This Alien Shore (58 page)

This was almost peaceful, by outernet standards. Too bad he couldn't relax and enjoy it. But if this trail did lead to Lucifer's maker, or was connected to him in any way, relaxing was the last thing he should be doing. God alone knew what was waiting for him up ahead.

He had no problem working his way through the main gateways of the system, though it took inordinately long to manage it. How long had it been since Earth had last updated its master programs? They ran so slowly he could almost picture an ancient programmer with pad and pencil and slide rule, entering his data by hand. On the other hand, security was fairly easy to circumvent. Of course, it helped that the planet was too far away from its waystation to maintain a real-time connection. Most communication from the outernet wound up bundled into neat little packets on the waystation, waiting for one of the periodic transmissions to the home world. That minimized the need for live security, and what there was seemed to be no match for Masada's skills. Not here, anyway. It occurred to him as he dodged his third or fourth security sniffer that perhaps it was just a little too easy getting in. Like perhaps, someone wanted him there?

Aware that he might be heading into a trap, but seeing no other way to get the answers he needed, he pressed onward.

The mail drop was a closed system, which normally accepted messages and then closed up tight behind them. Under normal circumstances you couldn't go in and rummage around inside, because the return signal which would tell you what you were seeing couldn't get out. He had to dismantle a portion of the gateway program itself, and that took a while. The security there was tighter than it had been elsewhere, which befit a transfer point for sensitive data. He took it as a hopeful sign that he was going in the right direction.

He could hear Varsav pacing as he worked on the gateway. A programmer would have known there was no point in rushing this part, but the Guildmaster clearly had no appreciation of such fine points. Masada could hear him muttering angrily to himself, and for a moment he nearly lost concentration and let the gateway close up again. Damn corrective programs; he flashed an icon to shut down his hearing so the man wouldn't distract him, then went back to what he was doing. It was like cutting into a body, peeling back layer after layer of tissue to get to the organs inside. The only problem was that this body kept trying to heal itself, and security sensors imbedded in the skin threatened to sound an alarm every time he cut into it again.

Then at last he was through. He waited a few seconds for something to respond to his intrusion, but nothing did. He had already shut down the input receptors in his brainware, and now he double-checked them to make sure they were closed up tight. He had no intention of wandering into an area that was possibly controlled by Lucifer's designer with his brain wide open.

A counter told him there were nearly a million data packets inside the mail drop, waiting to be gathered up and sent to Earth. Doubtless they would have been sent already if the message from the New Terran Front had gotten through. Even so, the time for regular shipment was coming up soon; he'd better get any data he needed this trip, as there might not be time for another one.

But where to start, with so much data? He did a scan of the packets, a general survey of message length, encryption type, and origin. It was as good a starting point as any other, to see if there were patterns here worth exploring.

He found out that the messages came from all over, a random sampling of major and minor stations throughout the outworlds. No help there.

None were encrypted. That was curious.

And ... they were all the same length.

He could feel his pulse speed up as he read the last figures. In his gut he thought he knew what these data packets were, but he wouldn't allow himself to react. Not yet. He checked again to see that his analytic programs were working properly (they were) and that the results were indeed what they seemed to be (all segments of code were long and nearly exactly the same length, the difference between them so slight that it might almost be discounted) and then he cracked one message open carefully, oh so carefully, almost as if he expected that something might jump out at him from inside.

Which it might, he thought. Literally.

Evidently something in his posture warned Varsav that he had found something; he sensed the man coming up behind him, not quite touching him but close enough to make his presence known. Maybe he was saying something, but Masada couldn't hear it. He couldn't waste his time making small talk, when he was handling the most deadly piece of code ever loosed in the civilized worlds.

Lucifer.

He resealed the first data packet and went on to another. And another. They were here, all the missing spores, enough of them to explain why his numbers had fallen short. Versions of Lucifer from each generation, quiescent now as they waited to be shipped to Earth. To meet their maker? The thought was chilling. He wanted copies, but didn't dare make them yet; the self-destruction sequences on these spores were too finely tuned, and each one would be different. He remembered the hours it had taken him to copy Lucifer the first time, and how many copies he had ruined in doing so. He didn't want to leave his mark here, not even by the loss of one single spore. Whoever had set this virus up damn well knew what he was doing, and he'd be watching for signs of such interference.

It took an act of pure willpower for him force himself to withdraw from the mail drop. The gateway programs closed up as soon as he released them, and he stayed there just long enough to make sure that no sign of his interference was visible. Though his wellseeker told him that his blood pressure was dangerously high, and distantly he could feel his forgotten hands trembling, this was no time to be careless.

Lucifer.

He retraced his steps to the next node out, far from Earth's waystation, and then finally shut down. His thoughts were confined to his head again with a suddenness that was numbing. His throat was dry, as if from hours of thirst. Maybe it had been hours. It had felt like years.

“Well?”

It was hard for him to find his voice again. “It's Lucifer. All the information I'd predicted its designer would want, packaged to be shipped to Earth. All its ‘children.' ”

“To Earth.” He could hear Varsav hiss softly.

“Yes.”

“That means...” The man's dark eyes were fixed on him, shadowed beneath scowling brows. “This thing is from Earth?”

He said it quietly. “So it would appear.”

Varsav exhaled noisily. “That means...”

He didn't finish the thought. The words didn't have to be said. The ramifications were... stunning.

“It could be just one company,” Masada offered. “One of Earth's Corporations, acting on its own recognizance.”

“Perhaps.” Varsav's expression was dark. “Or perhaps a few of them in concert. With Earth's compliance. It's happened before. Or perhaps... some official branch of Earth itself.”

No one had to say what would come of that. Not even Varsav, who seemed to like stating the obvious. Putting it into words would be too, too terrible.

At last the Guildmaster said, “You going to tell Gaza, or should I?”

“It's my job,” Masada said quietly. “I'll take care of it.”

He had to get more data first. He had to be sure, absolutely sure, before he told anyone.

The fate of the universe seemed to be on his shoulders at that moment. Its weight was crushing.

“I'll tell him,” he whispered.

T
HE BOARDROOM was strewn with the trappings of a recent meeting: silvered boxes of gourmet coffee, now crushed and empty; data printouts sorted carefully into piles, now discarded; a single stylus left behind, its laser tip glowing scarlet against the table's dark surface.

She stood at the end of the table, her attention fixed upon some inner vision. He entered silently and waited for her to notice him. When some time passed and she did not, he coughed softly and took a step forward, taking up a position behind one of the molded chairs.

For a moment longer her eyes remained unfocused, as she shut down whatever internal programs she'd been processing, and then her attention turned outward again.

“Miklas.”

He bowed slightly, acknowledging the greeting.

“I didn't expect you so early. You have news of our... search?”

He nodded and began to speak, but she waved him to silence. “Shut the door.”

He did so.

She turned up to face the security node and for a few seconds stared at it, soundless. No doubt she was feeding it the codes which would shut down the cams normally present in such a room. The thought made a cold thrill go up his spine. If this matter was so secret even here, in her own domain, what rewards might there be for the man who brought it to successful conclusion?

At last she turned to him again, and nodded. “Report, then.”

“We know where the girl is.”

Her eyes flared, the only life in a stone-like expression.

“You're sure.”

He nodded.

“Tell me.”

“I designed a facial recognition program to search her out, and sent it out to the major waystations. It managed to infiltrate the station security system in all but three, and is tapping the public cams for images.”

“And it found her?” Her tone was frankly incredulous. “So quickly? Such luck is... unusual.”

Much as he had told himself he wouldn't preen in front of her, he could not help but stiffen proudly as he said, “No luck at all. I wasn't hoping for it to succeed.”

She said nothing, waiting.

“I sent out thirty-four copies of the program. Yesterday I checked on all of them. Thirty-three are unchanged.”

“And the last?”

“Altered, and by a skilled programmer. Though it looked much the same at first glance, a key section of the recognition code had been altered.” He paused. “So that if it found this girl, it would no longer be able to identify her.”

“This girl's not stupid. She dodged Earth security on Reijik, and we know the Guild is after her as well. So far they haven't caught her. So she knows what she's doing, and has made the right contacts. That's the real clue.

“No one can truly disappear in outworld society, not by purely physical means. There's too much of a data trail left behind in day-to-day business. The fact that we haven't been able to locate such a trail means that she has help.
Skilled
help.” He paused. “It stood to reason they'd interfere with any program searching for her. That's why I sent it out. The chance that it would actually find her was a long shot at best ... but the chance that
she
would find
it,
and alter it, was another thing altogether. With the results that you see.”

Her thin lips pursed as she considered that. Then, very slowly, she nodded. “Yes. You did well.”

He could feel himself stiffen at the unexpected praise.

“Where is she?”

“On Paradise Station. And we'll know if she leaves it, because the same thing will happen elsewhere.”

“It's a large station.”

He smiled tightly. “But we know what we're looking for now. Not a girl, but a hacker. Someone who is going to erase every trail she would normally leave behind... and leave us signposts by doing so.” He paused. “Each time she dodges one of our data traps, I'll know how to refine the next. Each one will demand a different response... and that response will be traceable.” He paused. “We'll find her.”

She stared at him for a long, long moment in silence. Despite his self-confidence the moment was tense.

“All right,” she said at last. “Well done.” She paused. “Do remember, Miklas. The goal is not only to get hold of her, but to do so before the Guild does.”

“Of course.” He bowed his head in acknowledgment, deeply enough to hide the glow of triumph on his face. “I promise.”