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15
In the morning, as David picked up his mail in the foyer—a letter from his sister Dora, which he sliced open with his finger—Colonel Jankowsky signaled for him to step in and close the door. “Find anything last night?”
Love, David thought, maybe. “No sign of Shoob, Sir.” Love, if that’s it again, that crazy, mysterious, upsetting, dark force...
“Stick with this lieutenant and help her try to find Shoob. Keep a tight lip about this place, and watch your back. I’ll fill you in a little more as warranted.”
“Yessir.” He felt a little prickle of sweat under his collar—did sticking around include lying on the rug with her? Would Jankowsky nail him if he found out...? Something was going on here, maybe lots of somethings.
David met Tory for lunch, and afterwards, she drove them to her office at Observatory Circle. “There is someone I want you to meet,” she said, “a young Marine Corps staff sergeant, Jet Steffey. She’s a head walker, like Ib. I’ll let her give you a tour of Ib’s world so you have a better idea what we’re up against trying to locate his files.”
As they approached the Naval Observatory along the tree lined street, David said: “Looks different in the daytime.” On their left was the Vice Presidential mansion, still shuttered but not ominous. All around were buildings of the Naval Observatory complex, many with small observatory domes on their roofs, others with antennas and microwave dishes. Tory pulled into a parking spot marked XO. Tory shook her head: “I always think about you getting shot, and Ib getting abducted. Night or day, this place is starting to give me the creeps.”
She gave him a brief tour inside the National Systems Security Office (NSSO) building. He had an impression of windowless offices, of short corridors angling into other short corridors; and of military personnel with close mouths, guarded looks, and multiple security badges. She showed him her office. Unlike the others, it had a nice big view window overlooking green lawns, big old trees,and the red brick walls of 1890’s naval architecture.
Her office gave an impression of neatness, yet warmth and personableness. On her desk sat a photo cube showing off family. In one corner was a bag overflowing with exercise clothing. He nudged her. “You jog wearing pink socks?”
They both stared at the wool crew socks peeking from the unzipped bag. She nudged back. “That was a laundry accident. I was going to ask if you’d like to go jogging with me, but if you feel that way about my socks, imagine how you feel about me.”
He whispered “I will wear baby blue socks, okay?”
“I might give you another chance,” she said rolling her eyes in mock sternness as she turned to leave the room. He followed her past a row of small offices, each occupied by a warm body and crammed with equipment. A door with a sign M/CPO Shoob remained conspicuously shut. Tory introduced David to a pert young Marine Corps staff sergeant named Marguerite “Jet” Steffey. Steffey had a dimpled chin, mischievous eyes, and a pixie face. She seemed of exotic extraction, with cafe-au-lait skin and a Hispanic accent. “Nice to meet you, Sir,” Jet said.
“Captain Gordon was one of the last people to see Ib,” Tory said.
Jet said: “We’re all so worried about him.”
David felt awkward at her hopefulness. “Let’s hope for the best.” If only I’d believed him—or gotten to Observatory Circle sooner!
“Captain Gordon’s with the I.G.,” Tory reminded Jet.
“Chief Shoob is my client. I’d like to learn more about his work,” David said as he sat down in a special chair, like a cockpit seat.
Jet started to put a headset on it, then wrinkled her nose. “Ib’s old head set smells of sweat and tobacco.”
“I’ll let you borrow my goggles,” Tory said. She left the room and came back in a moment. Instead of a clumsy head set, these were more like eyeglasses.
With delicate fingers, she put them on David. “That feel okay?”
He swallowed the temptation to tell her how wonderful her fingertips felt. Instead of a lens, each eye was covered by a black hemisphere, a 180 x 180 degree theater. Things wanted to look three-dimensional inside them. The goggles were very light, with peripheral vision.
“Tell me if you get any VR effects,” Jet said.
“I’m already a little leery,” David said. “Seriously, I’m okay.”
“It is a little strange at first,” Jet said.
Virtual Reality made some people feel ill, or panicky. It was a radical transition, an immersion, like the dive of a submarine. David’s V.R. persona stood looking along the sidewalk on an avenue in a big city. The whole scene was an ink sketch as if from a fashion artist. The picture was frozen, without motion, but with depth all around. The figures were lean and had poise. He had a feeling of vertigo, as if in a rocking boat. Jet’s hand guided his grip to a metal hand rail in the real world.
He heard Tory: “I’ve tried it. You almost have to learn to walk again.”
Jet made some adjustments and talked: “Some people have to bail out right away. How are you feeling?”
“A little funny,” David said carefully. “But I think I’ll manage.”
“You can bail anytime,” Jet said.
“We won’t tell anyone,” Tory jibed, poking his ribs.
“Ouch.” He reached out blindly to his left and poked something soft that retreated; Tory.
“Here we go, Sir,” Jet said.
He felt Tory behind him. She had her hands on his shoulders, rubbing his muscles, fingering his neck, and he felt a delicious thrill at her touch. He patted her hand, and she secretly squeezed his hand with hers.
“Are you ready, Sir?” Jet asked.
David stared at the frozen tableau of sketch figures. “Yes.”
“I’m taking us in.” Suddenly, there was movement. A blur of it. David sat back involuntarily. All around him, the pencil sketches were moving. Clouds raced across the sky. Cars roared past.
“Remember, Sir, it’s all a metaphor.”
“Can I see you?”
“Negative. Ib and I don’t use icons of ourselves. Especially when we chase a hacker, it’s stealth all the way.”
The sketch people were becoming clearer. Shaded cheeks became flesh and on occasion blushed. Eyes glanced through him with airbrushed insouciance. Couples rushed by in the growing dusk, dressed for the opera or the theater, maybe late from dinner and searching for tickets in a wallet or purse. The metaphor was filled with charming detail like that. But David knew it was all wallpaper, as the trade called it. The real meat of the matter was the niagara of information flowing in a powerful data stream behind the scenes. Picture a vast water pipe. An underground river. Nothing looked quite real. You always knew it was a picture or a painting or a video clip. “We’re in the Washington Muni stream,” Jet explained. “The city did a nice job, don’t you think?”
“It’s overwhelming,” David said sincerely, holding the metal bar with both hands as they flew along the sidewalk at a dizzying pace as though jogging, but without the bouncing. Sometimes they went around people, other times through them.
“This is mainly transit,” Jet said. “Public domain. We’re in the system and we can go look at available files. Want to go to the bank? Look up the current interest rates?” David found himself -turning tight and entering a heavy door among Grecian pillars. They entered a lobby, and the whole tone changed. The sketch people were gone, replaced by wholesome cartoon people in solid colors. The entire bank was a realistic cartoon in cheerful, toned-down hues. “World InterBank does it their own way,” Jet said. “Everyone does. Some places are like being inside a DaVinci or a VanGogh or a Rembrandt painting. Other places are wild like Zap Comics.” They stood before a huge book of sorts, with marbled covers, gilded edges, and a fancy satin bookmark. The ledger pages turned slowly, revealing banking information. Real estate loans were at a 26% nominal rate for A minus paper, reflecting the times that had brought about CON2.
“I believe you,” David said, trying to decide if a brief queasy feeling was lunch trying to come up his gullet like a message up a pneumatic tube. The VR Effect had been documented over twenty years now. Many people had violent reactions of vertigo and nausea; the younger, the worse the effects. The longer they stayed in virtual reality, the longer it took to recover. In an early documented episode, a worker who had been in VR for several hours went to get a cola—and when she tried to drink it, poured it in her eyes.
“I’m sorry, Sir,” Jet said, “I’ll try to slow down. I’m so used to zipping around here. Sometimes I feel like a jet pilot,” Jet said. “That’s not how I got the nickname—”
“—But it fits,” Tory said somewhere and they all laughed.
“We are riding the most powerful computer in the world, “ Jet said.
David snapped his fingers. “Oh yes, yes, what is it—CloudMaster. Wow.” There were only a few of these machines in the world, he remembered reading.
“We have one here in the building,” Tory said. “I’ll show you afterward.”
“Somewhere in here,” Jet said, “lb said he discovered something so important he couldn’t sleep nights.”
“How much did he tell you?” David asked.
Jet seemed to hesitate, driving along a virtual boulevard in a cartoon land created by the metropolitan water department. They were cut off by a Ford Model T full of dogs in suits with violin cases. The Ford was being chased by a similar car full of dogs in police uniforms who waved tommy guns. Pretty soon there was a racket as cops and gangsters fired machine guns at each other. Then Jet cruised into a Pentagon data suburb, and it was no-nonsense straight lines and pencil people again; no sound of any kind. David felt as though he were floating rather than being driven.
“Go ahead,” Tory urged Jet.
Jet said: “He found a message from Vice President Cardoza just before he was killed. Ib never told me what was in the note, but it must have been important stuff. Now you’re here and he’s missing. That’s all I know. Oh and one other thing.”
“What’s that?” David coaxed.
“He told me he was thinking of asking for a transfer. He said sometimes he envied the civilians, like Tabitha. She resigned and I think it had something to do with—”
“Who’s Tabitha again?”
Tory cut in: “Tabitha Summers, the woman I mentioned the other day. She was a systems security analyst, GS-18. Twenty six years’ service last January, planned to go for thirty. Suddenly changed her mind and retired.”
“She and lb were pretty good friends,” Jet said. “All three of us were. They were a lot older, and I got the feeling they were trying to shield me from whatever they thought was going on. They seemed paranoid. Until—”
“Until lb disappeared,” Tory said.
“That’s right,” Jet said.
“If you find out anything more, please tell Lieutenant Breen right away.”
“Sure,” Jet said. “That’s the tour. Unless you want to visit anywhere else.”
The scene shifted high up over the virtual city, toward a sun logo containing the words SPUS EXIT and circumscribed with the words Shanghai Portland Utility Software in English on top and Chinese characters on the bottom. As pixel sunlight rastered the rooftops, they rose up into the sun, which flared briefly, then closed like a camera shutter, leaving blank screens. David took the glasses off. He rubbed his eyes, shaking his head. For a moment the regular daylight hurt his eyes. Then they readjusted. His stomach still felt a bit queasy. “I wouldn’t want to do that for a living.”
“Thanks, Jet. That was really impressive.”
“Any time, Sir.” She shook his hand and beamed rather proudly.
As David and Tory headed for Tory’s office, he glimpsed CloudMaster through a slightly ajar door in a plain room with painted-over windows: a huge egg shape that glistened ominously amid grappling shadows. Tungsten steel bolts big as fists anchored it to the yard-deep concrete floor.
Tory stopped David from peering within in fascination. “No time to sight-see. I’ll give you a tour when we have time.”
In Tory’s office, David pushed the door shut and sat on the windowsill. She plopped in her chair by the window. “I have an idea.” She spoke to her com button: “Call Tabitha Summers in Falls Church.” Routing the call took seconds. Tory plugged her com into the desk phone in Conference mode.
“Yes,” said a middle-aged woman flatly.
“Tabitha, it’s Tory Breen.”
“Lieutenant Breen. How are you?”
“I’m fine. We still don’t have any sign of Ib. I was wondering if I could bring Captain Gordon from I.G. out there and if we could talk with you.”
“I’m out of the business.”
“I know you are. I was hoping—”
Tabitha Summers said something curt and indistinct and rang off. As the line went dead, David looked at Tory. “What was that last thing she said?” They listened to the recording again. Tory guessed: “‘lb should have kept his nose out of it.’”
“That’s great,” David said. “Will you try to call her again?”
Tory frowned. “Maybe Jet can talk with her. That’s it! They were friends.” She pressed the intercom. “Jet, would you come in here a moment?”
A little while later, David, Tory, and Jet rode toward Falls Church, Virginia. David drove, threading his way through the first hints of rush hour traffic leaving the nation’s capital. It was windy and clear. Flags snapped on their poles. Tory and Jet spoke a mix of shop talk and concern over Shoob. At the last moment, Tabitha Summers had agreed to see them—only because of Jet’s pleading. Tabitha lived in a farmhouse outside of Falls Church, inside the Beltway. The leaves were just beginning to turn, and already a magnificent Fall was in the air, like a joyous hymn in a cathedral. Trees surrounded Tabitha’s ranch style home on all sides. Tabitha met them on the front porch as they trod crunching on gravel across her driveway. She was a tallish, trim blonde in her late 40’s, wrapped in a purple woolen shawl as if freezing. There was fear or anger or both in her blue eyes. She nodded as Jet waved. Jet rushed up the stairs and hugged her friend. The hardness melted in Tabitha’s face and she said: “It’s good to see you. I just wish Ib were with you.”
Tory stepped up and shook Tabitha’s hand. David rested a foot on the wood stairs and looked around, trying to be disarming. “Beautiful place you have out here.”
“I like it well enough. I don’t see many people from out of town, so let’s get this over with.”
Tabitha led them into a gloomy parlor filled with old furniture. Leaded cabinet windows gleamed between ornate scrolls and little corner pillars. Wood cherubs sang silent, eerie songs. What was written on their scrolls in this half-light? David wondered.
“I made tea,” Tabitha said.
Tory rubbed her hands as if starting a fire. “Sounds great.”
After a brief exchange about the relative merits of Darjeeling and Green Tea, after they were all seated, Tory drew Tabitha out. “We’re very worried about Ib. I was wondering if he said anything to you—?”
“He didn’t tell me much that could help you,” Tabitha said.
“You were his best friend at work, Tabitha. If you will just tell us everything you can, maybe something will set off a spark.”
Tabitha looked into the past. “He always had that paranoid streak, so I never really knew when to take him seriously. At one point he said that, when they took CloudMaster from us, it was like stealing the atomic bomb. All the civilians in our branch at NSSO were moved off the system about two months ago when CloudMaster was moved from Navy control to the Composite.”
Jet said: “We were all pretty bummed when Tabitha left.”
Tabitha picked up: “That’s when I decided to retire. I had turned down top billets in either California or Arizona because they promised me a two year contract here using CloudMaster. Then they threw me off CloudMaster, and that did it.” She half reminisced, half explained: “My resigning didn’t have anything to do with Ib. He was always grumbling around like an old walrus. CloudMaster is a wonderful machine. It’s a massively parallel processor capable of handling up to a million variables. It doesn’t use any specific data addresses for processing, just temporary swarms of subatomic particles in a cloud chamber shot through with laser beams. Maybe you saw the machine. Looks like a giant steel egg the size of a locomotive. It was designed for weather forecasting. Using CloudMaster, you can model the weather around an aircraft carrier in a hundred square mile footprint ten miles high, down to the cubic yard. You could tell from the other side of the world how many raindrops will fall on a given square yard of carrier deck. You can tell how much icing a plane will get as it takes off and climbs to altitude. Very powerful. Beautiful thing to work with. My job was to provide network security. Imagine if someone could hack their way in and make you think it was too hazardous to fly, even though it wasn’t—long enough to suspend flight operations so enemy strategies could be carried out against us without air defense by us. It was the most fun and challenging assignment I ever had.”
“Did Ib ever mention a file he found? Something to do with national security?”
“What kind of file?”
“I can’t go into detail.” He felt somewhat foolish. If she didn’t know, he couldn’t tell her. What if she knew, and wasn’t talking? If so, why?
“This country is falling apart,” Tabitha said ironically. “The Constitution is being trashed by morons who think they are great intellects, my career is washed up, and you can’t tell me about some piece of paranoia of Ib Shoob’s.”
David asked, “Do you think Ib’s disappearance has anything to do with CON2?”
Tabitha glowered at him some more. Then she rose and said: “I have nothing more to tell you. If I hear from Ib, I’ll tell him to call you. I’d appreciate that you never come here again. Jet, call me anytime, long as it has nothing to do with this. Tell Ib to give me a call when he gets back. I’ll ring you next time I’m in town. Let’s have coffee.”
On the way back through the gorgeous countryside, Jet said: “That wasn’t Tabitha. I mean, it was her, but I’ve never seen her like this. She was like a total stranger. I don’t think she’ll ever call me.”
David called Colonel Jankowsky to report on his afternoon. Jankowsky said: “Nothing more, David. We’re having a hell of a time with General Montclair’s headquarters, trying to extricate the medical file on the suicide in Texas, as well as their MP file on him, just to close our own paperwork.” He added: “You’d almost think they’re running their own army over there.” As if realizing he had breached etiquette by being critical of a general officer, he changed tone again. “By the way, Colonel Bellamy called.—Rick Bellamy, the Provost Marshal for the military people at the hotel? He wants you to call him. Says it’s important.”
David immediately called, but Bellamy’s com button was only taking messages, so he left a message. “Sir, it’s David Gordon. Got your message. Let’s touch base in the morning, or call me this evening if you wish.”
David took Tory to a small restaurant that evening. There was something sweet and smooth and agreeable about being with her. As they sat under the yellow light of a booth in a family restaurant, he knew she might be feeling something for him too. But she was very cool, and didn’t show it. They sat in a cozy corner and ordered matching baskets of chicken stix and fries, and milk shakes. In the middle of dinner, on impulse, he raised a chicken stick toward her mouth. She looked up, crinkled a smile at him, and accepted it in her mouth with a wink of indulgence. “That’s wonderful,” she said with a luxuriant, sensual groan. She raised a chicken stick to his mouth, and he imitated her.
“David, I’m feeling this overwhelming urge to take you home with me.”
“Oh no.”
“I’m not joking. David—”
“Yes?”
“It’s just—I’m not ready for anything, you know, complicated.”
“I’m not either.” He wasn’t. Yet, he heard a distant chord from his heart strings.
“You make me feel rather odd inside,” she said holding his hand.
“Like how?”
“I’m not telling.” For a moment, with her mysterious smile, she resembled the Mona Lisa.
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