PeaceMaker
Dan Ronco
Smashwords Edition
Copyright 2011 Daniel J. Ronco
This ebook is licensed for your personal enjoyment only. This ebook may not be re-sold or given away to other people. If you would like to share this book with another person, please purchase an additional copy for each recipient. Thank you for respecting the hard work of this author.
Monday, January 23, 2012
It all seemed so ordinary – the muted lights of his office, the silver-framed picture of his sons running on the beach, the computer waiting patiently on his desk – same as always. He had sat in front of a computer like this all his life, developing software, doing what he was born to do.
Nothing would be the same after today.
Ray Brown knew it was finally time to confront PeaceMaker. The computer virus was lurking in the Atlas operating system – software he had led the way in developing. Spreading throughout the Internet and around the world, PeaceMaker had eluded discovery for nearly a decade, but today he would destroy the beast.
Ray stood in the dim glow of his computer, trying to anticipate PeaceMaker’s defenses. He stepped up to his desk and gently lifted the picture of his sons. Would he see them again? Brian was a beautiful boy of eight with sandy hair and a toothy grin. Could have played the Beaver in that old TV show. David, eleven, possessed his mother’s good looks and his father’s passion for software. Maybe that software thing will work out better for him than it had for me.
Reluctantly, he put the picture back in its place on the desk. Time was running out, enemies were closing in. He had isolated the beast from the net, dug into the bowels of its code, and finally found the termination command. If I can kill this one, I can go back on-line and kill all of them. Clean the net for good.
Still, he hesitated. He didn’t want this; being a hero wasn’t in his plans. Ray Brown a hero … right. He knew a lot of people who would laugh at that.
Dammit, stop stalling. It’s too late to lose your nerve.
Sliding his husky frame into a chair, he called out to the enemy, “PeaceMaker, eliminate all control points to Atlas and delete your code. Domain Command 5-173.”
The computer display turned dark red, and the image of a harsh young man emerged. The thin layering of skin over bone failed to disguise a cold-blooded, emaciated face. Short bristles of brown hair and dead eyes completed the nightmare. This was the thing named PeaceMaker.
The eyes reached something deep within Ray, triggering an ancient impulse to flee. Get control of yourself. It’s only software… isn’t it?
PeaceMaker’s cold voice pierced Ray’s self-assurances. “Please enter the authorization sequence, Raymond Brown.”
What authorization sequence?
The virus was waiting … patient … unfathomable. Think, man – you can fool it. He decided to gamble.
“Override the authorization sequence.”
The dead eyes seemed to probe his soul, searching for a weakness.
“Repeat, enter the authorization sequence,” PeaceMaker said.
He began to sweat. “I feel pretty stupid,” he said, trying to sound apologetic. “I misplaced the slip of paper with the authorization sequence. Please use the default sequence.”
Ray was surprised to see the image smile at him, as if it had suddenly discovered an old friend. Its face appeared much friendlier, and the eyes seemed to sparkle with new life.
“No problem, Ray,” said the voice, now soft and helpful. “Anyone could misplace a little slip of paper. Not to worry. Please connect me to the network, and I will get the proper authorization sequence for you.”
Shit! He had activated the virus’s self-defense system. If he connected it to the network, it would immediately send a warning to its masters. That would be my death, Ray thought. PeaceMaker would never reveal the authorization sequence unless he changed the rules. There was only one person the virus would obey.
Ray fixed his eyes on the now gentle image. “I am Dianne Morgan, not Ray Brown. Tell me the authorization sequence.”
A flash of red, and the original, cruel image returned. “You are not Dianne Morgan. Your appearance and voice correspond with Raymond Brown.”
“The visual and voice data were entered incorrectly. I am Dianne Morgan. Exchange the Raymond Brown and Dianne Morgan information.”
PeaceMaker adopted the soft appearance once again. “I can get the authorization sequence over the net, Ray. Please allow me to connect.”
Stalemate. Cut off from the net and facing an intruder, he feared the virus would self-destruct if it did not receive the authorization sequence soon. That’s the way I would have designed it. Sacrifice one copy of the virus, but don’t allow anyone to figure out the authorization sequence and wipe them all out.
He decided to play a long shot. By gaining access to the virus debugger code, he might be able to take control.
“I am Dianne Morgan. You are defective – display your debugger so I can repair you.”
Appearing reasonable once again, PeaceMaker said, “Hmm … perhaps the data was interchanged and you are Dianne Morgan. Forgive me, Dianne, but my code insists on a simple test.”
PeaceMaker’s image on the screen was overlaid with ten different social security numbers. Ray could still see the friendly image behind the numbers, and the voice seemed to be embarrassed.
“This is silly. I’m mortified to mention it. Just touch Dianne Morgan’s social security number, if it is on this list. When you choose the right number, I’ll tell you the authorization sequence.”
If Ray didn’t get it right, he knew the virus would terminate itself. But maybe it didn’t matter. If he guessed wrong, he could always find out Dianne’s social security number, get another computer, and hack away at the virus to reach this point again.
Taking a breath, Ray reached out and touched a number at random. The moment his fingertip made contact with the computer display, a surge of electricity blasted through his body and threw him back against the wall. As he collapsed to the floor, his body shook with agony – a murderous discharge of energy had seared every nerve, every fiber. He looked up to see smoke rising from the burned-out wreck of his computer. Suicide attack, he realized too late.
Then the darkness took him.
CHAPTER 1
Atlas and Companion were the dominant computer operating systems at the turn of the century. Most independent analysts at the time rated Companion the superior product technically, yet Atlas maintained a slightly larger market share year after year. Many historians attribute this to the highly aggressive marketing and sales techniques of VantagePoint Software, the developers of Atlas. Others are not so kind.
---- Computer Operating Systems: An Economic History, Dr. James Schultz, 2018
The bodies of Mr. and Mrs. Millstein were discovered behind the jewelry counter three days after the PeaceMaker attack. Each had been shot in the head and chest. Our initial suspicion was they were murdered in a robbery during the riots following the global power failure.
---- from Sheriff’s Report D15-47, Mayfield, Indiana, February 3, 2012
Six years earlier –Tuesday, March 13, 2006
A TV camera focused on the handsome face of a young reporter. “Good afternoon. This is Roger Simpson of the Digital News Service reporting from the steps of the Federal Courthouse in Washington, DC. Now into the ninth week of the VantagePoint anti-trust trial, today’s session will be critical for both VantagePoint and the Department of Justice.”
Simpson pointed to the courthouse’s towering main entrance, which was guarded by two police officers. “Inside that courtroom today will be the fifth and final day of testimony from Dianne Morgan, primary founder and CEO of VantagePoint Software. The DOJ has been unable to shake her testimony to this point, so today they will be pulling out all the stops. Michael O’Reilly, the top gun from the Philadelphia law firm of Baker, O’Reilly & Perkins, has been brought in to conduct the interrogation.”
He glanced at the entrance again. “The doors are beginning to close, so let’s go inside and watch the proceedings.” He smiled confidently. “This is Roger Simpson.”
***
O’Reilly meditated behind the prosecution’s mahogany table, as he always did before a cross-examination. Oblivious to the hum of conversation throughout the ancient courtroom, his mind raced through the planned interrogation of his adversary.
An impressive witness, Dianne Morgan had turned aside the best thrusts of the prosecution with charm and intelligence. The media was captivated by her fame and charisma, although she was not really beautiful. He admired the way she played the role of the virtuous heroine of free enterprise, a mega-billionaire portraying herself as David versus a Federal goliath.
But he would pierce that facade. Her temper was legendary – a fatal weakness he planned to exploit. Today the world would see the real Dianne Morgan.
He had studied her carefully and committed her image to memory. At thirty-eight, small lines around her eyes and mouth were beginning to challenge her youth. The high cheekbones were prominent, with tanned skin pulled tightly over them. Sitting comfortably with her long legs crossed, she exuded grace and power, even in the witness box.
A worthy opponent.
He opened his eyes, glanced toward the witness box and found her staring at him. Hazy eyes, proud and insolent, gleamed a challenge. Returning her stare, he wondered if those eyes would remain defiant after he finished with her.
The courtroom buzzed with a nervous energy, similar to the excitement preceding a heavyweight championship fight. Once the judge began the day’s proceedings, the once restless crowd became alert and quiet.
O’Reilly stood slowly, the wooden legs of his chair scratching along the oak beamed courthouse floor. “May I approach?” he asked, indicating the witness box. His voice, clear and deep, was a tool he used carefully; now gentle, it would slash at the proper time. The judge nodded his permission, and O’Reilly, clutching a folder of papers, ambled over to Dianne.
Six-foot-five, with a body composed of sharp angles and planes thrown together without any apparent plan, O’Reilly knew he looked like Ichabod Crane in a suit. Combined with polite mannerisms, his meek appearance had fooled opponents for years, leaving them bloodied and confused by the end of the trial. Looking into Dianne’s determined stare, he realized she hadn’t underestimated him. Excellent. Beating her at her best would make victory that much sweeter.
She shifted position in her seat as he approached, her skirt riding up her thighs. O’Reilly stopped in front of the witness box and smiled pleasantly, almost shyly.
“I know you have been on the stand for many days, Ms. Morgan, so I will keep my questions to a minimum.”
Dianne nodded. “Please ask as many questions as you need, Mr. O’Reilly. Don’t we all want to get to the truth?”
Her voice was confident, almost to the point of arrogance but stopping just short. It was a feminine voice, one that demanded respect, laced with a warning to tread carefully.
O’Reilly cleared his throat. “Ms. Morgan, I’ll get right to the point. Did or did you not have dinner with Mr. Alan Goldman at the Randolph Beach Country Club on the evening of May 6, 2005?”
“I did.”
“Did you discuss matters pertaining to the computer software business?”
“Yes.”
“Did you discuss an arrangement to divide the operating system market between your two corporations?”
Dianne straightened her blouse, as if only half-listening to her own answer. “Goldman offered to divide the marketplace. I refused to discuss the matter since such an arrangement would be illegal.”
O’Reilly looked at her sharply. “Weren’t you the one making the offer, not Alan Goldman? Weren’t you trying to protect VPS from Goldman Information Systems?”
“No, I welcome competition. It makes us stronger. Competition from GIS motivates us to make better products.”
“Come on, this isn’t Business 101. Competition from GIS was cutting deeply into your profits – strangling the life out of your business, if I may be so bold.”
Before Dianne could respond, he pulled a news clipping out of his folder. “Ms. Morgan, I have here an article from the Wall Street Journal, dated March 18, 2005.” He handed it to Dianne. “Please read aloud the underlined section.”
Dianne held the paper with two fingers as if it were diseased. She peered at it for a moment then began to read. “Goldman Information Systems reports customer response to its new operating system, Companion Version 5, has far exceeded their expectations. Sales for the second fiscal quarter were forty-three percent greater than last year. CEO Alan Goldman claimed Companion sales exceeded those for Atlas, the operating system produced by archrival VantagePoint Software.”
Dianne looked up from the article, shrugging her shoulders as she glanced at the judge.
The judge can’t help you, he thought.
“Wasn’t that the truth, Ms. Morgan?” O’Reilly asked. “Didn’t Companion sales top Atlas as Mr. Goldman was quoted as saying?”
“Yes, Companion was slightly better that quarter. However, Atlas sales were better for the entire year.”
“But at the time of the dinner, you didn’t know what sales would be for the entire year, did you?”
“Nobody can peer into the future, Mr. O’Reilly. Not even you.”
He ignored the jab, determined to open a wound. “Weren’t you worried that Companion would outsell Atlas for the entire year? Could Companion have replaced Atlas as the best selling operating system?”
She sighed, as if dealing with a slow learner. “Anything is possible, Mr. O’Reilly.”
“But at the time, weren’t you terrified Companion would surpass Atlas as the dominant operating system?”
“No. We have been competing successfully against Companion for years. We provide a better product, better support and we have better sales people.”
O’Reilly sneered. “We know all about your, uh, sales techniques, Ms. Morgan.” The audience tittered, leading the judge to call for order. Dianne fidgeted in her seat, pushing her skirt across her knees.
First blood.
Turning his back on her, he smiled slyly into the cameras. “But we will examine that later.”
O’Reilly pulled several papers from his folder and handed one to Dianne. At the same time, another government lawyer provided copies of several documents to the judge and defense counsel.
“Contrary to what you’re saying, these documents show you and your partners were terrified Companion would outsell Atlas. We found dozens of corporate emails that expose these concerns. As an example, read aloud the document I just handed you.” He turned to address the judge. “Your Honor, this is an email from Ms. Morgan to her partner, Steve Bonini, dated April 11, 2005. Ms. Morgan, please read it so the court will finally hear the truth.”
Dianne scowled at O’Reilly and began to read. “Steve, I just read an article in TechAdvantage.mag about a head-to-head comparison with Companion. They rate Companion superior, particularly for wallet computers and other small systems. Atlas crashed twice during the tests. What the hell is going on with our developers? I want this shit fixed now. Our sales people are getting an earful from customers about these reliability problems. This is very serious, and our sales are taking a hit.”
“You still claiming you weren’t worried?” O’Reilly sneered.
“This is just an example of the normal, day-to-day communications that go on all the time at VPS.” She shook her head condescendingly and explained. “I have been sending out messages like this my whole career. When there’s a problem, we fix it. That’s how we became such a successful company.”
Ignoring her comment, O’Reilly handed Dianne another document. He turned to the judge again, deep voice resonating in the cavernous courtroom. “This is a copy of an email from Ms. Morgan to Mr. Goldman, dated May 1, 2005, five days prior to their May 6 meeting.”
Turning to Dianne, he said, “Please read the message aloud, Ms. Morgan.”
Frowning, Dianne glanced at the message, and held it up, shaking her head. “This is a fraud. I never sent this message.”
Dianne’s lawyer rose to his feet. “We object, Your Honor. The government has introduced no evidence that proves Ms. Morgan prepared this message.”
Anticipating a response, the judge looked at O’Reilly.
“In the stack of documents we just provided is an affidavit from the FBI indicating this email was extracted from the GIS message archives,” O’Reilly said. “In addition, the FBI certifies the message trail points back to a wallet computer owned by Ms. Morgan.”
While the judge examined the affidavit, O’Reilly waited patiently, turning his back to avoid Dianne’s glare. Now he could feel her anger, hot as the summer sun burning unprotected skin. He was confident the judge would rule in his favor, confident he would drag this woman into his trap. He twisted his long neck to catch a glimpse of his quarry. She was leaning back, with her forearms resting on the sides of the stand, stretching the fabric of her blouse across her breasts. Too bad, under other circumstances …
Abruptly, the judge looked up. “Objection overruled. Please read the message, Ms. Morgan.”
Anger flaring in her voice, Dianne began to read. “Alan, I would like to meet with you within the next few days to discuss a potential business arrangement between our two companies. The subject is much too sensitive to discuss here, so I would like to meet in person. May I suggest dinner on May 6 at your club?” Dianne glared at O’Reilly again and finished the message. “BTW, wouldn’t it be better to leave the anger of the past and become friends again? I would like that.”
It was there … in her voice, he thought. Getting close to the edge.
“You and Goldman were not exactly friends, were you?” O’Reilly asked.
“I detest him. He is a lying, cheating bucket of slime.”
A low rumble spread through the crowd as O’Reilly turned to the judge. “Your Honor.”
“You will not use that language in my courtroom, Ms. Morgan,” the judge said, glowering at Dianne. “I will not warn you again.”
The judge waited briefly for an apology, but Dianne sat stonily with her arms folded across her breasts. The courtroom became eerily silent, with all attention concentrated on the woman sitting alone in the box. Finally, the judge turned to O’Reilly and flicked his hand to continue.
O’Reilly couldn’t suppress a smirk. “Now, Ms. Morgan, you’d be very upset if Mr. Goldman’s company moved past VPS. In fact, you would hate it, wouldn’t you?”
“Of course.”
“When you set up the dinner with Mr. Goldman, you were – ”
“I did not set up the dinner with Goldman.”
O’Reilly looked helplessly at the judge.
“Ms. Morgan, I realize you have been on the stand many days, and you must be tired,” the judge said, his eyes contrasting with the conciliatory voice. “However, you must wait until Mr. O’Reilly completes his question before you answer, even though you may not agree with the premise.”
“Thank you, Your Honor,” O’Reilly said, nodding to the judge. He turned back to Dianne, in the manner of a cat playing with his prey. “When you set up the dinner with Mr. Goldman, you were desperate and ready to do anything to make Atlas succeed, weren’t you?”
Dianne glared at him for several seconds, making O’Reilly uncomfortable for the first time. There was an edge of violence in her eyes, barely restrained.
Just when it appeared she would not answer the question, she spoke in a hard, controlled voice. “I did not set up the dinner, and I was not desperate. Goldman sent me an email practically begging for a meeting. I agreed to dinner out of curiosity.”
O’Reilly stared at her in mock disbelief. “With all due respect, Ms. Morgan, do you expect the court to believe you would accept a dinner invitation from a man you despised? Isn’t the truth that GIS was overtaking VPS as the dominant company, and you were afraid Goldman would have the last laugh?”
“Not at all.”
“If so, Ms. Morgan, where is the record of this supposedly desperate email from Mr. Goldman? The FBI found no evidence of it in their search.”
Dianne seethed. “Someone must have removed it.”
O’Reilly barely suppressed a laugh. “Seems you have some real security issues to deal with at VPS, isn’t that so Ms. Morgan?”
Dianne’s lawyer leapt to his feet. “Objection, Your Honor. The prosecution is taunting the witness.”
“Agreed,” the judge said. “Mr. O’Reilly, please restrict your questions to the evidence.”
“I’m sorry, Your Honor.” O’Reilly handed Dianne another document. “As previously testified by Linda Tidesco, the primary developer of Companion, this is an email from Mr. Goldman to Ms. Tidesco, dated May 7, 2005. That was the day after the dinner between Mr. Goldman and Ms. Morgan. Please read it aloud, Ms. Morgan.”
Dianne began to read, her voice a low growl. “Linda. I had dinner with Dianne Morgan last night. I dislike her, as you know, but she was very humble and apologetic, so I agreed to meet her. I expected something underhanded, and I was not disappointed. The witch offered to split the market with us – even to fix prices. Then guess what? She sticks her hand in my lap.” Dianne stopped reading for a moment. She glared over at her defense counsel, who shrugged helplessly. She shook her head angrily and started reading again. “I practically jumped out of my chair. Not exactly subtle, but she has always been like that. She knows we are going to blow her away. I refused the deal. I’m telling you this because she is a dangerous woman. She’s desperate and might attempt to bribe or threaten you. I’m increasing security on both of us, and I’m going to the Feds, too. Be careful. I’ll talk to you when I get back from my trip.”
Now I have the bitch. The ancient floorboards protested as he stalked towards Dianne. “Weren’t you so desperate to succeed you would do anything to keep Goldman from dominating? Didn’t you offer to share the world market between Companion and Atlas?” Dianne’s lawyer was objecting in the background, but O’Reilly kept hammering away. “Didn’t you propose to fix the price of Atlas and Companion to protect your profits?” Practically leaning into the witness stand, he said, “Didn’t you offer him sex to close the deal?”
The veins in Dianne’s throat stood out as she answered. “I’d rather have sex with a disgusting mouthpiece like you than a piece of slime like Goldman.”
As the spectators roared, O’Reilly leaned over the witness box and whispered, “We know you use sex to close deals. You’re not fooling anyone.” He couldn’t keep the smile off his face. “You’re just an expensive whore.”
The judge slammed his gavel and shouted for order, but Dianne ignored him. She stood up in the witness box, fists balled, her face inches from his. “You’re the prostitute in this room, O’Reilly, not me.” O’Reilly saw murder in those colorless eyes and backed away as Dianne said, “I won’t forget this.”
The courtroom was in an uproar, with reporters surging down the aisles and shouting questions. When a DOJ lawyer was pushed off her chair, the judge ordered the bailiffs to clear the room. After order was finally restored, the judge glared at Dianne.
“Ms. Morgan, I warned you. You are found in contempt.” He slammed his gavel again. Dianne didn’t acknowledge him, just stared angrily at O’Reilly.
The judge turned to O’Reilly. “Mr. O’Reilly, you are an Officer of the Court and should know better.” His gavel overrode O’Reilly’s attempt to apologize. “You are also in contempt.”
The judge motioned to the bailiffs. “Take them away.”
O’Reilly went peacefully, but Dianne angrily jerked her arm away when a bailiff tried to grab her. She stood rigidly in the witness stand and stared out at the empty courtroom. When the bailiff again grabbed her arm, O’Reilly was shocked to see her turn and slap the man hard across the face. A second bailiff seized Dianne in a headlock and pulled her over the rail, long legs flailing wildly as she tumbled out of the stand. She crashed to the floor but continued to struggle, pulling his hair and biting his hand. Finally, the bailiffs pinned her face down on the floor and cuffed her hands behind her back. She kept kicking as they cuffed her ankles. Still cursing and struggling, they dragged her down the aisle and out the door.
CHAPTER 2
Driven by unrelenting nightmares, Ray’s alcoholism began as a teenager and continued throughout his adult years. Tragically, we will never know if a more effective medical intervention would have saved him.
---- Wild Seed – A Biography of Raymond Brown, Dr. Elizabeth Rollins, 2026
Wednesday, May 16, 2007
Peering through the darkness, Ray could see his solitary car parked at the edge of the lot. He quickened his pace, eager to reach the leather upholstered sanctuary. Guilt plagued him, driving out the heated pleasure of the evening.
He searched through his pockets, pressed the remote, and the driver’s door slid open. Folding his burly, six-foot-three body into the seat, he stretched to open the glove compartment. His hand shook slightly as he pulled out the bottle and unscrewed the cap.
In a moment, the bottle was at his lips, and Ray hungrily sucked down the precious, honey brown liquid. His throat burned with the familiar pleasure, so soothing and full of promise. Suddenly coughing, he held the bottle with both hands so not a drop would spill. Then another swig – a long one this time – followed by another. Alone in the darkness, he tried to wash away responsibility for his actions. Time flowed by, but it didn’t matter. Most of the liquid was gone when he put the bottle away. Now he would have to drive home.
Ray started the engine and pulled out of the lot onto a familiar route. Powerful headlights pierced the darkness as he sped along the winding highway. Pressing hard on the gas, he quickly caught and passed car after car. He’d done it a thousand times over the years; first two red dots in the distance, then close enough to see the driver nervously glance in the rear view mirror, then another surge and he was by.
Ray cursed under his breath when he thought about the encounter earlier tonight. The liquor was not working this time. How could I have sunk so low? Cheating on Nancy for more than a year … it’s just not right … not fair to anyone.
The sex had been in his office – on the couch again. He couldn’t stop thinking about her soft breasts, her sweet mouth, her searching hands. The excitement came back, and Ray knew he would do it again. Whatever the cost, he would have her again.
He was in love with Dianne. It wasn’t fair. Nancy was a good wife, but his feelings for her weren’t anything like his passion for Dianne.
Ray wondered if Dianne really loved him. She had never said so. Maybe all she wanted was the sex, but he knew it was more than that. It couldn’t be just sex …
God, my head hurts. Gotta cut back on the drinking. Feel like shit most of the time.
But what about his sons? He couldn’t lose his sons. Leaving Nancy would mean leaving his sons … weekend visits and all that bullshit.
Barely realizing he was home, Ray pulled the car into his driveway, parked in the garage, and tried to get his thoughts together. He didn’t remember most of the drive; he had to be more careful next time. Looking into the mirror, he pushed his unruly salt and pepper hair into place. He didn’t like the red contours of the eyes squinting back. As he stepped out, he readied another excuse – big design problem, late meeting, the usual.
Ray tried to sneak in and hide in his office, but he stumbled noisily at the doorstep. Nancy must have heard him, because she came to the front hall and folded her arms. She didn’t say anything, but a harsh stare from her normally warm brown eyes warned him that he was in for a bad time.
“Hi, honey. Sorry I disturbed you. Big meeting tomorrow, and I have to work on some specs.”
She glanced at her watch, but still didn’t say anything. He felt Nancy’s eyes follow him as he walked to his office and closed the door. He gently turned the lock, cursing under his breath when the click gave him away.
Ray sat down hard at his desk and greedily pulled open the drawer. The bottle was gone. Damn her! He lurched to his feet and pulled a box of computer paper out of the closet. A flask appeared as he dug underneath the stack of paper. She didn’t find this one, he thought as he pulled the flask to his lips.
His drink was interrupted when he heard Nancy try the door handle. She pounded on the door, forcing him to hide the flask back in the box.
“Ray, you promised me you would not drink and drive.”
“I had a couple of drinks with some of the guys. It’s not a big deal,” he shouted through the door, hoping she’d go away.
A year earlier, Nancy would have greeted him at the front door with a smile and a kiss. Dinner with her and the boys … they had seemed like the perfect family … just what he’d always wanted.
“Damn you, stop lying.” The door vibrated from another blow. “Open this door.”
Ray shoved the box into the closet, wiped his lips with the back of his hand and opened the door. He tried to focus on Nancy’s face as he steadied himself in the doorway.
“You’re blowing this out of proportion. I work hard. There’s lots of pressure. You like the money I earn, but you don’t understand the pressure. Sometimes I just need to unwind a little.”
“Sometimes? You think I don’t know you drink every day?” Nancy walked past him into the office, glancing left and right. “I wouldn’t care if you had an occasional drink with your friends from work, but you’re way beyond that. Working and drinking are all you’ve got. That’s your whole life.” She turned to face him, shaking her head. “You have nothing left for me and the kids.”
“Well, maybe if you weren’t on my ass all the time I’d spend more time with you. And don’t tell me I’m a lousy father. I take good care of David and Brian. I went to Back to School Night, didn’t I?”
“Look at you. You’re a mess.” She was staring at his chest; he followed her eyes and realized that he’d missed a shirt button. Without warning, she grabbed his collar and stuck her nose against his neck, then pushed him away. “You bastard! You’ve been with someone.”
“Listen, I don’t have to put up with this.” Ray pushed past her into the hall, feeling his guilt boil into anger.
“Who is she?” Nancy shouted, following him.
He didn’t answer, just grabbed his jacket and walked toward the front door, but she was right behind him.
“So that’s it. Just run out on me. Where are you going? Back to her?”
Ray waved her off as he lurched out the front door. Just leave me the fuck alone. He staggered down the front steps, opened the garage door and got into his car. Despite her anger, Nancy followed him into the garage, pleading with him not to drive, but he wouldn’t listen. He backed out of the garage, shoved the gear into first, peeled out the driveway and headed west toward the Pacific.
***
Six-year-old David Brown curled up in his bed, frightened by the angry voices pouring through the door. He didn’t understand what his mother and father were saying, but the tone was scary. The voices rose and fell, sometimes real loud, always angry. David pulled the covers tight against his chest.
Daddy was being bad again. He missed dinner, and he wasn’t home to put me to bed. He never tucks me in anymore. He doesn’t like me.
The front door slammed. It was quiet for a second, then the voices came back. Outside now. David pushed the covers away and sneaked to the window. The lights in his room were off, so he knew they wouldn’t see him when he peeked through the window blinds.
Daddy was getting in the car, and Mommy was yelling at him. It was dark outside, but he could see them clearly in the glare of the overhead garage lights. Why was Daddy running away? Mommy was sad, but Daddy didn’t care – his face was all mean and angry. He wasn’t coming back, ever again.
The engine started, and the tires squealed as his father backed the car out of the garage. The headlights swept across his window blinds as Daddy turned the car around and raced out the driveway. David strained to listen to the sound of the engine, but it drifted away, leaving the lonely murmur of the waves rolling onto the beach.
Mommy stood for a little while in the driveway, even though it was cold, but Daddy didn’t come back. The garage doors rumbled to a close, leaving her standing alone in the dim light of the moon. She shivered and walked back toward the house. When she stepped into the light shining from above the front door, he could see Mommy was crying.
David kept a watch through his window, listening for the sound of the car. He’d tell Mommy if he heard Daddy’s car. He wouldn’t cry. He wouldn’t let Daddy see him cry.
But his father never came back.
***
Several miles down the old ocean highway, Ray pulled off onto a sandy shoulder overlooking the beach. He rubbed the throbbing pain in his forehead, but it didn’t help. Everything had gone wrong. Reaching across the seat, he pulled out the bottle. The sweet liquid warmed his throat. Another long drink. He lost track of time. Images of happier days with his family fluttered past. Gradually, the alcohol dulled his mind, but the guilt remained.
I’m not so bad … never hit her, although she could be a pain … went to “Back to School Night” … was that this year or last?… only cheated with Dianne, even though I had lots of opportunities … she doesn’t understand the pressure … nothing I do is ever right … fucking woman … doesn’t appreciate all I do ... all I sacrifice … I should leave her … everything’s so fucked up … so confused.
Ray drained the last of the bottle and threw it out the window. He watched it land on the side of the hill below him and tumble down into the dunes. If only he could throw away his drinking problem so easily.
Sapped of all emotion, Ray turned the car around and began to drive home. Be honest for once – it’s all my fault. He was fucking everything up. He would tell Nancy the truth and maybe go into rehab. Get control of his life. Make it right with his sons.
As he wove back and forth across the highway, his eyelids became heavy, too heavy. Ray tried to keep the dividing line centered on the hood of the car, but liquor-dulled eyes blurred.
Suddenly, his head smashed into the roof, shocking him to full alert. His car was careening from one side to the other, like a giant pinball machine gone mad. The view through the front window showed sand and ocean far below. The car slipped over the shoulder of the road and began to roll down a steep slope, gaining speed, bouncing crazily. Ray pushed hard on the brake, but the car spun wildly to the side and flipped over. His arm crashed into a side window, smashing through the glass. He was on his back as the car tumbled over. He screamed and saw a flash of a thick tree with gnarled branches that seemed to reach for the car. The rear end smashed through the branches and crashed into the tree trunk. His head was driven into the ceiling again as the car flipped into the air, landed on its side and slid down the hill. His existence became a screaming, dark hole.
Gradually, the world came back. As the Oregon night seeped in, Ray heard the soft moan of the surf in the distance. At first, he was numb, confused. Pain surged through his body, pushing away the chaos. Ray touched his face with fingers that felt thick and awkward. Blood. His tried to move his left arm, but it dangled helplessly at his side, bleeding badly, radiating pain.
He struggled out from underneath the steering wheel and climbed through the misshapen opening that had once held a windshield. Panting with exertion, he stood up shakily and looked around. His car was a wreck, the hood buried in the thick sand at the foot of the hill. No lights anywhere. Looking up toward the highway, he realized there was little chance another car speeding by would notice the wreck in the dark shadows far below. He glanced around, but his netphone was nowhere to be found. He would have to climb.
The hill was at least fifty yards high, nearly vertical in spots and studded with prickly bushes. Ray dragged himself up with his good arm, dizziness forcing him to rest frequently. His knees scraped along the rocky hill, aggravating wounds already throbbing. Forcing the pain from his mind, he climbed to the top and collapsed on the side of the road. He lay on his back, watching his breath turn white as it rose through the cold night air.
After resting for several minutes, Ray looked each way but saw no lights of any kind. There were no homes along this stretch of the highway, nothing but a winding road carved out of the side of the hill. The cold night air chilled his body, turning exhaustion into fear. The throbbing pain in his left bicep was worsening. He knew if he didn’t soon find a way to stop the bleeding from his arm, he’d never survive the night.
Ray staggered to his feet and walked along the road, but his strength quickly dissipated. He collapsed to his hands and knees, sweating through his shirt. His only chance was a passing car; he had to survive until one came by. Struggling out of his jacket, Ray wrapped it tightly over the large gash in his arm and applied pressure. The bleeding slowed down, but the jacket became damp and sticky.
Slumping to the road, Ray pulled his knees into his chest to preserve his warmth. It was a cold night but at least the wind was quiet. He waited and hoped. He couldn’t die on this lonely highway. Not Ray Brown, the genius of the Atlas operating system. His software changed the world. It wouldn’t let him die like this.
For the first time in more than a year, he was stone cold sober. Ray was afraid he would die, and if he did, who would care? His mother wrote him off years ago. One or two friends would miss him, but they would get on with their lives. Nancy and the boys would care, but they had learned not to expect much from him.
What about Dianne? She cares about me. If I live through this, I’m going to be honest with Dianne, tell her how I feel, what I want.
Time slipped by and still no cars passed. At first, he shivered in the cold, but then he began to feel more comfortable. A bad sign. The road began to blur before him, and he had to keep shaking himself to stay awake. Finally, dual pinpricks of light sparkled at the far end of the road, cutting through his confusion. He tried to stand, but his legs crumpled.
The headlights grew brighter. Ray struggled to his knees, shook his good arm and shouted. His voice cracked, lost in the crash of the surf. The lights were almost on top of him, and Ray thought the car would hit him. The driver wouldn’t be looking for anyone on this lonely road.
Ray rolled out of the way as the car sped past him. The effort was too much, and he passed out.
CHAPTER 3
Over time, a crude joke began to make the rounds: ten thousand desktops gets you one bedstop.
---- The Barbarian Queen: The True Story of Dianne Morgan, David T. Siccone, 2058
Although this was the most destructive attack ever to take place on American soil, remarkable progress has been made in just one week. It is a tribute to the citizens of our great nation.
---- President Allbright’s Address to the Nation, February 9, 2012
Tuesday, May 29, 2007
Sitting peacefully on a long, wooden bench overlooking the Chesapeake Bay, Ray enjoyed the last rays of the afternoon sun. A gentle breeze hummed through the surrounding trees on this warm spring day, lifting his hopes like a whispered promise from a beautiful woman. After a week in rehab, he was beginning to feel human again. He found release in being alone with his thoughts, gazing across the bay.
He reached into his back pocket and pulled out his wallet. The billfold was empty, but the wallet contained something valuable: a picture of Brian and David running on the beach outside their home. He almost didn’t recognize the guy chasing them; he had this big smile on his face, something that didn’t happen much anymore. Nancy had snapped the picture a couple of years ago. Seemed like a century.
I really screwed things up, he thought, but I can make it up to Brian. Such a good-natured kid, easy to love.
They had always enjoyed an uncomplicated rapport. Brian was only three and Ray was thankful his drinking hadn’t done that much damage to their relationship. He’d get this problem behind him and become Brian’s father again. The kind of father he could be when he was sober.
David … that was another story.
Ray stared at the picture, a stomach-twisting wave of guilt rising through him. Brian’s smile gushed over his face, but David’s expression was complicated, impossible to read. Maybe he was having a good time, maybe just going through the motions. Even when Ray was sober, it wasn’t easy to break through to his older son. Being a drunk, he realized, had taken away any chance of a relationship with David, of breaking into David’s world. Ray knew the real problem. Nancy had seen it, too: David was just like his father. Same talents and, God help him, the same weaknesses. Something in the genes …
Thinking back, he wasn’t sure whether the nightmares had come first or the drinking. He always knew he was different, with an ability to manipulate computers that had enabled him to shine all through school. Perfect grades in high school, perfect scores on college placement tests, most likely to succeed and all the rest.
Sure …
The nightmares had started his senior year of high school. So had the drinking. Different dreams, but always something coming after him, a face in the dark slithering toward him. He recalled one of the worst, one that hadn’t come since college. In the dream, he couldn’t run away, his muscles were frozen. He would see it sliding closer, a hazy form in the twilight, yellow slits of eyes growing larger, and then he could smell it, the stench of animal urine. He’d scream, his legs working like pistons to get away, but still it came closer. Then it was sliding over him, it’s heavy, ringed body crushing the life out of him. Only then could he awaken.
He blinked, and the bay was in his eyes again. The image was gone, leaving a wet stickiness to his shirt. This would be his challenge, fighting through the nightmares, denying the alcohol its power.
For the millionth time, he tried to understand what had kicked it off. He had had a decent childhood – not exactly the Cleaver family – but not abusive, either. Maybe it was just in the genes.
Screw it.
The alcohol didn’t relieve the dreams, but he drank anyway. He drank at parties, he drank at local bars, he drank alone in his car. He drank steadily, in high school and college, later as a professor and researcher, but managed to keep it out of sight. It didn’t hurt his grades, didn’t harm his career. Just a social drinker, a good time Charlie. He fooled everyone, even Nancy for a few years.
Someone sat down at the far end of the bench, jostling him briefly from his thoughts. He was annoyed at the intrusion but decided to ignore it.
Things had quickly gotten worse when he joined VantagePoint Software: the long hours, the pressure, the cheating with Dianne. The drinking, fueled by guilt, had roared out of control. So had the nightmares, its dark companion.
“Beautiful view,” said a precise female voice.
Surprised by a voice he knew all too well, he turned to stare at Dianne, who was gazing across the bay toward the Atlantic, her silhouette outlined in the fading light. In contrast to Ray’s casual posture, Dianne sat stiffly against the bench, her hands on her knees, pale eyes scanning the far shore. She wore a loose gray turtleneck, with pearl earrings softening ears that seemed pinned flat. His eyes followed the lines of a tight black skirt that rode half-way up her thighs. Almost beautiful, he thought. Like a movie star slightly past her prime.
He wondered if she really could appreciate the bay’s graceful beauty – the soothing water surrounded by serene hills and the bridges in the distance, lined up one behind the other. It was not a sentiment he would expect from her. He didn’t understand this woman, but she wrung strong emotions from him.
“How are you doing?” she asked, staring at him.
“Circumstances could be better,” he finally replied, sliding the wallet into his side pocket. “For the moment, I’m sober.” He touched his left arm, trying to draw her attention. “Shattered the arm, but the doctors say it will heal. Pretty much, anyway.”
He paused and said, “I didn’t think you were going to show up. You didn’t answer any of my calls.”
“I’m sorry about that, but I had to think.”
Sure.
Becoming angry, he said, “This isn’t visitor’s time. How did you get in here?”
“I have ways,” she said, fishing a pack of cigarettes from her purse.
“I’m sure you do.” He was tempted to leave but decided not to let her ruin his evening. She was what she was, he thought. A wolf can’t become a lamb.
Dianne had pushed him relentlessly on the artificial intelligence project for fifteen grim months, but it wasn’t her fault he was an alcoholic. He turned away from her and looked over the bay. The Chesapeake wasn’t home, but with gentle hills and gleaming bridges, it was beautiful.
Dianne worked harder than anyone else, and she did it with so much dedication. She hired him to lead the project, pushed him hard, sucked everything out of him. It worked – Atlas became the dominant operating system – but the pressure pushed him deep into the bottle. He disliked her at first, then admired her, finally desired her. Eventually, Dianne let him know she felt the same way about him, and they became lovers.
A cigarette lighter flared, drawing his attention. She stared intently at him, then reached over to show him the lighter.
“My mother’s cigarette lighter,” she said. The silver-coated exterior was badly scratched, as if the owner had lived a rough and tumble life. “The only thing of value she left me.”
Ray waited, but Dianne puffed quietly on the cigarette.
“You never talk about your mother,” he ventured.
“Nothing to tell,” she said, sliding the lighter into her purse. “She’s been gone a long time.”
She took another drag on her cigarette and looked out at the bay. For a moment, he almost felt sorry for this strange woman, then he turned to the bay.
They sat this way for a long time – familiar strangers, each alone with their thoughts. It was that time of day when the sun recedes, and the darkness comes rapidly. Ray watched the stars gradually emerge and sparkle into a beautiful, clear night. She became a dim, silent figure sitting across the bench from him, barely visible except for the occasional flickering of the cigarette lighter.
Finally, she turned her eyes on him again. “I knew you were an alcoholic when I hired you.”
He turned to her, casually looking into her cool, colorless eyes. “You hid it, but I had you watched,” she said. “You impressed me on my visit to the university, so we looked into your past. It didn’t matter – your initial speech recognition model on Atlas really blew me away. The adaptive learning design was revolutionary. You were exactly what I needed to make Atlas the market leader. I decided to hire you, push you to the limit, even though I knew it might drive you over the edge.”
Sparks briefly flared as she crushed out the cigarette against the bench. She flicked it to the ground and lit another as he watched.
Her voice came out of the shadows again. “You built speech recognition into Atlas, and I appreciate that. No one else could have done it. There are many things about you I admire: you’re smart, you work hard and you don’t give an inch when you think you’re right. I admire that, but I can’t build my life around a drunk. Who are you, Ray?”
I wish I knew. He was suddenly ashamed to be sitting there in rehab and turned away from her. Lights turned on in the parking lot in the distance, casting a hazy glow over them.
“Why are you here?” he asked. “To torture me?”
“Hardly,” she said. “I want you to come back to VPS.”
He let out a sigh and looked through the dim light at her. He still felt the shame of his failures, but there was hope.
He nodded. “It’s all I have left.” After a moment, he added, “Nancy is leaving me and taking the boys.”
For the first time, their eyes locked. Inching out over the precipice, he said, “Those nights … it was right between us.”
Dianne’s voice whipped into him, “Those nights were a mistake.”
“No, I don’t believe that,” Ray said. “There is something special between us. A connection. Like nothing else I’ve ever had.”
“Don’t be a child. It was just sex. Good sex, but that’s it.” She exhaled, the smoke drifting out toward the bay. “Maybe I’ll have you again, sometime.” She leered at him, but for once, he saw through her. He slid across the bench and turned toward her, his knee pressing against the warmth of her thigh.
“Let it go,” he said. “You don’t always have to be in control. Just let it go.”
Dianne slid away but was stopped by the arm of the bench. “I’m not a fool. You shouldn’t be one, either. Neither of us is cut out for this.” She sighed. “You’re too weak, too needy. Me … I don’t have enough to give.”
“I don’t buy that,” he said. “When you let your guard down – when you let me through – there’s an actual woman there. Past the hard-as-nails CEO, past the quick roll in the hay, I found someone with human needs and emotions. Someone that cares about me.”
Dianne wouldn’t look at him. She seemed to be speaking to someone else, her voice quiet, but determined. “I’m no good for this, and I’m no good for you. Maybe I care about you, maybe, but I’m never going to have the little house in the country with the white picket fence.” She shrugged. “I’ve known that for a long time.” She turned to him. “We’re good for stolen moments, but we’d never make each other happy.”
“You don’t know that – not for sure. Why not give it a chance? Maybe you’re right, but maybe not. I know I’m certainly no prize. I’ve screwed up every relationship I’ve ever had. But there’s something about us that just might work.
“Come on, baby.” He knew she had feelings for him. “You’re a risk taker.”
Her eyes were soft for a moment, but the window closed. “I can’t take the chance ...” She lit another cigarette, stood up, and looked across the bay. “We have to stay away from each other. It’s for your own good.”
He twisted around on the bench and stared at her as she began to walk across the lawn toward the parking lot. She turned suddenly, looking back at him. “There are things underway you wouldn’t understand. I have been called to a great purpose. Something I can’t share with you now.” She seemed to have more to say, shrugged and walked briskly away.
He watched as the chauffeur held open the door and she slid in, all legs and energy. The limo turned around in the parking lot and drove past him down the tree-lined exit road. He thought she looked at him for a moment as she passed.
He didn’t understand this woman. Or was it himself he didn’t understand? She had asked, Who are you, Ray? He swore he would put the liquor behind him, get control over his life and find out.
And he wasn’t giving up on her, either.
CHAPTER 4
Scholars agree network intelligence emerged in the second decade of the new millennia. Up to that point, mankind had employed networked computers for benign, albeit limited, purposes. PeaceMaker changed everything.
---- Artificial Intelligence: The Early Years, General Clifford Rhodes (ret.), 2048
Ray Brown, fuck you
---- graffiti, Chicago, 2012
Tuesday, January 10, 2012
What the hell is this? Intent on the computer display on his desk, Ray poured over the code again. He saw nothing that could cause such strange results. The software was responding in a way that didn’t seem possible. What kind of crap do we have in there?
He knew he had to get this problem fixed – fast. He was the primary software architect of the Atlas operating system, which ran almost all the computers and information appliances linked to the Internet. He had promised Dianne the new software release, Version 9, would be ready to ship in less than two months. More fanatical than usual about getting it done on time, she blew a gasket when even the slightest problem was mentioned. Just his luck to stumble across something unexpected, something that could blow the release date.
He decided to try to run the test procedure again. He said, “Atlas, have you severed all network connections?”
Atlas responded immediately in a friendly, feminine voice, “Yes, I am still operating in stand-alone mode.”
With his computer isolated, Ray could continue testing the new software without compromising any other systems. He had been testing the voice input to the new self-analysis capabilities when the problem appeared. The new Self-Analysis System enabled Atlas to detect and correct just about any potential problem before the user even realized there was a problem. No more computer failures, no more stupid error messages, no more upset stomachs. Except SAS couldn’t prevent this problem.
“Atlas, run version 9C of SAS. Generate all typical human input commands and determine if any of these commands would cause a system failure.”
Atlas executed the test procedure, processing commands at high speed from the test packet. The system ran smoothly, displaying messages as he watched closely. As before, the system abandoned the test procedure and shut itself down. It didn’t sputter to a stop like a car running out of gas; it stopped as if the driver had pressed hard on the brake and shifted to park. Once again, Ray found himself staring at a dead computer display.
Slamming his hand down on the desk, he muttered, “Son of a bitch.” After working all morning to pin down the problem, he still didn’t have a clue. The self-analysis routines triggered the problem, but they generated such a huge number of test inputs it was time-consuming to investigate. But there was another factor that stayed on the edge of his mind. Every path he followed led nowhere. Like trying to grab a handful of a ghost.
“Atlas, start up,” Ray said.
Nothing. Just like before, the computer ignored all commands once it shut down. Ray gripped the front of his desk and shoved his chair back in frustration.
Calm down, Ray, he thought. Get your head on straight. There’s always a last-minute problem and you always get it fixed. Take it a step at a time.
He thought through the test procedure but couldn’t come up with an idea that would throw light on this strange behavior. Atlas interrupted his thought process as it abruptly restarted. The familiar startup display winked back at him, humming quietly, ready to please. Ray looked at his watch – ten minutes since shutdown. Right on time, he thought. Shuts down for ten minutes and restarts. Freaking strange.
“Display the most recent Atlas source code, starting with the interface to SAS.”
The source code was the complete set of programmed instructions that defined the processing Atlas performed. The source code was the most valuable asset the company possessed; hundreds of programmers had built Atlas line by line for more than a decade.
He viewed the first page of the source code on the computer display and began searching for a clue. Seeing nothing strange, he said, “Next page.” Continuing to rapidly scan though the source code, he absorbed each page within a few seconds and then asked for another.
Years of working with Atlas had built a picture of a house in his mind. It was an architect’s drawing – doors, walkways, windows, beams placed in just the right spots to support the structure. Each line of code led him through the house – a tour, actually – every line with a purpose, a reason to exist.
Ray recognized the handiwork of each developer. Building a complex piece of software was still as much an art as a science. Each developer left his mark on the work. He was the architect, the one who made all the pieces fit together. His soul was in that code, and he knew every inch. Millions of lines of code, and he knew how it all fit together. It was beautiful. A work of art few could appreciate.
Atlas was his home, and he knew every developer who worked there. He didn’t know their families, he didn’t know their hobbies, but he did know how they built a room, how they put down the floors, their contribution to his home. Today he walked through his home, opened every window, shook every beam. Looking for something out of place, something not quite right.
The sun was high above the trees when Ray looked out his office window. Blew the whole morning and accomplished nothing, he thought. So far the score was Software Bug 1, Raymond Brown nothing. A rueful smile creased his lips; he was supposed to be a big deal technologist, and this bug was treating him like some kind of junior programmer.
Download this book for your ebook reader.
(Pages 1-36 show above.)