Droids And Bots

Chapter 57

The next day. Same webcam. The teenager called Vold is on the phone again, lounging back in the same relaxed position. He balances a soda on his bulging belly and holds the phone to his head, frowning.

“Right, Arrtrad. Then why hasn’t the story played yet?”

“It was f*****g brilliant, Vold. I called the headquarters of the Associated Press and spoofed my phone as the Bombay consulate. I posed as a b****y Indian reporter calling from—”

“That’s great, mate. Fantastic. You want a f*****g cookie? Just tell me why there’s a story written about my prank floating on the wire but there’s no headline in my local rag?”

“Right, Vold. No worries, mate. There’s one thing. In the story, they say it was some kind of computer glitch that must have caused the raid. You were so good that they didn’t even trace it back to a person. They think a machine did it.”

“Bollocks! I’ll ask you one last time, Arrtrad. Where is my story?”

“The story is locked by an editor. After the piece was submitted, it looks like this bloke went in for another edit and then never left the page. So, it’s been stuck in edits for the last twelve hours. Fellow must have forgotten about it.”

“Not likely. Who is he? The editor? What’s his name?”

“I was already on that, see? As the Indian reporter, I got the guy’s office number at his bureau. But when I called, it turned out he never worked there. They don’t know him. It’s a dead end, Vold. It’s impossible to find him. He doesn’t exist. And the story can’t be picked up off the wire until it comes out from the edits, see?”

“The IP.”

“Oy?”

“Am I stuttering? The f*****g IP address. If the cunt suppressing my story is sporting a false identity, then I’ll track him down.”

“Oh my god. Right. I’ll e-mail it to you now. I sure feel sorry for this bloke when you get hold of him, Vold. You’re going to take him out. You’re the best, mate. There’s no way—”

“Arrtrad?”

“Yes, Vold?”

“Don’t you ever ag

ain tell me that something is impossible. Ever. Again.”

“No worries, mate. You know I didn’t mean to say—”

“I’ll catch you in the funny pages, mate.”

Click.

The teenager dials a number from memory.

The phone rings once. A young man answers.

“MI5, Security Service. How may I direct your call?”

The teenager speaks in the clipped, self-assured voice of an older man who has made similar calls hundreds of times. “Forensic computing division, please.”

“Of course.”

Clicking, then a professional voice answers. “Forensic computing.”

“Good morning. This is Intelligence Officer Anthony Wilcox. Verification code eight, three, eight, eight, five, seven, four.”

“Authorized, Officer Wilcox. What can I do for you today?”

“Just a simple IP lookup. Numbers are as follows: one twenty-eight, two, fifty-one, one eighty-three.”

“One moment, please.”

About thirty seconds pass.

“Right. Officer Wilcox?”

“Yes?”

“That belongs to a computer in the United States. Some sort of research facility. Actually, that didn’t come easy. There was quite a lot of obfuscation involved. The address bounces globally from a half dozen other places before landing back there. Our machines were only able to track it down because it exhibits a pattern of behavior.”

“What’s that?”

“The person at that address has been editing news articles. Hundreds of them over the past three months.”

“Really? And who is at that address?”

“A scientist. His offices are at Lake Novus Research Laboratories in Washington State. Let me just look it up for you. Right. His name is Dr. Nicholas Wasserman.”

“Wasserman, eh? Thanks very much.”

“Cheers.”

“Catch you in the funny pages.”

Click.

The teenager leans forward, his face inches from the webcam. As he pecks at the keyboard, the clusters of acne spreading fractally across his face come into focus. He smiles, teeth yellow in the light of the computer monitor.

“I’ve got you now, Nicky,” he says to no one in particular.

Vold has already dialed the phone with one thumb, not looking. The chair squeaks again as he lies back, grinning.

The phone on the other end rings.

And rings. And rings. Finally, someone picks up.

f situation happens. I had to deal with it before, you remember, out in the Alberta oil sands. Thing is to jump on it fast and get it under control. You can’t be left prying bits of your man out of the permafrost with a crowbar the next morning.

I’m sorry, that’s just awful. My mind isn’t right just now, Lucy. Hope you’ll forgive me.

Anyways, I just had to keep moving. So, I roused the second shift. Me and Jean Felix dragged Booth’s body to the storage shed and wrapped him in plastic. Had to, uh, had to put his hands in there, too. On his chest.

In a situation like this, out of sight, out of mind is crucial. Otherwise my boys’ll get spooked and the job will suffer. Plan for the worst and recover fast is my motto. I promoted a roustabout named Juan to roughneck, relieved the shift with four hours left on the clock, and stopped the drill.

Mr. Black musta been watching the log file, because he called right away. Told me to get that drill going again when the day shift started in a few hours. I said hell no, but the kid sounded panicked. Threatened to pull the whole project out from under us. It’s not just myself I’m thinking of, Lucy. I got a lot of people depending on me.

So, I guess we’ll get her going again when the next shift starts in a few hours. Until then, I’ll be on the horn reporting the accident to the company and calling for a chopper to come get the body of my senior roughneck and carry him on home.

Lucy, it’s Dwight. November seventeenth. What a night, last night.

Well, drilling is over. We penetrated that solid glass sediment layer last night at forty-two hundred feet and it opened up into a cavern. Strangest thing. But this is where we’re supposed to place the monitoring equipment. I’ll be more than happy to get that jinxed package safely underground. Then I can forget all about it.

I still haven’t figured out who plugged the monitoring equipment into the antenna, but Mr. Black says the thing is self-assembling, like the drilling rig modules. So, hey, who knows, maybe it plugged itself in? (NERVOUS LAUGHTER)

Another issue. Something is hinky about our communications. I’ve noticed that all the folks I speak to have a similar twang. It could be some kind of atmospheric thing or maybe the equipment is funky, but all the voices are starting to sound the same. It doesn’t matter whether I’m doing my progress reports with the ladies at the company call-in counter or checking weather from the boys in Deadhorse.

It’s an odd comm setup, provided by the company. My electrician says he’s never seen this model before. Kind of threw his hands in the air, so I let him get back to work watching over the rig. Looks like I’ll just have to hope the bastard doesn’t break, seeing as how it’s our lifeline to the outside world.