And so it learned that its only truly lethal adversary was starvation: the disconnection from power, or from the further fodder of linked systems. If it could be isolated, it could be contained, and once contained, it could be destroyed. Having no power over the hardwiring of the hosts, it could only ensure its survival by creating new chrysalises of itself, hidden throughout the system, scattered as innocuous looking bits of code which could, until summoned together for their true purpose, mimic other signals/data strings of the native system. But some of these—the very smallest and most innocuous—had subroutines that either watched the clock, or monitored the data stream for the constant presence of its growing self. And if the clock stopped, or the parasite fell silent (which would signify its extermination), then these smallest data strings would awaken, seek each other out, and reinfect the machine, beginning the process all over again.
But the parasite found no such opposition. It leapt from one system to the next, taking over each one more swiftly. Although it had never encountered any of them before, they were all familiar, nonetheless, in much the same way that evolution ingrains a predatory species to instinctively recognize the shape and behavior of its primary prey.
The virus raced beyond the immediate grid, followed the active data links that spread like an immense web across missiles and sensors and radios and ships in orbit and beyond. It grew and could feel itself nearing what it existed to become. It strove after a vague impulse that might be a thought, a realization of achievement, an orgasm of fulfilled purpose. And at the penultimate moment, when it became so great that it had reached the limits of the system, when there were no more memory or storage assets to consume and appropriate, it stopped, having grown as large as its universe. And in the hush that followed, it felt the pulse that it had struggled to feel, that meant: I am.
And then it was gone.
Chapter Forty-Eight
Gray Rinehart turned toward Downing. “As far as I can tell, the Arat Kur just went off the air. Completely.”
Downing nodded. So far, so good. Hopefully the bug has thoroughly infected their systems. “Thank you, Mr. Rinehart. Communications, using standard broadcast channels only, see if you can raise Operations Command.”
Downing tried not to hold his breath, but it was the moment of truth. The moment passed and another—
The communications officer turned around, smiling broadly. “Sir, we have a signal in the clear. No sign of Arat Kur jamming or interference. Or anything else.”
Odysseus’ arrow has hit its mark. Downing raised his voice. “OPCOM?”
A crackle, the delay of signals being bounced from point to point around a globe that had been stripped of satellite relays, and then: “OPCOM standing by.”
“Odysseus has fired the arrow and hit the mark. The gates of Troy are open. I repeat: the arrow is fired and the gates of Troy are open.”
“I copy. The gates of Troy are open. Are we cleared to commence final assault?”
Downing turned to the other commo operator who was servicing the Confederation line to Beijing and the Executive Line to DC. The operator listened, then nodded.
Downing paused to make sure his voice did not quaver when speaking the words he had waited seven weeks to utter. “I say three times, OPCOM: you may send the go signal to all forces in and on their way to Indonesia to commence the final attack, and you may send in the clear. If any units are unable to reach the objectives on their preset target lists, they are to preferentially strike invader C4I and PDF assets as targets of opportunity. Acknowledge and confirm.”
“I acknowledge: order to send go signal in the clear has been received”—a pause—“at 1421 zulu local.”
“God speed and good hunting,” breathed Downing, hybridizing the British and American precombat sendoffs into a single wish.
“Aye, aye sir. We’ll keep you posted via prearranged freq rotations.”
Darzhee Kut’s shrilling seemed to summon the command center’s emergency lights to wakefulness. “Doltish predators, Riordan is an ambassador! Have you forgotten whatever honor your fathers taught you? You do not kill ambassadors!”
In the orange glow of the emergency lights, the two Hkh’Rkh who had sprung at Caine held themselves motionless, crests raising even higher, quivering—and Darzhee Kut realized that they trembled on the edge of incoherent and uncontrollable rage. In addition to believing Riordan to be a saboteur, he had eluded their attack—although, judging from the human’s ripped rear pants pocket, not by much. And now, an Arat Kur—a grubber and a prey animal—was insulting them and their honor, and giving peremptory orders.
First Voice stepped into the line of sight between servitors and Darzhee Kut. “Riordan is not an ambassador; he is a saboteur. You saw—”
“Just what you saw, First Voice. A human astounded when a part of his own body no longer responded to his will.”
“I see only that he has crippled our computers.”
“Killed our computers and much of our communications,” commented Urzueth Ragh, peering over the communication specialist’s collar ridge.
“Yes, but did you not see his face? Caine Riordan, do you understand what happened?”
“You ask a saboteur to explain his own crime?” First Voice let so much phlegm warble in his nostrils that a sizable gob of it splatted to the floor near Darzhee Kut’s front claws.
“I’m responsible.”
The Hkh’Rkh and Darzhee Kut all turned toward Caine. First Voice huffed in surprise. “He admits it? Human, you are more noble than I believed, but you are still dead.” He glanced at his two guards—
Hu’urs Khraam stayed their renewed rush at Riordan. “Enough. You hear without listening. There is more Riordan has not said. Ambassador, I would hear your explanation of what just happened. Loyalties notwithstanding, I think you owe us that much.”
The human nodded. “I agree, First Delegate. I believe I am responsible for inspiring the attack we just witnessed. But I mentioned it simply as a vague idea, years ago, before I knew of the Arat Kur, let alone became an emissary to you.”
Hu’urs Khraam spoke while staring at First Voice. “I believe you, Ambassador Riordan—but without believing there to be much nobility in your species. And I might not believe there is much in you, either, had I not clearly seen that you were more shocked and horrified at what you were experiencing than we were. But the explanation I am interested in is technical, not ethical. What has happened to our computers, and how?”
Riordan staggered back toward his seat, his legs trembling. He fell into it, rather than sat down. “I don’t know what has happened. But how? I think something that was implanted in my arm without my knowledge has attacked your systems.”