi icebreaker. I'm
downloading it to your system now."
"Thanks, Goust. What would I do without you? Run anything
interesting lately?"
"Nope, but I got a line on some new MRI decks that are in
development. All wetware based, totally biochip. Fast. Real fast.
I'll let you know more as I get it." Goust's sharp blue eyes stared
right at me, a smile in each one despite the look of seriousness on
his face. Zeiss Series VI-IR+, those eyes. Cost him three runs on a
big base to get those. To Goust, it was worth it.
"Thanks again. Seeya in the net."
Goust smiled and then blinked out. A glowing green message
replaced his visage on the monitor. END TRANSMISSION - 15:42:23
ORIGIN UNKNOWN.
That wasn't the real Goust, of course. The real Goust was dead.
He died three years ago on a run against the American Steel Base in
the matrix. Steel hit him hard with some Black Ice, a barrage of
sensory input designed to drive the recipient insane or kill him with
shock. Goust chose the latter. It's too bad because he was the best
decker I ever worked with. Except of course myself.
About a month before Goust died, we had a ROM scan made of him
for one of our runs. We figured we'd confuse some complex systems by
running two of the same person against it. We chose the wrong system
to test it on. The system responded by sending out Black Ice against
both Gousts. Luckily, The ROM was unharmed.
Turing must have been watching because they pulled the base off
the net within the hour for illegal practice of security enforcement.
They also ran a trace back to the deck. I barely made it out of that
abandoned complex in the Projects. I managed to gather most of the
hardware but I had to leave Goust back there lying on the floor. I
wouldn't doubt it if he was still twitching when Turing Security got
there.
After he died, I uploaded Goust's ROM into a secure base in the
matrix. Some minor adjustments to the security system, and Goust's
ROM had full access to the base and all of cyberspace. I now had my
own personal spy and gopher in the virtual world, acting totally
independently but with complete loyalty to our former friendship.
I went back to the carryall. The junctures of the nylon netting
gave way at the tiny electrical current imparted by the contact of my
hands and I was able to widen a hole until it was large enough to
remove one of my workstations. Amazing little bag, I got it during my
trip to New Tokyo. No openings unless you made one. Nothing ever
fell out. Which was handy on the many occasions when I've had to
sprint down an alley with a bag full of hardware.
The workstation unfolded before me. I wired one cable to my
vidphone database and the other to the socket behind my ear. It felt
good being plugged in, like the familiar warmth of a lovers hold. I
powered up and accessed Gousts file, total virtuality. It floated
around me, streams of data, colors and shapes, changing with the
familiar randomness of a quality icebreaker. It looked decent. I ran
a few tests on it to make sure it wasn't suicideware, the kind of
program designed to weed out the wilsons in netgoing society.
After checking it from top to bottom, I jacked out. There was
something I missed though, something that tugged me just before I left
the construct. A dry sound, dead leaves crushed underfoot. I entered
the program again. The shapes flooded my vision again. Glowing neon,
solids flowing around me, there. A piece of parchment floated among
the code of the icebreaker, unchanging amidst the chaos, yet blown
about as if by some cybernetic wind. I reached out for it. A message
was scrawled upon it, in what looked like blood. Just like Goust,
always the dramatic type. It's message was clear though, and a second
after reading it, the paper crumpled itself into a fine dust and was
gone. A security measure on Gousts part. Something that he not only
couldn't tell me over the vidphone, but couldn't let me be found with
after he sent it to me hidden in an icebreaker.
I jacked out of the construct and sat there, staring at the
workstation blankly, the words on the parchment echoing in my mind.
"There's a new Black Ice out there. DELAYED Black Ice. Watch for it,
Alex. It might get free."
A deep breath. Free? In the matrix? What, wandering around
like a rabid dog, infecting unwary cowboys, like an electronic
disease, killing at some unknown time? Yes, a voice inside me said.
Goust's voice. It may be just like that.
I disconnected from the workstation and changed into some
fatigues. These were more comfortable than street clothes. It was
also the accepted attire at the Interface, a cowboy hangout down the
street. I threw on an overcoat and left my apartment, the door
automatically locking behind me.
Coyright -1992 Paul J. Furio
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Well? What do YOU think?
Drop me a line if you like, hate, or wanna tie up usenet
bandwidth!
Paul J. Furio - Knowledge is Power!
Shadowmar@cup.portal.com
Digital Storm
by Paul J. Furio
Chapter 2 - A Walk in the Park
Suddenly, she was in the construct, and it was more real than she
ever could have imagined. A spring day, trees, a leaf fluttered by in
a gentle breeze. And he is there, standing before her, dressed
casually in an old fashioned izod shirt and comfortable slacks. He is
young, with thin blonde hair that drops just to his eyes. They are
blue eyes, cold blue, lifeless and cold. A bird flaps its wings
gaily, hopping from tree to tree behind him, but his eyes remain
lifeless.
He smiles, a pleasant smile despite his eyes. "Now then," he
begins, "you will tell me about your first love. What was it like?"
A puzzled expression crosses her face.
"Please," He persists. "Tell me, what was his name?"
George. She tries to speak it but cannot move. She is numb,
except for a slight tingling upon her fingertips. George was his
name.
"George. How pleasant. What a wonderful name for your first
love. And what was he like, this George of yours?"
Loving. And caring. Tender and affectionate, gentle and
concerned about what I wanted. He was the first man who really cared
about what I...
She stops. He is still there, smiling. The birds are still
chirping in the background.
"Go on, please."
Fear. Panic. What is this? What are you doing? Who are you?
The smile is gone. It is replaced by a look of anger. "Please
continue."
But she cannot. She cannot go on.
The birds stop chirping. The wind stops blowing. The blue eyes
turn black, hard. She is afraid, so very afraid.
Then the park is back. The sun shines and the lazy clouds drift
overhead. He is as pleasant as before with his lifeless blue eyes.
"Very well." He smiles.
And she is dead, slumped over a terminal in her apartment in the
Projects, her fingers resting softly on the keyboard before her. A
thin line of blood runs from one nostril onto the keyboard, her eyes
glassy, staring into nothingness. The terminal beeps once,
confirmation that the typed message has been sent into the mail-net.
Somewhere outside, a pigeon watches through the window.
Copyright 1992 Paul J. Furio
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Again, comments are welcomed.
Paul J. Furio - Knowledge is Power
Shadowmar@cup.portal.com
Digital Storm
by Paul J. Furio
Chapter 3 - A Shot in the Face
The Interface was a dive, but it didn't matter. We owned it. It
was ours, a living, breathing thing that belonged to the cyberspace
cowboys in the area. The owner, Johnny Decker didn't tolerate us, he
absolutely catered to us. He had never been in cyberspace but he
adored it and everyone connected with it. His nickname was a deck
jockeys joke. He let us hang in his bar and we let him listen in on
our tales of the matrix. Perfect symbiosis.
The usuals were here tonight, Billy Name, Jan, Pete the Wirehead,
a few more cowboys I didn't know and the token hopeful wilson or two.
"Grab a chair, Alex." I sat down next to Jan. Jan and Jan's
long blonde hair. Well, it was long on the side I was sitting on.
She had it shaved on the right side, sort of a fashion statement to
show off her input jacks. She was a cowboy and damn proud. Jan and I
went way back. We were always friends, sometimes a little more, but
we never let that get in the way of our true love - cyberspace. I was
married to the matrix and loving it.
"What's new on the net?"
"Turing still sucks, Nightmare." Everyone laughed. Yeah, Turing
would always suck. No one knew that better than Alex Nightmare. No
one had ever come closer to being busted by them.
"What else is new. How's the new breaker coming, Wire?"
Pete flinched. He hadn't done anything with his custom
icebreaker in weeks. He was too busy porting Sense Net pornos to a
client in Peking. "Just fine, Alex. Set any sprinting records
lately?"
A low blow. I laughed it off, any good cowboy would. No
comeback that good was worth getting mad over. "No, but I got some
interesting lines on the Matrix Reality, Inc. biodecks. Maybe worth a
run."
"Or maybe not," came a voice from behind. I didn't have to turn
around. It was Hans, WunderKompf number one. Number two, Deiter, was
surely right behind. The WunderKompf never traveled apart. They
pulled up chairs and sat down, scanning for bugs and implants as they
did so. The WunderKompf were hot stuff, Turing wanted them bad. Not
that anything scared them, but they always got nervous when I was
around. Continuous low blow number two.
"You busy with anything, Alex?"
I looked Hans right in his mirrorshades. He gave up eyes long
ago for an array of ridiculously complex sensors. I would have
doubted the usefulness of such wideband vision if he hadn't saved my
life once from a sniper with a phased laser rifle. I was being shot
at from ten blocks away. The shades were for cosmetic reasons.
"Just siphoning some info out of MRI in my spare time, thanks.
And you? Keeping Busy?" Another joke. The WunderKompf was never
unoccupied. It was amazing these two could run as many deals as they
did at one time.
"Yeah," answered Deiter. "Real busy." He paused for a second,
looking around. "Tell the kids to get lost, and that goes for the
rest of you wilsons." Deiter was not one to be messed with. Those
muscles were not grafted, and the metallic bands around each wrist
held some nasty surprises for anyone who tried. I once saw an IR-
signature rocket launch from his arm and blow a man into too many
pieces to count. Deiter was trusted by his friends and considered to
be God by his enemies. I considered myself lucky to be his friend.
The wilsons left the table quickly, knocking over chairs in the
process. A few of the other cowboys left, too, unsure of their
standing with the WunderKompf. All that was left was an elite few.
Hans looked over his shoulder. This was a conversation that Johnny
was wise not to listen in on.
"Okay, we're clean," Hans began. "The only bug in here belongs
to that wilson who left and he cant even figure out how to turn the
damn cyber-ear on." I caught Billy mirroring my own smile. "Anyway,
we got a deal for you. Two days. Hard and Soft entry, Hard and Soft
transfer."
Whew. Two days was not a lot of time to prepare for a break in
not only to a companies computers but also to their offices. And it
was even less time to engineer the removal of classified information
along with classified hardware. But if anyone could do it, the
WunderKompf could. By the looks on their faces, Billy, Wire and Jan
shared my thoughts.
Deiter took over. "Nightmare, we'll need you on deck, Jan
monitoring. Wire, we'll need that new icebreaker of yours."
I watched as Pete almost coughed up a lung. Coffee sprayed all
over the table. Deiter was unphased.
"Billy, we need you on Hardware Retrieval. Hans and I are
security, and we have our own pilot. Is everyone in?" It was a
rhetorical question of course. We all knew that Hans and Deiter had
already cut the deal. Protest was useless. Besides, I convinced
myself, this would be fun. Somehow I doubted my own lies.
"All right, then," I said, rising with a huge grin on my face.
Five of the most serious faces in the world stared back at me. "Since
we're all so Gung-Ho about this, there's only one thing to do."
"Right," answered Jan, now also smiling. "Let's go shopping."
Copyright 1992 Paul J. Furio
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As usual, the responses are optional.
Paul J. Furio
Shadowmar@cup.portal.com
Digital Storm
By Paul J. Furio
Chapter 4 - Another Drink, Officer Stipe?
Blake Stipe sat behind his desk in the smoke filled offices of
Turing Security, North Sprawl, New York Division. A shot glass lay in
one hand, a bottle of Smirnoff vodka in the other. The thin
fibercarbon partition walls of his cubicle did absolutely nothing to
block out the din of office work outside. A trickle of vodka flowed
from bottle to glass, and then was poured down throat. Stipe sighed.
A knock at the door. "Enter."
A reports officer entered holding a printed file in his hands.
Still old fashioned here at Security. The philosophy was that the
only way to keep safe from the criminals they tried to prosecute was
not to be accessible to them. Sure that meant no central base in the
matrix and a limitless amount of paperwork, but at least they were
secure.
"You're not going to like this," the officer began. Another
trickle.
"All right, lay it on me." Stipe downed the shot. Not that it
did him any good. He had had the full line of antitoxin and drug
inhibitor implants. He couldn't get high, drunk, buzzed or even have
a nicotine fit. The orgasm was his only pleasure now, but at age 38
and still a bachelor, the possibility of a relationship got more
distant with every day. That, of course, never canceled out the
possibility of the one night stand, but even chance meetings with one
of Zone's girls were rare.
"We got ourselves a flatline. Caucasian female, over in the
Projects near Chip Town. Um, this one's a little weird, though."
"Did we get a trace from her deck? Coordinates? Anything?"
"There was no deck."
Stipe looked up. The officer was serious. No joke. This time
the trickle overflowed the cup and began to spill in an irregular oval
on to the desk blotter.
"No shit?"
"No shit. No deck, no optical hookup, no trodes."
"What about simstim? Could it be simstim overload?"
"No stim. Nothing in the whole apartment to provide direct
sensory input."
"And it wasn't drugs? They're sure it was a flatline?"
The officer shook his head, slowly. "She was cleaner than the
snow in Tibet." Not after the New Indian Industrial Revolution,
thought Stipe. It was okay, he was just a kid.
"Then what do we have? Someone jacked her in and cleaned up
after her. Lemme see." Stipe took the files, shuffling through the
paper. "Ah ha. Why didn't one of our watchdogs pickup a flatline
output from the matrix?"
"Nothing was sent. I told you it was weird." The officer was
about to sit down opposite Stipe, but a snarl from Blake stopped him
in mid crouch.
"Run a test on the watchdogs in that sector. And get a Residual
Charge Reading in that apartment. See if anyone else was there before
all this. Joeboys don't just spontaneously flatline no matter how
burnt out they are."
"Got it. Oh, and captain?"
"What?"
"We're running a trace on that mail she sent. The terminal was
still active."
"Fine." The officer stepped out and began to close the door
behind him.
"Wait! What do you mean 'a trace'? We couldn't just lift an
address?"
"There wasn't one. It was just sent into the mail processing
base. That's totally autonomous so it wasn't sent to any person. And
the only mail that's usually sent there is systems reports from Turing
Central. Someone must have sent her the base address because that's
classified. We're trying to find out who gave it to her."
"Oh. Okay. Fine, uh, dismissed."
Stipe sat there, the bottle half empty. This was weird, indeed.
Perhaps the most interesting case in a month. Well, whatever it was,
it sure beat chasing joeboys through the sprawl. A flatline certainly
wasn't going anywhere.
He stood up, a slightly hunched stance, a scar from a street
grenade when he first joined Turing Security. The faded grey
overcoat came off the antique rack, tarnished brass bent into gentle
curves. He threw it on and stepped outside his office, closing the
door behind him and locking it with a small iron key.
Copyright 1992 Paul J. Furio
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Hey, they can't all be winners. Bandwidth fillers are welcome.
Paul J. Furio
Shadowmar@cup.portal.com
Digital Storm
by Paul J. Furio
Chapter 5 - Sanitized for your Protection
The Tech Market was spread out over dozens of city blocks.
Booths backed up against stores, streets, and countless other booths.
Anything that could be had in the world of technology could be had
here. Even a few things that couldn't be had could be had here.
Which is why Jan and I were pushing our way through the crowds at the
Market. The WunderKompf had left to tend to other business. Billy
had gone home to run through his collection of assault weapons and
tactical armor. Wire was no doubt beginning an all time record
programming session. I probably wouldn't see him until the deal was
going down.
Hologram shirts and pirated simstim cartridges were being sold
left and right. Jan and I ducked behind a booth into a narrow alley.
Fifteen feet in we came upon a door, solid steel, no window. A sign
hung next to the door, fastened to twin eye hooks with Master locks.
Master was quite a company. Break proof, shatter proof, laser proof,
blast proof. If cyberspace were that secure, I'd be out of business.
I knocked on the door of Lazy Mao's Chip Emporium. It opened an
inch. A polarized mirror reflected a single eye of one of Mao's
assistants. The eye moved up and down, looking over Jan and I. Then
the eye receded into darkness and was replaced by the sensor node of a
Electromagnetic Emissions scanner. We were clean but that didn't mean
Mao's vintage scanner would check us as such. And I knew the double
barrelled shotgun behind the mirror would provide my internal organs
with more than adequate ventilation should the flunkie who was running
the scanner see fit to use it.
The scanner shut off with a pleasant beep and the door closed.
It opened again, locks removed, admitting Jan and I. Jan led the way.
It is always polite to let the lady enter first, more so than usual
when entering such a high class establishment as Mao's Emporium. The
door shut behind us. We stood there, gazing at the glass racks filled
with various chips, skills from languages to piloting etched in
silicon on a microfine atomic level.
Mao's kid skirted behind the counters, the dim florescent
lighting casting odd shadows across his scarred face. Mao was kind to
these kids, getting them out of violent street gangs and into illegal
fencing. A real samaritan. I peered into the glass, stained with age
old coffee and the occasional dead insect.
"Piloting. Aircar, got it?" I looked the kid straight in the
eye. I may have been twice his age, but this 12 year old could blow a
hole in my chest faster than I could grab the .45 from my belt.
"Yeah. Here." He reached under the counter with one hand and
picked up the chip. His eyes never left mine and his other hand never
left the holster on his hip. "American Credits?"
"Of course. What about Sensory Acceleration?"
His eyebrows lifted with curiousity. He knew to play it cool,
but I could tell he was interested in whatever deal was going to go
down. He walked around to another shelf, peering at Jan across the
room. A convex mirror in the celing corner allowed him to watch me
too. Sometimes old technology was the best.
The kid flipped the chip on the counter, along with a tiny vial.
The vial contained three subdermal implants. Short term
neurosuppressants. Mao did indeed have it all.
"How much?" I asked.
"146. Cash." I always thought Mao was cheap for not taking
Visa. I laid the cash on the counter, 146 exactly, because Mao's
wasn't the place that made change.
"Thanks. Uh, the lady and I need to use the bathroom."
Mao's wasn't the place that you went to take a dump either. Jan
walked over to me from across the room and stood by my side. We were
a cute couple, If I may say so. She was a full inch taller than me,
and I stood at 5' 11". Neither of us was built up, although muscle
grafts were easy to come by, but we still managed to intimidate when
we had to.
The kid understood, and opened a hidden panel behind the counter.
Jan and I ducked inside the tiny corridor. We made our way past some
storage crates and stacked hardcopy files. Mao was checking inventory
in the storeroom.
"Alex-san! It is good to see you." Mao was seated at a desk
jury rigged from old shipping crates. He spoke without even turning
around. "Tell me, have you brought Turing with you this time?" Mao
turned his head. His smile was a curved pit of rotting enamel. For
all the technology Mao dealt, he never saw fit to use any on himself.
Jan chuckled. I kept my composure. Mao was many times wiser
than me, and he had better connections. It was best to respect his
poor sense of humor. "No, Mao, next time."
"Ah, very well. Sammi treated you well, no?"
"Of course, Mao. Sammi seems fine." I looked around. Closed
crates, piled on top of each other and arranged in a manner that only
Mao could comprehend. Even if a thief made it through Mao's security,
they would never find what they wanted before Mao's friends arrived
and dealt with the situation.
Jan perused the contents of an open crate. Brushing away straw,
she lifted a small cyberdeck cartridge. A puzzled wrinkle appeared
upon her brow.
Mao obviously took notice. "Matrix Grenade. Creates cyberspace
shrapnel. Useless against ice but great for defense. Only works once
though. But I'm trying to fix that." Mao smiled. He took pride in
the band of hackers he had at his disposal.
"Mao," I began. "I'm looking for a new deck. It doesn't need a
good offense, but I have to have the fastest data transfer you can
get."
"Inside Job, eh?" Mao knew all. I put an innocent grin on my
face. "We have none." The grin disappeared. "But, Alex-san, we will
be getting them tomorrow."
I was amazed. It was true that Mao had never let me down, but
this was unbelievable.
"Here. Take this." Mao grabbed a plastic punch card from a
large pile on his desk. "Tomorrow at 9:00 AM. I will deliver to your
lovely apartment." The card contained what seemed like a random array
of holes and was unlabeled. I wondered how Mao matched the card to
the package.
"Thank you Mao. Uh, while I'm here, what do you know about the
brain?"
Mao looked amused. "I'm no psychologist if thats what you want
to know." He chuckled, exposing the cavern of decay once more.
"I need to know about storage. Can you store stuff there? Stuff
from the matrix?"
Mao sobered up. "It depends on what you want to put there.
Schrodinger Industries Labs is developing a deck that stores programs
in your head. From what I hear, you can put a lot of stuff up here."
One of Mao's stubby fingers tapped against his temple.
"Programs huh? ICE, too do you think?"
Jan whipped around to face me. I hadn't told her about Goust's
message. Mao shared her worried look.
"Yeah, I don't see why not. A program is a program. What are
you getting into, Alex-san?"
"Nothing to worry about Mao, nothing at all." I smiled. Another
lie. If I kept this up I wouldn't be able to trust even myself.
"Well, all right. Here, take a Grenade. Take two. You may need
them."
A buzzer sounded from among the lattice of beams overhead.
"Ah, more customers. You must go now, Alex-san. You can pay me
next time."
"I will be more than happy to, Mao, you know that."
Mao shuffled over to a dark corner. Hitting a switch, a doorway
opened into another alley. Mao's security. It protected whoever was
being followed as well as giving Mao an exit in case of an emergency.
Mao was a real boy scout, prepared for every situation.
Jan and I departed stepping out into the bleak alley. A light
drizzle had begun. Jan turned to me.
"What was that all about?"
"I hope I never have to find out, Jan."
Copyright 1990 Paul J. Furio
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You know what to do.
Paul J. Furio - Knowledge is Power!
Shadowmar@cup.portal.com
Digital Storm
by Paul J. Furio
Chapter 6 - Behold, Here Cometh the Dreamer
Wakeman stood, observing. "Who watches the watchers?" he mused
to himself.
The lab was filled with a dozen researchers, wearing the white
lab coats that had been traditional apparel for over two centuries.
Matrix Reality, Inc. produced some of the finest cyberspace decks ever
to hit the market and this was why. The best and brightest
programmers in the world were assembled in the lab below, running test
routines and writing new code for the newest deck model.
On a central holographic display, the simulated matrix testground
was being configured. A grid of blue neon materialized as pyramids
and geometric forms assembled themselves into approximates of the
EuroNet matrix subsection. Cromby, head of the R&D team donned an
ancient pair of VR goggles, testing visual output. He smiled after
taking off the headset and looked up at Wakeman in the observation
booth. Cromby nodded.
The door behind Wakeman opened, a gaunt shaven head poking out
from behind it. Wakeman refocused on the secretary's pale reflection
in the plexiglass of the tiny booth.
"Vision has reported a three percent increase in capable
resolution with minor hardware modification and biochip DNA
recombination. It began the development and the new cells are already
being prepared."
"Excellent," commented Wakeman. "Vision is a capable worker.
What are the projections for project completion?"
"Vision predicts a total of thirty-five percent increase in
resolution and a limit of twenty-two percent increase in data
transfer. This should be finished within two weeks." Wakeman's
secretary shuffled some papers in his hands. "There is a Board
meeting in Atlanta in three hours, and Bell Europa agreed to upgrade
their South Pacific satellite to comply with our project in New
Zealand."
"How polite of them. I suppose we won't have to pay their board
members any unexpected visits." Wakeman grinned. " Have my jet
ready, all meeting briefings on board. Tell Vision I'll contact him
at the conclusion of the meeting."
"Yes sir." The secretary disappeared, closing the door behind
him. Wakeman's gaze returned to the lab floor below. His hand
depressed a small button below a wall speaker.
"Cromby, pick up."
Cromby, looked back up at the booth, nodded, and turned back to
the panel before him. He picked up a headset and held it to his ear.
"Cromby, Vision has the final stats. Project completion is two
weeks. Bell is okay in Zealand. I'll need to suggest someone for
Sydney. Any ideas, old man?"
Cromby sat still for a moment. "I'd have you send Ivanski, but
I'll need him here while I'm in New York. Tell them to send
Berkshire. He hasn't ruined anything yet."
"Fine. Thank you, Crom. Keep it up." Wakeman's hand left the
button. He stood there for one last minute, admiring the fine ballet
of workers and science. Then he turned, opened the door to the
hallway, and left for the jet that was waiting for him on the roof.
Copyright 1992 Paul J. Furio
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Send comments, questions, or personal checks if you deem it necessary.
And thank you to those of you who already have.
Paul J. Furio
Shadowmar@cup.portal.com
Digital Storm
by Paul J. Furio
Chapter 7 - Next, Fill Out These Forms In Triplicate...
Stipe had seen enough. She was a flatline alright. Just as dead
as anyone in Nuke Sector after the Bombing of '04. The only
difference between those poor souls and this flatline was that here
there was a body to examine. A Medtech kneeled over her, removing the
array plate of a portable SQUID unit from her forehead.
"Did we get anything?" Stipe interrogated the Medtech.
"Not right away. There's been a bit of decay. I got an entire
quantum level scan of her Cerebrum but I'll have to run it through a
reverse deterioration algorithm back at the lab. Should only take a
half hour or so, only a few million cells underwent substantial
decay."
"Okay. I'll expect the file on my desk." Stipe turned around,
scanning the room. Turing Security officers were everywhere. Some
were still checking her belongings while others were pulling Turing
Warrants out of a TB-5 CyberJudge "justice device" and searching the
neighboring apartments. Blake turned his head to see a Matrix Officer
examining the local sectors from the victims terminal input. Stipe
walked closer to watch the Officer in cyberspace.
"What do you see?"
The Officer, Lieutenant Stockman according to the coded Turing
Security badge on his chest, tapped a key on the ACT deck before him.
Turing used only American Cyberspace Technology decks. They were
slower than the ones put out by the Japanese and Euro megacorps, but
back when the matrix was young and America still a nation, ACT was the
top of the heap. They're outdatedness was what kept Turing always one
step behind the best cowboys, at least according to Stipe.
The monitor on the net terminal blinked to life. A two
dimensional panorama of cyberspace faded in, from the viewpoint of the
Lieutenant. The blue grid of the matrix hung below, points of light
speeding along their way, massive amounts of data being transferred to
the monolithic corporate base constructs floating in the distance.
"Well for starters," began Lieutenant Stockman, "there doesn't
seem to be anything around. No residuals, no local constructs,
nothing here. But even if there were, she didn't get killed at this
jack."
"Right, no cyberspace deck." Stipe leaned back, refocusing his
tired eyes on the monitor set into the wall, a retractable keyboard
below it.
"Yeah, and no cyberspace neither."
"What?"
"Well, this jack isn't made for Matrix access. I had to jury rig
this setup to get the ACT deck to run from this input." Stipe looked
closely at the outlet behind the terminal. Hidden in the shadows,
blobs of solder and a nest of fiber optic and copper cabling hung from
a newly punched hole in the wall.
Stockman continued. "All Datanet jacks are capable of Matrix
hookup, but she never had it installed here. Now we know she's been
in the Grid, 'cause she has the jacks implanted. But she never coulda
jacked in here, even if she borrowed the deck from a friend. The
input just wasn't compatible."
"And we're sure she died here?" Stipe was visibly concerned now.
"Yup. According to the Med, she wasn't moved, and according to
the Techs than ran the RCR here earlier, no one else was here."
Stockman shut down the deck and pulled the cable from behind his ear.
"The only way I see it is she was sitting here typing away when one
hell of a huge spark leaps from the deck and into her jacks,
flatlining her like that." He snapped his fingers for effect.
"Ah ha. I suppose there was a massive electrical storm in the
area too, right?" Stipe laughed, a small laugh despite his physical
dimensions.
"Nope. Even if there were, the entire net is insulated. You
know that."
"Yup."
"So I'm stuck like a hover in shit. Beats the hell outta me.
And we still don't know why she was sending mail to a feeder base. It
sounds like your classic locked door mystery to me."
"Yup." Blake turned around, taking in a deep breath.
"I'll post a report on your desk. By tomorrow at the latest."
"Yup." Stipe exhaled. He was liking this case less and less
every minute.
Copyright 1992 Paul J. Furio
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Well, mail is welcome... etc... etc...
Paul J. Furio
Shadowmar@cup.portal.com
Digital Storm
by Paul J. Furio
Chapter 8 - Spring Break in Cyberspace
Tall green pillars of forest stood around him, where building had
been only moments before. It was late spring, and the flowers were in
full bloom. The rustle of a leaf, a squirrel running for cover
beneath a bush. Ahead, the forest broke, revealing a crisp blue sky,
dotted with thin, wispy clouds. A pond sat beneath the sky, silently,
and a figure knelt beside it, in equal silence.
The kneeler stands, a mere silhouette against the reflected
sunlight in the pond. He turns and walks into the forest, toward the
visitor in this serene domain. The visitor tries to step forward, but
his legs are solid, rigid.
The man draws closer, gaining definition. A pink sleeveless
shirt reveals strong, defined arms. Khaki bermuda shorts hang
comfortable from his waist. He is tall, well built, handsome. A
breath of wind moves the straw-like strands of hair drooping over his
forehead. He stops, a few feet from the visitor.
"Greetings. A nice day, don't you think?" Immediately, the blue
eyes of this man are apparent, a dead blue, a distraction among such
beauty.
Yes. Thought. The visitor's mouth too is paralyzed.
"Would you say it is a beautiful day?"
Of course. Anything this far from the Sprawl is beautiful.
"And what is beauty? What do you think makes something
beautiful?" The blue eyes wander over the visitor, scanning up and
down.
Well, something that is vibrant, different. Beauty is more of an
emotion really, a sense of awe at a sight or sound or...
There, at the corner of his eye. Though he cannot move he
realizes what is happening. At the edge of his vision, a tree is
sliced evenly in half. Beyond it lies blackness, nothing, nonspace.
A limited view construct.
The blue eyes sense his fear. The face attached turns angry and
fills with shadows. The sky darkens, strong winds shake the trees
whose leaves have darkened to black. Midnight black. Like the eyes
before him. A massive numbness fills the visitor. As well as
urgency. Move, Run, Anything!
But the trees are normal now. The leaves are green, the trees
still, the eyes cold, lifeless blue.
"Thank you for your time. It has been a pleasure having you
here." A smile, wide and sincere.
And the street responds. The crowd backs away from the man who
has collapsed at the Telecom Terminal. A lone woman runs over to him,
turning his head from side to side, noticing the line of blood
emerging from his nostril. Others draw near, some to help, others to
pick the pockets of the onlookers. And upon the screen above this
corpse blinks a simple message of confirmation that the mail was
received into the net.
Copyright 1992 Paul J. Furio
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Yet another chapter. Thank you for your kind letters. I'll try to
respond to many of them. I apologize for the lateness of this
chapter. I've been recovering from the flu over the past few days.
Paul J. Furio - Knowledge is Power!
Shadowmar@cup.portal.com
Digital Storm
by Paul J. Furio
Chapter 9 - Neither Rain, Nor Wind, Nor Dead or Night...
Jan and I sat in my apartment. She was cross-legged, on the
throw rug. I was at the console, checking software. I never got
nerves when a deal was about to go down. This run seemed different
though. Sure, I had been in the matrix since I was old enough to
receive my implant, and I had done a few internal entries in my time,
but for the first time in my life, I felt something was wrong about
this run.
"Calm down," Jan told me. Her eyes were shut, and her hands
rested on her knees, palms up, meditating. If there was a chip for
ESP, I swear she had it. "It's just another run. You know the
WunderKompf have never fucked up. Everything will be under control.
I just wish I knew who we were up against."
I was glad we didn't know. There was always the possibility of
information leakage if you knew too much. Other cowboy's stories
could also disturb your concentration. It was better not to know.
Then, when you were there, you went in and did your job and it didn't
matter who it was. Besides, one company was the same as any other,
and it made everything so much simpler.
There was a knock at the door. Jan's eyes opened. I stood from
the console, checking the time on the monitor. 9:00 AM. Sharp. Mao
never let me down. He was one competent bastard.
I approached the door and released the locks. The door slid open
to reveal a lone box, dull dark grey, sitting in the middle of the
hallway. Mao and Mao's security. I had to love it.
Jan stood and came to the door. "Do you need a hand?"
"Yeah. Sure, whatever." We lifted the box, carefully, and
carried it into the room. The door silently slid shut behind us. THe
box was lowered to the floor, again, carefully. Jan and I stood up,
staring first at the box, then at each other. The corner of my mouth
curled into a smile.
I had been through a lot, and seen a lot of things. But until I
met Mao, I never saw anything like what sat before me now. It was
Mao's delivery system, but whether he invented it, or had it shipped
in from somewhere, I didn't know. The box was square, a foot and a
half on a side. It was perfectly seamless, except for a tiny slot on
the top. Every surface was smooth and unreflective, every edge was
sharp and defined. The box was a work of art unto itself. A deadly
work of art, but art nonetheless.
Mao explained it to me the first time I bought through him. The
box was constructed of a wonderful metallic compound whose chemical
properties allowed it to perform a variety of functions. With a small
charge and microprocessor controlled instructions, the box could alter
it's shape and function almost instantaneously.
I walked to my terminal and slid open a wall panel. The card
that Mao had given me the day before sat politely upon the hidden
shelf. I picked it up, closed the panel, and returned to the box.
The card was to be inserted into the slot on the top. If it was the
right card, the box would neatly open to reveal it's contents. If the
wrong card were used, or it the box were dropped, damaged or dented in
some way, the outer surface of the box would instantly turn into a
bumpy fragment grenade while the inner compound would become a high
explosive. The resulting blast could kill over an incredible radius.
It also had the added benefit of destroying the contents of the box, a
nice safety feature for Mao.
I always feared this moment. If ,despite his incredible
organizational skills, Mao had given me the wrong card, I would wind
up on the ceiling to be scraped off by a squad of local Vice boys.
Jan was new to all this, and I didn't want to alarm her. I put on my
biggest smile. "Okay, here we go."
Jan stood up and I stopped. "I'll go inside. Call me if you
don't blow up." She walked into the bathroom and closed the door.
ESP chips were real, I swear it.
I lowered the card into the slot, holding my breath. A faint
whirring emerged from within. The box shivered for a second, and then
the card was pulled entirely within. After a second, the box began to
peel back, opening like a cybernetic flower, it's petals spreading for
the morning sun. The metal wrinkled open, a lizard of the new age
shedding it's skin.
Upon the curling mass of composite biometal lay a sleek black
cyberspace deck, black curves that would make any eurojet manufacturer
jealous. It was adorned by two concave grey fingertip buttons, and a
series of cyberspace cabling jacks. Wrapped around the deck were a
set of optical fibers, matched to the deck in color and quality. A
sigh of relief escaped my lips.
As I picked up the wire wrapped present, the metal began to fold
again. Now it's edges began to bend inward, rounding themselves. The
inner surfaces melted together and the outer edges became ridged. The
card must have been made of the same material as the box, as there was
no evidence of it in the mass that was undergoing metamorphosis in my
living room. It finally solidified in a final shape and rolled over
to my feet. A hand grenade. How cute. Mao really wasn't one to
waste a good thing, I suppose.
The grenade was placed on a shelf by the terminal. I liked to
keep security within arms reach. Jan returned after I informed her of
my continued existence in this world.
"That's too bad," she teased. I smiled at her and returned to my
seat at the terminal. Instead of sitting on the floor, though, she
gracefully seated herself on my lap. "What did Santa give you?" she
asked.
I unwrapped the cords from the deck, revealing the manufacturer's
nameplate. The serial number had been burned away of course, but the
Sony logo was clear and unmarked. Whatever model this was, I had
never seen it before. If Mao thought it was the right thing for the
job, though, I trusted him.
"Looks nice. Plug it in." She lifted one wire to the wall power
outlet while I inserted the other end into the deck. Her fingers
glanced back to brush the two buttons on the decks surface. Neither
of us was jacked in. We wanted to check out the external functions
first.
The first button lit up with a soft red glow. The button was
translucent, and a LED beneath indicated that the juice was flowing.
The second button revealed the keyboard. Six tiny cylinders rose from
the surface of the deck, their curves formerly flush with the
streamlined Sony. No bigger than pushpins, they too began to glow.
Holographic projectors. The keyboard was projected a millimeter above
the surface of the deck. A simulated screen appeared just behind the
keyboard, extending up into the third dimension. Even though the
light in the room was bright, the deck compensated, making the
construct sharp and defined.
Holographic projectors of this quality were expensive and hard to
come by. A cyberspace deck with one built in must have cost a
fortune. I had a feeling that I would have a hard time paying back
this favor.
"It seems Santa got you quite a gift. You must be a good boy."
"Yeah," I answered. "I guess so."
"Are you a good boy, Nightmare?" Jan stood, turning off the deck
as she did so. The keyboard and screen flickered out, and the
holo-nodes receded back into the device.
She grabbed my hands and pulled me to my feet. I looked her
straight in her eyes, sweet eyes filled with warmth. "How good are
you?"
She led me into the bedroom to find out.
Copyright 1992 Paul J. Furio
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More to come, at regular intervals, I should hope...
Shadowmar@cup.portal.com
Digital Storm
Chapter 10 - Current Events
Wire was tripping, and he was at his best. The thoughts were so
clear, the music of the programming construct so very eerie and
driving, he could not help but create at an ingenious level. A silver
pyramid swirled around from behind his right ear, reflecting Wire's
persona. His hands moved in fluid motion, drifting to different
sections of the icebreaker. Shifting, reorganizing. The program
became a work of art.
Wire jacked out. He was not finished yet, but he needed a break.
Real World was so dull, so devoid of energy. But the Cheetah he had
taken was enhancing every sensation. The vidphone console rushed up
to meet him. He dropped to his knees before it, praying to an
electronic altar.
"Call the WunderKompf," he blurted. A grin cracked onto his
face. "Ring 'em up." He fell backwards, sprawled out upon the floor,
the room shrinking and spinning around him.
The vidphone console exploded into life, casting brilliant colors
across the darkened room. It auto-dialed. A voice filled the room.
"You have reached a private vidphone line. Enter the security
access code or face deterrence measures. You have fifteen seconds."
A pause. Wire jumped to his feet, suddenly aware of the urgency.
The voice continued. "This line has level 7 security measures.
Fifteen.... Fourteen..."
Wire leapt for the console. Constructs were great on Cheetah but
Real World was awkward. The natural disorganization of a programming
construct lent itself to hallucination and experimentation. Real
World was too absolute for the sensory enhancing drug. Wire collapsed
again, a foot before the console.
"Twelve... Eleven..."
His hand groped around his neck, crawling upward towards the
Cheetah derm stuck in front of his ear. He had to get to the console.
"Ten... Nine..."
Level 1 security sent a notice to the Telecom Security. Level 2
filed charges with the local Law Enforcement Agency. Level 3 alerted
the Telecom Security and the LEA, both of who usually appeared within
the hour. Level 4 shut down your telecom account for a week. There
was nothing above level 4 that was programmed by Northern Telenet
Systems.
"Eight... Seven..."
The WunderKompf had programmed their own hack to the Telecom
security system. Usable only by them. Level 7 security. A massive
construct file was burst loaded and burned into every ROM chip of any
decks connected to the telenet console. It would be automatically
entered upon jacking in to an affected deck. The construct was
designed to cause slow degenerative chaos in the nervous systems of
anyone unlucky enough to enter it. Victims were expected to die
within two days with full knowledge of both their condition and their
inability to cure it.
The WunderKompf were quite adapt at stealing files from the Neo-
American Defense Advanced Research Projects Agency.
"Six... Five..."
Wire's hand found the derm and ripped it off his skin. He clawed his
way to the console, dropping the derm on the floor beside him.
"Four... Three..."
Wire's fingers made contact with the keyboard, it's surface
rippling beneath his touch. "W" he managed to type. Then "I" and
"L".
"Two..."
"S" and "O". One letter left. Wire searched for it, eyes
darting back and forth.
"One..."
There. "N" His finger lifted off the depressed key and his body
slumped to the ground.
"Security code entered," the voice chimed. "Access permitted"
The screen blanked. Even with the security, the Wunderkompf
didn't want to be seen unless they knew the caller.
"Yeah." Deiter's voice.
"Hey Deit. It's Wire."
"You're on it, aren't you?"
"Yeah, but that's how I work best." A laugh, strained. Deiter
remained silent. "Uh, I need some info."
"You know I don't give out information about deals before they go
down."
"Yeah, but I was kinda hoping I could customize this breaker..."
"Hmmm..." silence. Wire crawled to his knees. The effects of
the Cheetah were beginning to wear off. "Okay. Okay Wire. I can do
that. I know a, uh, source that can get you info you need. I'll have
it send you the parameters on the ICE. How's that?"
"Fine. Great." Wire was standing, but shakily. "Thanks Deit."
"No problem. Now get back to work. We do this tomorrow."
The connection was broken and the screen came back to life. Wire
fell to the floor again, feeling around for the derm. His fingers
brushing it, he picked it up and pressed it back into place upon his
temple. He had just enough time to get back to the construct before
the Cheetah hit again full blast. He stumbled to the workstation.
Copyright 1992 Paul J. Furio
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10 down, 40 or so to go...
Shadowmar@cup.portal.com
From organpipe.uug.arizona.edu!amethyst!noao!asuvax!cs.utexas.edu!uunet!portal!cup.portal.com!Shadowmar Mon Apr 27 08:47:36 MST 1992
Article: 582 of alt.cyberpunk.chatsubo
Path: organpipe.uug.arizona.edu!amethyst!noao!asuvax!cs.utexas.edu!uunet!portal!cup.portal.com!Shadowmar
From: Shadowmar@cup.portal.com (Paul Joseph Furio)
Newsgroups: alt.cyberpunk.chatsubo
Subject: Digital Storm, Chapter 11
Message-ID: <57996@cup.portal.com>
Date: 26 Apr 92 02:44:09 GMT
Organization: The Portal System (TM)
Lines: 88
Digital Storm
by Paul J. Furio
Chapter 11 - Please Keep Your Seatbelt Fastened At All Times
Hours after Wakeman left for Atlanta, Cromby boarded his own
company jet for New York. Encased in a curved shell of graphite and
composite metals, he relaxed in a padded seat, reviewing project data.
It's curved wings allowed the plane to cruise a mere dozen feet above
the calm surface of the Atlantic, taking advantage of the ground
effect and using a minuscule amount of fuel to propel the jet just
below the speed of sound. Mozart drifted over the cabin speakers of
the single person craft, drowning out the barely perceptible rush of
air over the fuselage.
"Incoming message, satellite transmission, two way, voice only."
The onboard computer was as equally adept at providing passenger
comforts as it was at piloting the plane.
Cromby looked up from his notebook. The reflective ocean surface
glistened in the sunlight. A monitor displayed a satellite map of his
current position, accurate to within a millimeter, along with his ETA,
two hours and thirteen minutes, exactly. "Who is originating the
transmission?"
"Vision."
Cromby sat up, closing his notebook and laying it on his lap.
"Very well. Accept transmission."
The monitor opened a new window. "Enter security descrambling
code."
Cromby spoke the code and the window vanished. The Mozart was
replaced by the voice of Vision.
"Good afternoon, doctor Cromby. How is your journey?"
"Fine, thank you Vision. How are you?"
No pause. Despite the minute delay caused by satellite
transmission, Vision compensated by extrapolating the end of the
question as it was being asked. Cromby found it eerily astounding.
"I am doing well. I have some information that I felt may be rather
important to you, and to our agreement."
Cromby was thankful the line was scrambled, and by his own
proprietary code, nonetheless. "Yes? What is it?" He remained calm
despite his inner worry.
"I have been tracking the movement of an independent file that
has been siphoning information out of our system for quite a while
now. Most of what it has stolen is inconsequential and would have
been lost to other forms of espionage sooner or later. I therefore
considered it harmless."
Cromby nodded. This kind of thing was going on all the time. It
was certainly no cause for alarm.
"However, earlier this morning, the file managed to appropriate
some data on our Ice and security systems. I would not have been
alarmed except for the fact that the data it stole was extremely
specific to one sector of Ice, and the data was routed to one
individual in Lower Chip City, in an edited form."
The first issue troubled Cromby more than the last. "What sector
was infiltrated?"
"The area involving Project Nirvana."
Cromby sat silently, still, unbreathing.
"I tracked the spy file and got a background on it, of course.
It would seem that it is actually an uploaded ROM scan that is free in
the matrix. It is only semi-independent, and thus has escaped the
wrath of Turing. The scan is of a McCartney F. Goust, killed in 2034
by American Steel after attempting..."
"Fine. Great. Enough." Cromby's voice was filled with tension.
"It doesn't matter who it was, it matters what it did." Beads of
sweat began to form on Cromby's forehead, despite the climate
controlled cabin. "Has this individual transferred the information to
any other parties?"
"No. Upon locating the destination of the data, I maintained a
full survey of the file and the individual, a Peter Copp Wirowski.
The file has not left his premises by any means, electronic or
physical. A MRI security squad is waiting outside the building to
deal with the problem, if necessary."
Cromby thought for a second. "No, he already has the file. If
he was going to give it to someone, he would have already done it.
Keep tabs on him but don't move. How is Nirvana coming?"
"The project is running according to schedule. We should have
everything operational for your transfer within ten days."
"Very well. Notify me if the situation changes. I don't want to
lose this because of a stupid AI running amok."
"Indeed." The transmission was ended and the jet resumed it's
normal tracking and monitoring procedures. Cromby relaxed, and sat
back in the chair, flipping through the files on his lap.
Somewhere in the infinite expanse of the Matrix, Vision's
laughter echoed through the nonspace.
Copyright 1992 Paul J. Furio
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Shadowmar@cup.portal.com
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