True Names: And the Opening of the Cyberspace Frontier Page 6

  In a distant corner of what his mind had become, tiny insects buzzed with homicidal fury, tiny insects who knew Mr. Slippery’s True Name. They knew what he and Erythrina had done, and right now they were more scared of the two warlocks than they had ever been of the Mailman. As he and Ery continued their search, he listened to the signals coming from the Langley command post, followed the helicopter gunships that were dispatched toward a single rural bungalow in Northern California—and changed their encrypted commands so that the sortie dumped its load of death on an uninhabited stretch of the Pacific.

  Still with a tiny fraction of his attention, Mr. Slippery noticed that Virginia—actually her superiors, who had long since taken over the operation—knew of this defense. They were still receiving real-time pictures from military satellites.

  He signaled a pause to Erythrina. For a few seconds, she would work alone while he dealt with these persistent antagonists. He felt like a man attacked by several puppies: they were annoying and could cause substantial damage unless he took more trouble than they were worth. They had to be stopped without causing themselves injury.

  He should freeze the West Coast military and any launch complexes that could reach his body. Beyond that, it would be a good idea to block recon satellite transmission of the California area. And of course, he’d better deal with the Finger of God installations that were above the California horizon. Already he felt one of those heavy lasers, sweeping along in its ten-thousand-kilometer orbit, go into aiming mode and begin charging. He still had plenty of time—at least two or three seconds—before the weapons laser reached its lowest discharge threshold. Still, this was the most immediate threat. Mr. Slippery sent a tendril of consciousness into the tiny processor aboard the Finger of God satellite—

  —and withdrew, bloodied. Someone was already there. Not Erythrina and not the little military warlocks. Someone too great for even him to overpower.

  “Ery! I’ve found him!” It came out a scream. The laser’s bore was centered on a spot thousands of kilometers below, a tiny house that in less than a second would become an expanding ball of plasma at the end of a columnar explosion descending through the atmosphere.

  Over and over in that last second, Mr. Slippery threw himself against the barrier he felt around the tiny military processor—with no success. He traced its control to the lower satellite net, to bigger processors that were equally shielded. Now he had a feel for the nature of his opponent. It was not the direct imagery he was used to on the Other Plane; this was more like fighting blindfolded. He could sense the other’s style. The enemy was not revealing any more of himself than was necessary to keep control of the Finger of God for another few hundred milliseconds.

  Mr. Slippery slashed, trying to cut the enemy’s communications. But his opponent was strong, much stronger—he now realized—than himself. He was vaguely aware of the other’s connections to the computing power in those blind-spot areas he and Erythrina had discovered. But for all that power, he was almost the enemy’s equal. There was something missing from the other, some critical element of imagination or originality. If Erythrina would only come, they might be able to stop him. Milliseconds separated him from the True Death. He looked desperately around. Where is she?

  Military Status announced the discharge of an Orbital Weapons Laser. He cowered even as his quickened perceptions counted the microseconds that remained till his certain destruction, even as he noticed a ball of glowing plasma expanding about what had been a Finger of God—the Finger that had been aimed at him!

  He could see now what had happened. While he and the other had been fighting, Erythrina had commandeered another of the weapons satellites, one already very near discharge threshold, and destroyed the threat to him.

  Even as he realized this, the enemy was on him again, this time attacking conventionally, trying to destroy Mr. Slippery’s communications and processing space. But now that enemy had to fight both Erythrina and Mr. Slippery. The other’s lack of imagination and creativity was beginning to tell, and even with his greater strength, they could feel him slowly, slowly losing resources to his weaker opponents. There was something familiar about this enemy, something Mr. Slippery was sure he could see, given time.

  Abruptly the enemy pulled away. For a long moment, they held each other’s sole attention, like cats waiting for the smallest sign of weakness to launch back into combat—only here the new attack could come from any of ten thousand different directions, from any of the communications nodes that formed their bodies and their minds.

  From beside him, he felt Erythrina move forward, as though to lock the other in her green-eyed gaze. “You know who we have here, Slip?” He could tell that all her concentration was on this enemy, that she almost vibrated with the effort. “This is our old friend DON.MAC grown up to super size, and doing his best to disguise himself.”

  The other seemed to tense and move even further in upon himself. But after a moment, he began imaging. There stood DON.MAC, his face and Plessey-Mercedes body the same as ever. DON.MAC, the first of the Mailman’s converts, the one Erythrina was sure had been killed and replaced with a simulator. “And all the time he’s been the Mailman. The last person we would suspect, the Mailman’s first victim.”

  DON rolled forward half a meter, his motors keening, his hydraulic fists raised. But he did not deny what Mr. Slippery said. After a moment he seemed to relax. “You are very…clever. But then, you two have had help; I never thought you and the cops would cooperate. That was the one combination that had any chance against the ‘Mailman.’” He smiled, a familiar automatic twitch. “But don’t you see? It’s a combination with lethal genes. We three have much more in common than you and the government.

  “Look around you. If we were warlocks before, we are gods now. Look!” Without letting the center of their attention wander, the two followed his gaze. As before, the myriad aspects of the lives of billions spread out before them. But now, many things were changed. In their struggle, the three had usurped virtually all of the connected processing power of the human race. Video and phone communications were frozen. The public data bases had lasted long enough to notice that something had gone terribly, terribly wrong. Their last headlines, generated a second before the climax of the battle, were huge banners announcing GREATEST DATA OUTAGE OF ALL TIME. Nearly a billion people watched blank data sets, feeling more panicked than any simple power blackout could ever make them. Already the accumulation of lost data and work time would cause a major recession.

  “They are lucky the old arms race is over, or else independent military units would probably have already started a war. Even if we hand back control this instant, it would take them more than a year to get their affairs in order.” DON.MAC smirked, the same expression they had seen the day before when he was bragging to the Limey. “There have been few deaths yet. Hospitals and aircraft have some standalone capability.”

  Even so…Mr. Slippery could see thousands of aircraft stacked up over major airports from London to Christchurch. Local computing could never coordinate the safe landing of them all before some ran out of fuel.

  “We caused all that—with just the fallout of our battle,” continued DON. “If we chose to do them harm, I have no doubt we could exterminate the human race.” He detonated three warheads in their silos in Utah just to emphasize his point. With dozens of video eyes, in orbit and on the ground, Mr. Slippery and Erythrina watched the destruction sweep across the launch sites. “Consider: how are we different from the gods of myth? And like the gods of myth, we can rule and prosper, just so long as we don’t fight among ourselves.” He looked expectantly from Mr. Slippery to Erythrina. There was a frown on the Red One’s dark face; she seemed to be concentrating on their opponent just as fiercely as ever.

  DON.MAC turned back to Mr. Slippery. “Slip, you especially should see that we have no choice but to cooperate. They know your True Name. Of the three of us, your life is the most fragile, depending on protecting your body from a gover
nment that now considers you a traitor. You would have died a dozen times over during the last thousand seconds if you hadn’t used your new powers.

  “And you can’t go back. Even if you play Boy Scout, destroy me, and return all obedient—even then they will kill you. They know how dangerous you are, perhaps even more dangerous than I. They can’t afford to let you exist.”

  And megalomania aside, that made perfect and chilling sense. As they were talking, a fraction of Mr. Slippery’s attention was devoted to confusing and obstructing the small infantry group that had been air-dropped into the Arcata region just before the government lost all control. Their superiors had realized how easily he could countermand their orders, and so the troops were instructed to ignore all outside direction until they had destroyed a certain Roger Pollack. Fortunately they were depending on city directories and orbit-fed street maps, and he had been keeping them going in circles for some time now. It was a nuisance, and sooner or later he would have to decide on a more permanent solution.

  But what was a simple nuisance in his present state would be near-instant death if he returned to his normal self. He looked at Erythrina. Was there any way around DON’s arguments?

  Her eyes were almost shut, and the frown had deepened. He sensed that more and more of her resources were involved in some pattern analysis. He wondered if she had even heard what DON.MAC said. But after a moment her eyes came open, and she looked at the two of them. There was triumph in that look. “You know, Slip, I don’t think I have ever been fooled by a personality simulator, at least not for more than a few minutes.”

  Mr. Slippery nodded, puzzled by this sudden change in topic. “Sure. If you talk to a simulator long enough, you eventually begin to notice little inflexibilities. I don’t think we’ll ever be able to write a program that could pass the Turing test.”

  “Yes, little inflexibilities, a certain lack of imagination. It always seems to be the tipoff. Of course DON here has always pretended to be a program, so it was hard to tell. But I was sure that for the last few months there has been no living being behind his mask…

  “…and furthermore, I don’t think there is anybody there even now.” Mr. Slippery’s attention snapped back to DON.MAC. The other smirked at the accusation. Somehow it was not the right reaction. Mr. Slippery remembered the strange, artificial flavor of DON’s combat style. In this short an encounter, there could be no really hard evidence for her theory. She was using her intuition and whatever deep analysis she had been doing these last few seconds.

  “But that means we still haven’t found the Mailman.”

  “Right. This is just his best tool. I’ll bet the Mailman simply used the pattern he stole from the murdered DON.MAC as the basis for this automatic defense system we’ve been fighting. The Mailman’s time lag is a very real thing, not a red herring at all. Somehow it is the whole secret of who he really is.

  “In any case, it makes our present situation a lot easier.” She smiled at DON.MAC as though he were a real person. Usually it was easier to behave that way toward simulators; in this case, there was a good deal of triumph in her smile. “You almost won for your master, DON. You almost had us convinced. But now that we know what we are dealing with, it will be easy to—”

  Her image flicked out of existence, and Mr. Slippery felt DON grab for the resources Ery controlled. All through near-Earth space, they fought for the weapon systems she had held till an instant before.

  And alone, Mr. Slippery could not win. Slowly, slowly, he felt himself bending before the other’s force, like some wrestler whose bones were breaking one by one under a murderous opponent. It was all he could do to prevent the DON construct from blasting his home; and to do that, he had to give up progressively more computing power.

  Erythrina was gone, gone as though she had never been. Or was she? He gave a sliver of his attention to a search, a sliver that was still many times more powerful than any mere warlock. That tiny piece of consciousness quickly noticed a power failure in southern Rhode Island. Many power failures had developed during the last few minutes, consequent to the data failure. But this one was strange. In addition to power, comm lines were down and even his intervention could not bring them to life. It was about as thoroughly blacked out as a place could be. This could scarcely be an accident.

  …and there was a voice, barely telephone quality and almost lost in the mass of other data he was processing. Erythrina! She had, via some incredibly tortuous detour, retained a communication path to the outside.

  His gaze swept the blacked-out Providence suburb. It consisted of new urbapts, perhaps one hundred thousand units in all. Somewhere in there lived the human that was Erythrina. While she had been concentrating on DON.MAC, he must have been working equally hard to find her True Name. Even now, DON did not know precisely who she was, only enough to black out the area she lived in.

  It was getting hard to think; DON.MAC was systematically dismantling him. The lethal intent was clear: as soon as Mr. Slippery was sufficiently reduced, the Orbital Lasers would be turned on his body, and then on Erythrina’s. And then the Mailman’s faithful servant would have a planetary kingdom to turn over to his mysterious master.

  He listened to the tiny voice that still leaked out of Providence. It didn’t make too much sense. She sounded hysterical, panicked. He was surprised that she could speak at all; she had just suffered—in losing all her computer connections—something roughly analogous to a massive stroke. To her, the world was now seen through a keyhole, incomplete, unknown and dark.

  “There is a chance; we still have a chance,” the voice went on, hurried and slurred. “An old military communication tower north of here. Damn. I don’t know the number or grid, but I can see it from where I’m sitting. With it you could punch through to the roof antenna…has plenty of bandwidth, and I’ve got some battery power here…but hurry.”

  She didn’t have to tell him that; he was the guy who was being eaten alive. He was almost immobilized now, the other’s attack squeezing and stifling where it could not cut and tear. He spasmed against DON’s strength and briefly contacted the comm towers north of Providence. Only one of them was in line of sight with the blacked-out area. Its steerable antenna was very, very narrow beam.

  “Ery, I’m going to need your house number, maybe even your antenna id.”

  A second passed, two—a hellish eon for Mr. Slippery. In effect, he had asked her for her True Name—he who was already known to the Feds. Once he returned to the real world, there would be no way he could mask this information from them. He could imagine her thoughts: never again to be free. In her place, he would have paused too, but—

  “Ery! It’s the True Death for both of us if you don’t. He’s got me!”

  This time she barely hesitated. “D-Debby Charteris, 4448 Grosvenor Row. Cut off like this, I don’t know the antenna id. Is my name and house enough?”

  “Yes. Get ready!”

  Even before he spoke, he had already matched the name with an antenna rental and aligned the military antenna on it. Return contact came as he turned his attention back to DON.MAC. With luck, the enemy was not aware of their conversation. Now he must be distracted.

  Mr. Slippery surged against the other, breaking communications nodes that served them both. DON shuddered, reorganizing around the resources that were left, then moved in on Mr. Slippery again. Since DON had greater strength to begin with, the maneuver had cost Mr. Slippery proportionately more. The enemy had been momentarily thrown off balance, but now the end would come very quickly.

  The spaces around him, once so rich with detail and colors beyond color, were fading now, replaced by the sensations of his true body straining with animal fear in its little house in California. Contact with the greater world was almost gone. He was scarcely aware of it when DON turned the Finger of God back upon him—

  Consciousness, the superhuman consciousness of before, returned almost unsensed, unrecognized till awareness brought surprise. Like a strangling victim
back from oblivion, Mr. Slippery looked around dazedly, not quite realizing that the struggle continued.

  But now the roles were reversed. DON.MAC had been caught by surprise, in the act of finishing off what he thought was his only remaining enemy. Erythrina had used that surprise to good advantage, coming in upon her opponent from a Japanese data center, destroying much of Don’s higher reasoning centers before the other was even aware of her. Large, unclaimed processing units lay all about, and as DON and Erythrina continued their struggle, Mr. Slippery quietly absorbed everything in reach.

  Even now, DON could have won against either one of them alone, but when Mr. Slippery threw himself back into the battle, they had the advantage. DON.MAC sensed this too, and with a brazenness that was either mindless or genius, returned to his original appeal. “There is still time! The Mailman will still forgive you.”

  Mr. Slippery and Erythrina ripped at their enemy from both sides, disconnecting vast blocks of communications, processing and data resources. They denied the Mass Transmits to him, and one by one put the low-level satellites out of synch with his data accesses. DON was confined to land lines, tied into a single military net that stretched from Washington to Denver. He was flailing, randomly using whatever instruments of destruction were still available. All across the midsection of the US, silo missiles detonated, ABM lasers swept back and forth across the sky. The world had been stopped short by the beginning of their struggle, but the ending could tear it to pieces.

  The damage to Mr. Slippery and Erythrina was slight, the risk that the random strokes would seriously damage them small. They ignored occasional slashing losses and concentrated single-mindedly on dismantling DON.MAC. They discovered the object code for the simulator that was DON, and zeroed it. DON—or his creator—was clever and had planted many copies, and a new one awakened every time they destroyed the running copy. But as the minutes passed, the simulator found itself with less and less to work with. Now it was barely more than it had been back in the Coven.