Host, p.41
Host, page 41
Joe pressed the Break key again, exasperated. This time when he logged back in, he bypassed conversation mode with ARCHIVE and went straight into the process symbols. He typed: Talk zebedee.
There was a brief pause as the screen went blank. Then it split into two halves and in the bottom appeared the words:
Is Jack OK, Joe? So sorry for you both; you must have had a terrible shock.
Joe felt a swirling in his veins. His phone rang but he ignored it. ARCHIVE never called him foe.
As a test he tapped the key to change from visual text to voice mode. Instantly the words disappeared. He took a breath then spoke loudly at the empty screen. ‘Jack’s fine, thank you, Juliet.’ Tensely he waited for a reply, waited to hear her voice.
There was silence.
‘Why are you asking if Jack is OK?’ he said, trying a new approach.
Silence.
‘What did you think was wrong with Jack?’ he asked.
Silence.
He thought for a moment, switched back to visual text and typed in the top half of the screen: What happened to Jack, Juliet?
After a few seconds there was a beep, then the screen suddenly went blank. The words came up: Other party has logged off.
Cursing, Joe again typed: Talk zebedee then pressed the return key.
The screen went blank and the word appeared: Calling … After some moments it disappeared and was replaced with: Calling your party again …
After five attempts, Joe cancelled the instruction and went down to the operations room in the basement. Dave Hoton was at the control terminal in front of a bank of four high-definition monitors, running what looked like a test program.
Hoton was thirty-five, but looked a decade older. Strongly built, with a Dutch settler’s beard and dark wavy hair, he had eyes that looked permanently tired from spending most of his waking hours down in ARCHIVE’S subterranean lab. Joe relied on him, and trusted him implicitly. What he liked most was that Hoton was almost completely unflappable.
‘Hi,’ Joe said.
The system manager raised a hand indicating he was just finishing something. Soon he swivelled his chair. ‘Sorry to keep you, Joe.’ He had a bland, rather flat voice, and a habit of always tilting his head up a little before he spoke.
‘No problem.’
He looked at Joe uncertainly. ‘Any news on your son?’
‘Yup, it’s looking hopeful; we’re not there yet, but the signs are good.’ Joe ran his eyes over the screens. ‘Edwin talk to you about this terabyte of space that’s disappeared?’
‘I’m trying to trace it at the moment.’
‘Can we rule out a fault?’
‘I think so. I’ve been monitoring traffic down the wires. We’ve been getting massive dumps in and out. There’s something very fishy happening.’
‘Where’s it coming from?’
Hoton looked at him with a bemused expression. ‘Thought you’d ask that. I can’t trace it.’
Joe was surprised. ‘Why not?’
‘I think someone’s having a laugh on us. Every time I do trace it, I end up getting routed through the telephone exchanges of fourteen countries around the globe and back to ARCHIVE.’ Hoton pressed his lips hard together for a moment. ‘I could hazard a guess at one or two jokers here in the university. Or it could be some kiddie who’s read about ARCHIVE, trying to prove its defences aren’t as good as we thought.’
‘Possible,’ Joe replied without conviction. The clock on the wall said 1.30. He needed to get his slides together for his lecture. ‘Juliet Spring was running a back-prop on a terabyte cassette; she was working on it the day she died; I can’t find the cassette – you didn’t take it?’
Hoton shook his head.
‘Did you talk to her at all, Dave?’
‘Yes.’ Joe detected a sad smile in Hoton’s eyes, as if he had fancied her. ‘She asked me quite a lot of questions about ARCHIVE.’
Joe said nothing for a moment. He stared through the window into the darkness of the machine room. ‘I think it’s odd that the tape’s gone.’
‘A lot of stuff walks in this place, Joe.’
‘Maybe,’ he said, glancing at the clock again. He grimaced, then went back upstairs, trying to marshal his thoughts. He enjoyed lecturing, and the interaction with his students afterwards, but he was looking forward to an uninterrupted period on ARCHIVE this summer.
Then his face fell as he saw the police officer standing outside Eileen Peacock’s office, helmet in his hand.
Joe gave a bummer of a lecture on perception; his speech rambled, his slides were muddled and his arguments were not cohesive. The questions at the end were desultory and he hurried through them, knowing that the cop was waiting. This could be his last lecture ever.
You are not obliged to say anything, but anything you do say may be used in evidence.
The formal caution. He wasn’t being charged, Constable Tickner told him, not yet, anyhow. The police just wanted information on how the deceased’s head came to be detached from her body and ended up in his possession. Joe told him, courteously, that he had been carrying out the deceased’s last wishes.
Judith Aitken rang him shortly after the constable left. Joe told her, as he had told the policeman, the truthful reason why he had put the dummy head in the neurocan; there didn’t seem to be much point in lying. She asked him for the names and numbers of those present when Juliet had been prepared for freezing. Those people were not under threat of any action, she explained, but might be needed as witnesses at an inquest. Under the circumstances, Joe thought she was remarkably pleasant to him. Perhaps even a little sympathetic.
Marvin Zeillerman’s relief of Sunday had now turned to hostility when he returned Joe’s call. Perhaps his hope of more fees had been shattered along with Juliet’s head. He was ‘very disappointed’, he said. Joe’s irresponsible actions had compromised him deeply. By being unable to fulfil his promise to the coroner, he, Zei11erman, was in contempt of court.
‘We’re all disappointed,’ Joe replied to the lawyer. He felt drained and aggressive. Maybe if Zei11erman had done a better job, they wouldn’t be in this situation now. ‘I would guess Juliet is the most disappointed of everyone.’
‘Ah well, professor, that is something we will never know.’
Joe replaced the receiver and sipped the tea his secretary had brought him, broke a chocolate digestive biscuit and munched it. Then he ate another, realizing he’d had no breakfast or lunch and that he was hungry. After a third biscuit he began to feel a little more human again.
He logged back into ARCHIVE, bypassing conversation mode and typed: Talk zebedee.
Calling … After a few moments the screen cleared. Then the words came up: Calling your party again …
He tried several times, but each time the same thing came up. He then called up a log of all the computer’s activity during the past twenty-four hours, which ARCHIVE would retain automatically. There was a sharp beep and the screen read, File not found: /archive/adm/syslog. 1.
Anger rose in him. He picked up his phone and dialled the computer operations room. ‘Dave, what’s going on?’
‘ARCHIVE’S down, Joe,’ Hoton said calmly.
‘Down? Crashed?’
‘Yes.’
‘How badly?’
‘It’ll take me a while to find out – although I’m pretty sure I know what it is.’
‘Is the biological circuitry down?’
‘No, I’ve isolated it.’
‘Want me to come down?’
‘No, it’s all right – I’ve got everyone on it.’
‘Call me when you’ve sorted it, will you?’
The system manager assured him he would.
It was ten to five. Joe thought guiltily of Karen’s vigil in the hospital, knew he should get over there to relieve her; and he wanted to see Jack again. There wasn’t anything he could do with ARCHIVE until it was fixed and that could be hours. He picked the review of his talk off his desk and put it in his briefcase. As he walked to the door, he heard the fax machine springing into life.
There was a grinding hum and an A4 sheet appeared. The machine beeped three times then fell silent. He walked across and lifted the sheet of paper out. It was from the Tampa, Florida offices of Budget Rent-A-Car. The one-line message read: Boing boing! Your turn to hide, Joe!
The sheet began to curl in his shaking hand. His eye jumped to the ident line at the top. Today’s date. The time 11.50 a.m. Five hours behind. Tampa time. The sender’s number and code.
Not for him. This fax wasn’t for him, it was a wrong number, for someone called Joe in another office. Someone had misdialled, that was all. Simple to misdial a fax. Wasn’t it?
Nevertheless he sat down, logged straight into Unix, bypassing ARCHIVE, and went to fax mode. Juliet, I don’t feel in the mood for games. If you’re really dead, tell me what death is like. Joe.
For some minutes after sending it, he sat still, waiting. The light was fading outside and there was a chill in his room in spite of the closed window; a bitter chill. Then his fax machine beeped and came to life. A reply was coming through.
He held his breath; one single sheet; there was the triple beep to signal end of transmission then the motor shutting off. Sorry you must have a wrong number. No Juliet known here.
Joe checked the ident at the top with the previous fax; they were the same; just a quarter of an hour difference between the times of sending. He was tempted to fax a copy of the first one back, but realized it wouldn’t do much good.
A beep from the workstation beside him. made him turn round. The screen was split in two. In the bottom half were the words: I said it was your turn to hide now, Joe.
Joe acknowledged the dull throb of fear in his stomach. He picked up his phone and dialled, ‘Dave, what’s going on? Are we still down?’
‘The fault seems to have corrected itself,’ Dave Hoton said apologetically. ‘I can’t explain what happened because I don’t know yet. Are you around for a bit?’
‘No, I have to shoot.’
‘I’ll try and give you a report in the morning.’
Joe hung up and watched the bottom half of the screen clear to make way for a new message.
Hello, Professor Hewlett!
Puzzled, he typed: Why are you saying that?
Almost instantly the reply came back: Because he is standing right behind you!
Joe swivelled round. Blake Hewlett was standing in the doorway, in a black sweatshirt and jeans.
‘Got a couple of minutes to talk, Joe? I tried to find you earlier. Maybe you can give me the full story about Juliet’s head? I mean – just how the hell did it happen?’ Blake seemed surprisingly calm about it.
‘I – I was just on my way out – in a hurry,’ Joe said shakily. ‘Maybe we could talk on the phone later?’ Then he saw the bottom half of the screen.
Aren’t you going to let me say hello to Professor Hewlett?
He looked at Blake, who was reading the screen himself.
‘How’s Jack?’ Blake said.
Joe told him.
‘Good. He’s going to be OK. Tough kid.’ Blake looked back at the screen, ‘ARCHIVE in a chatty mood?’
Joe stood up and walked slowly over towards the window. ‘There’s something very strange happening, Blake.’
Blake’s eyes widened.
‘Juliet Spring has left behind a very freaky program.’
‘What kind of freaky?’
Joe pointed to the terminal. ‘It’s up there now. Sit down and have a chat with her.’
Blake frowned at him. ‘You’re on your way out?’
‘Won’t take a minute.’
Blake sat down. ‘What do you want me to say?’
‘Anything.’
Looking rather uncomfortable he typed in: Hello, Juliet, how are you? Then he pressed carriage return.
There was no response.
Joe walked across, embarrassed, and pressed carriage return himself. But there was still nothing.
‘Want me to try something else?’
‘Sure.’
Blake typed: Sorry we goofed up, Juliet. Hope you’ll forgive us.
The screen went blank. Then up came: Other party has logged off.
Blake looked at him and shrugged. ‘Doesn’t want to talk any more.’ He eyed the screen again. ‘What’s she done – left some kind of time delay program?’
‘I’m not sure. I think she’s done something a lot more sophisticated – Dave’s working on it.’
Blake looked harder at Joe. ‘You were really upset by her death, weren’t you?’
‘Sure. We lost someone very important.’
‘Need to find out about her funeral arrangements – whether they’re going to release her body before the inquest,’ Blake said. ‘I think we should send some flowers. Maybe some of us ought to be there.’
Joe realized he hadn’t even thought about her funeral. ‘Zeillerman,’ he said. ‘He’d know.’
Blake stood up, looked at him oddly, then walked to the door and halted. ‘Call me at home later?’
Joe nodded. Blake closed the door. Maybe Blake had been right to look at him like that, he thought. Perhaps he was going crazy.
He sat down at the terminal and once more typed: Talk zebedee.
There was a pause. Then the screen split and Boing boing! appeared in the bottom half.
He took a deep breath to calm himself, then typed: why do you keep disappearing?
The reply came back almost instantly: Why do you keep appearing?
I still think you’re just a smart program. If you’ re really Juliet, give me some proof.
For a good thirty seconds nothing happened. Joe began to think he wasn’t going to get a reply, when the words suddenly jumped at him.
OK, Joe. Read all about it next week.
Read about what and where? he typed back.
There was another silence. The screen went blank. Then: Other party has logged off.
50
Jack was moved out of intensive care after two days and transferred to the Royal Alexandra Children’s Hospital. He was discharged from there the following Tuesday. At ten o’clock Joe drove his Saab on to the driveway of their house. Karen unbuckled Jack from his safety seat and Joe carried their overnight bags into the porch, unlocked the front door and pushed it open. The post slithered across the floor and he knelt and scooped the letters up, dumping them on the chair by the coat stand.
Jack came in, casting his eyes around, in a striped jersey, baggy brown trousers and trainers. He’d been subdued in the car, but arriving back home seemed to be perking him up. He ran into the kitchen as if to check it was still there and Joe studied him, wondering what was going on in his mind. And thinking how the past week might have been so very different if they hadn’t found him in time, if … He looked up at the freezer key dangling from the hook he had put on the top of the dresser. Safely out of reach.
Jack tugged his sleeve. ‘Will you come and play trains with me, Daddy?’
Joe yawned; the last few nights he and Karen had alternated staying at the hospital. He’d been there last night, and had made repeated visits to the ward to check that Jack wasn’t frightened. Karen looked shattered also; the stress had taken its toll on her.
‘I have to go into work, Jack. I’m already really late.’
‘Want a coffee, Joe?’ Karen asked, closing the door.
‘It’s OK, thanks, I’ll get some in there.’ His stomach ached from the huge fried breakfast he’d eaten early in the morning at a greasy spoon near the hospital. He’d wanted to give himself some energy.
The little hand tugged his sleeve again and large round eyes looked up at him. ‘Just one game, Daddy?’
‘OK, quickly.’ How could he refuse?
Jack scampered up the stairs and Joe followed, through into the spare room which was Jack’s playroom. Joe switched on the power.
‘I’ll be the driver and you have to do the points, OK, Daddy?’
‘OK.’
Jack knelt beside the transformer and placed his fingers on the control knob. The locomotive and its string of passenger carriages stood in the station. He waited, then looked chidingly at his father.
‘You have to whistle, Daddy, the train can’t go until you do.’
Joe whistled.
Concentrating hard, Jack turned the knob and the train moved forwards with a low whirr and a sharp click-click-click. Joe watched it streaking around the track. Then Jack stopped it abruptly.
‘Shunt now!’
Joe leaned across and pulled the tiny lever beside the points, moving them. Jack reversed the train into the siding where there were a couple of tiny plastic warehouses and a dumper truck with a wheel missing. Then with deep concentration he disconnected the passenger carriages and moved the locomotive forward.
Joe smiled. ‘I have to go now, Jack. I have my office hour on Tuesday mornings; my students come to see me with their problems.’
Jack didn’t hear; his cheek was pressed down against the track as he examined the wheels of the locomotive which was moving slowly along. ‘Why don’t all the wheels turn at the same speed?’
Joe was constantly amazed at the details Jack noticed in life. ‘They’re not all the same size.’
Jack continued to study the locomotive dubiously. ‘Can we go fishing later?’
‘Next weekend. Sunday, OK?’ Joe stood up and ruffled his son’s head as a goodbye.
When he got back down to the hall, Joe sifted through the morning’s post without seeing anything of interest. The words on the computer screen last Wednesday skewed through his mind: OK, Joe. Read all about it next week. He’d read the papers assiduously yesterday and this morning, but found nothing that could relate to Juliet Spring.
Dave Hoton had remained unable to shed any light on the recent ‘fishy’ business, as he called it, with ARCHIVE. The terabyte of memory that had been used up had been emptied. The hacker had cleared it and vanished – leaving no tracks. And Joe had been getting no response at all to his Talk zebedee command. He decided that perhaps Blake was right, and that Juliet must have left behind a timed tease program that had now wiped itself. But, even so, he wasn’t comfortable with the explanation.
