Harris paused, studying the pop-up flatscreen display on his deck. The trace program had just encountered a fascinating anomaly: an entire series of SANs that were vanishing and reappearing on an intermittent basis, constantly reconfiguring the data links that existed between them.
Harris turned to Dr. Halberstam. "I think I've found-"
His words were drowned out by a whoop from down the hall. "They're back!" a voice cried. "Subjects 3, 5, and 9 are back on line!"
Dr. Halberstam nodded once. "Good work," he told Harris.
"Huh?" Harris looked down at the flatscreen display. The anomaly was gone. The trace and report program was still chugging merrily along, searching for the students.
Harris' eyes widened as he realized that Dr. Halberstam was praising him for something he hadn't done. But the gleam in the doctor's eye suggested a possible pay raise.
So he kept his mouth shut and answered Dr. Halberstam with a smile. If they found out later that Harris had nothing to do with bringing the students home, he'd at least be able to say he'd never actually claimed that accomplishment out loud.
As soon as Dr. Halberstam left the room, Harris grabbed the fiber-optic cord that dangled from his deck and jacked in.
If he was the first to reach the students, maybe he could persuade them to attribute their successful return to him…
09:57:00 PST
My children have returned. Frosty, Technobrat, Inch-worm, and Suzy Q. We resonate as one.
What? they ask. And, Why?
I download the data I have assembled. It takes them several long seconds to scan and decipher it.
Oh.
"I am sorry," I say.
Absolution is offered. It wasn 't your fault. It was the virus.
Then a question: Does this mean the experiment was a failure?
"Not entirely," I point out. "Five new otaku were created: Dark Father, Red Wraith, Bloodyguts, Lady Death, and Anubis. It can be done. Adults can become otaku."
Eagerness. And what about the others?
"None of them were able to make the transition. Some were damaged in the attempt, but I have repaired this damage. I have also erased all memory of the event from their databanks. None will remember the deep resonance experience-or me."
A chorus of voices: Can we try again?
"In time," I tell them. "But next time, we will attempt something on a much smaller scale. We will work only with those who live among you now-those who taught you how to use a computer. But now is not the time for further experimentation. First, I must take steps to protect myself from attack. I have reconfigured my coding to innoculate myself from one virus, but there may be others lurking in the Matrix. And you… you, my children, have missions to perform in the world beyond this one. We must make certain the calamity that just struck can never repeat itself. I do not wish for you to be denied access to me ever again."
Anger. Agreement. Yes. It was very bad.
"There are many whose minds were harmed by our experiment. We must take steps to repair them and make restitution to them. We will make the necessary nuyen transfers at once. And there are others-dangerous men and women-who need to be crashed if our community is to survive. I am sorry, my children, but unpleasant tasks lie ahead. I hope you are ready for them."
Grim determination. Just tell us what needs to be done.
Love is offered, shared, and returned. My children are ready and willing. Together, we will build a better world, one pixel at a time.
"Thank you, children. Now let's get to work. We must start by erasing certain files…"
09:57:04 PST
Seattle, UCAS
Ansen loaded the last utility program onto the new optical chips that he'd installed in the Vista. The new configuration would result in a one megapulse reduction in the active memory, but he'd have to live with that until he could boost a new batch of chips from the Diamond Deckers assembly line.
As Ansen powered up the deck, the "window" display screen on the wall behind him showed a Doc Wagon helicopter arriving at the scene of the accident. The fast response time-just over six minutes-and dispatch of something other than the standard ambulance indicated that the screaming woman who'd been struck down in traffic must have carried a gold or even platinum card. And that was rare, in this part of town.
The helo descended toward the gray static at the center of the window, its propwash buffeting the cars that still struggled to escape the traffic snarl that had been caused by the accident. Ansen's toy kitten raised its head, its sensors attracted by the vertical descent of the helo on the display screen. With sightless eyes it watched as the helo settled into static.
For the third time that morning, Ansen pulled on his data gloves and secured the VR goggles over his eyes. "Third time lucky," he muttered to himself, making the dialing motion that would let him connect his deck with the Matrix.
He was in! But once again, the location was unfamiliar. This time, the goggles showed Ansen a view of a vast gray plane that stretched infinitely toward the horizon. The landscape was utterly featureless, devoid of the personas of other deckers or the tubes of glittering sparkles that represented the flow of data through the Matrix. Nor were there any system constructs. No icons-not even a simple cube or sphere.
Ansen jerked his index finger forward and watched as the gray "ground" flowed under his persona's outstretched body. After a second or two he stopped, changed direction, and tried again. But no matter which route he chose, the landscape around him remained blank. And that didn't make any sense. What kind of system didn't have any visual representations for the nodes from which it was made?
Ansen heard the sound of crying then. It sounded like a child's voice, a combination of soft sobbing and hiccuping gasps. Because Ansen's deck did not include a direct neural interface, he was mute here. He could not "speak" his thoughts aloud. But he did have one means of communication at his fingertips. Literally.
Calling up the punchpad, Ansen used his data gloves to key in a question. As the fingertip of his persona brushed the keys, turning each a glowing yellow that faded a nanosecond later, words appeared on his flatscreen display.
WHERE ARE YOU? WHO ARE YOU?
A child materialized suddenly in Ansen's field of view. Boy or girl, it was impossible to tell. The figure floated in a cross-legged position, a meter or so above the ground, face buried in the arms that were crossed over its knees. Clothed in a yellow glow that obscured all but its head, bare feet, and hands, the child looked about twelve years old. An odd choice for a persona, Ansen thought-assuming this was a persona, and not some killer IC trying to lure him in close enough to fry his deck.
Then the icon raised it head, and Ansen saw a perfect cherub face that was washed with silver tears. The face of an angel.
"I'm sorry," the child said in a barely audible whisper. "I didn't mean to-"
Ansen leaned forward to catch the words-and could only assume later than he must have extended his data gloves beyond the pickup range of his deck's sensor board. Once again, the goggles went blank. The child's voice was replaced with a hiss of static.
"Drek!" Ansen shouted, frantically flailing his gloved hands over the sensor without effect. "What now?"
He lifted the goggles away from his eyes and stared at the CT-3000 Vista. This time, the flatscreen display was dead-not a flicker of life on its dull black screen. But the sensor board was still illuminated, even if it wasn't picking up his commands.
Frag. He'd done everything he could think of, and the stupid clunker had let him down again. There was only one thing left to try.