Duel Identity nfe-12 Page 16

  "Fine," David said. He plunged into the archives they'd acquired, bursting out one document from every folder. Then he hit one section that caught his interest. David decompressed document after document, growing more and more worried as he read. He was so immersed, he didn't even notice Leif come over and give him a shake. Then he realized his friend had been calling his name.

  Leif peered at the holotext. "When I have to go that far to get someone's attention, it's usually because they've discovered a set of naughty image downloads," he teased. "I was just going to tell you that the Amorph icon turned up-we're out clean. But now I wonder what's gotten your attention." He wrinkled his nose. "All I've turned up is recipe files for creating more realistic sims."

  "Yeah, there are a lot of those," David said, tearing himself away from the display. "This stuff is more theoretical… but a lot more worrisome. You know how hackers sometimes joke about forbidden subjects? That's what this stuff is: 'how-to' diagrams on circumventing safety protocols when creating an off-Net virtual reality. Programming tips on giving you absolute control of the virtual environment while in veeyar. Reports on experiments to disembody human intelligence and port it onto the Net-"

  "The old 'ghost in the machine' thing, huh?" Leif looked slightly scornful. "That's like the old-time alchemists trying to turn lead into gold. As far as I know, nobody's ever succeeded."

  "Yeah-what worries me, though, is seeing all this stuff archived in one place. Put it together, and you've got a guy who doesn't want to be a ghost in the machine. He wants to be the disembodied supreme being of his own little universe."

  "The god of Latvinia," Leif finished, a worried expression coming over his features. "What happens to the beta-testers when he tries this transformation?"

  "I don't know-but I don't like this file I've been reading. It comments on the possibility of disembodying one or more persons to come along essentially as subroutines in this private universe."

  "Who would agree to that?" Leif asked in disbelief.

  'This stuff doesn't necessarily talk about bringing them along willingly," David replied. "It just discusses the need for random interaction in the new environment."

  "Translated, even people with a god complex might get lonely once they've been reduced to electrons." He shook his head. "But this is plain science-fiction-no, fantasy."

  "I wish that were true," David said. "Not many people know it, but there have been experiments in disembodiment. The results-well, the experiments themselves have been hushed up. But I don't think they could have been promising."

  He turned troubled eyes to Leif. "Alan may be clever, but I don't think he's clever enough to pull this off. If the rumors are right, every researcher who has ever tried this has either ended up with severe neurological damage"-he hesitated-"or dead."

  Chapter 18

  "Dead?" Are you sure?"

  David nodded.

  "But this is all just theory and rumors," Leif pointed out to David. "It could be dead-end research. A lot of people read about stuff and never do it. A friend of my dad got the plans for the Bell Jet Pack off the old Internet in the 1990s. Every time he upgrades to a new computer, that file has come along. He even talks about building the crazy thing-someday. My dad has a bet with me that he never will."

  David was back looking at the contents of the folder, running very quickly through the holotext. "Did your father's friend actually order the parts for the jet pack?" he suddenly asked.

  "Uh, no. It's never gone that far," Leif said.

  "Because that's what Alan Slaney has done. I just found the files. I wonder if he was getting bargains for buying components in bulk. I figure he's got about ten times as much stuff as he actually needs to disembody himself."

  "Ten times?" Leif echoed, his face going pale. "I guess Megan never told you-or you just sort of tuned it out whenever she went on about her fencing. The salle where Slaney works-students don't just do physical workouts. They train on specialized computer couches. They've got a back room full of those computer-link couches, nonstandard types that instill reflex responses in the nerves and muscles."

  David abruptly swung away from the display. "Any idea how many?" he asked.

  "I don't know that Megan ever spelled it out." Leif's voice sounded hoarse as he forced those words though his suddenly tight throat. "But I wouldn't be surprised if it was somewhere around ten."

  The holotext now ran on unheeded as David stared at Leif. "Please tell me that the person who does the maintenance on them isn't who I think it is."

  "Oh, no," Leif said bitterly. "It's none other than our smiling maintenance man himself. Alan checks them out personally every time anybody uses one, as well as calibrating them and keeping them in working order." Icy hands seemed to have invaded Leif's stomach and chest, clutching the organs inside with a chilly grip. He found himself fighting for breath. "And tonight is the big demonstration. The salle will be full of Latvinia role- players-both the fencing students and the people who were invited to observe."

  "A very select guest list," David said suddenly. "You notice we weren't invited."

  "At the time I just thought Megan was PO'ed at us,"

  Leif admitted. "But what if it was Slaney-oh, no! Tell me I'm wrong here. Do you think he's going to try something tonight?"

  "He could have gimmicked all those couches so they're running, not into the Net, but into his own personal computer-programmed with a very personal reality." Leif could see David was struggling to keep calm as he described the situation. David was also failing. "No Net, no safeguards, and they'd all be helpless while he does whatever he thinks he needs to do to suck them permanently into the sim."

  "Do you think a-I don't know what else to call it but a soul-could survive in cyberspace?" Leif asked.

  "I can only repeat the rumors I've heard. No one has ever been contacted by any of the people who intentionally disembodied themselves," David said quietly. "Whatever happens, as far as we'd know, those people would be dead."

  "The time!" Leif cried, glancing at his watch. "It's almost ten-the end of the class! Alan's demo is scheduled to start right afterward." He sprang to the computer, shouting orders that immediately cleared the display. "We've got to call Megan!" he said desperately. "We've got to get her out of there!"

  Inside the salle Megan removed her mask and toweled her face dry. It had been a good evening, an interesting class and an especially long set of bouting sessions. She'd done well against people at her own level of skill, and even given a couple of more experienced fencers, including Sergei, a run for their money.

  Turning to the bench running along one wall of the training area, she grinned at P. J. Farris.

  "I begin to see why you and Leif enjoy this stuff so much," P. J. said. "Part of it is like a deadly dance, but it's obvious you've got to think out every move."

  Megan laughed. "Somebody once described it as full- contact chess."

  "I also saw how good Alan is with those pig-stickers," P. J. went on. "We'll face an uphill fight if we've got to take him on in Latvinia hand-to-hand."

  "All too true," the man sitting next to P. J. agreed. Megan looked at him, and her eyes went wide. Add about fifteen years, and a pair of big, fluffy sideburns-

  "Joe Brodsky," the oddly familiar stranger said, shaking hands. "By day, a lowly worker in the Council for Public Policy. On lunch hours and by night, however, you know me as the Graf von Esbach." He laughed at himself. "Veeyar is about the only way I could hope to reach high political office."

  He turned to the guy sitting beside him, a tight-faced, balding guy who looked as if he should have a monocle in place. The second man cracked a smile, however, and introduced himself. "Walt Jaeckel, formerly a Navy Shore Patrolman, now a postal investigator. Or if you prefer"-he clicked his heels together and bowed- "Colonel Vojak, at your service."

  "So, what did you think of the show?" Megan asked.

  "Made me jealous," Brodsky said. "I was a fencer in college. This was a lot more-graceful, I gues
s. Less bloodthirsty. Definitely a lot less arguing than I remember."

  Jaekel nodded. "Not at all like the slugfests you see on the Olympic coverage-if you stay up till about 2:00 A. M."

  Alan Slaney walked in front of the group. "Thanks, everyone, for coming to visit tonight," he said. Something was wrong. To Megan's eyes, his smile seemed a little too broad-and a little too pasted-on.

  He's trying way too hard, she thought, taking in the bags under his eyes-they looked more like bruises. Poor guy must be running on caffeine.

  "I have a suggestion," Alan went on. "All you guys are involved in the same part of the Latvinian adventure. Rather than doing the demo I'd talked about, since we're all here, why not finish up our current beta-test adventure in Latvinia in one mass session?"

  "The practice simulators in the back room!" Megan exclaimed. "What a great idea!"

  She turned to P. J., who shrugged.

  "I've got nothing big going on in the morning," he said.

  Jaeckel laughed. "Nothing ahead for me except another day at work. Besides, if we finish up, Alan may get some sleep tomorrow-and he won't badger us to come in and play."

  Alan's lips tightened a little in reaction to that crack. Then he laughed. "Guess I'm guilty on that one, Walt. What do the rest of you say?"

  It didn't take much more persuading to convince the others to join in. Alan led the way to the rear of the salle, heading for the room filled with practice equipment, fencing memorabilia, and the computer-link chairs.

  "Everybody set?" Alan asked as Megan and the others reclined on their couches. She closed her eyes… and opened them to nearly complete darkness. This wasn't at all like her usual entrances to Latvinia. Megan bit her lips to keep from crying aloud at the claustrophobic feeling. Had something gone terribly wrong with her Net connection?

  Then she realized her hands were clutching something. It was a steering wheel-the steering wheel of the Mercedes Simplex! Megan was crouched in the right- hand driver's seat. As her eyes adjusted and she keyed into the sounds around her, she could tell she was outside, and that the night was dark, moonless. She could only see by the faint light of the stars. But she began to make out what was going on. A squad of men-big, burly cavalry troopers-was pushing the car into position.

  She looked up and, silhouetted against the stars, saw the square bulk of the old watchtower.

  "All right," P. J.'s voice whispered, "you've got 'er lined up."

  He had to kneel to get the starting crank inserted, reaching under the metal ram they'd attached to the front of the car. It was a pointed chunk of steel that reminded Megan of snowplows she'd seen. Except of course, that it was a couple of feet above the ground.

  "Ready?" P. J. whispered.

  She set the ignition, and he began to crank.

  Just one favor, Megan thought, as she silently pleaded with the Fates. No backfires tonight.

  The flywheel began its muted rumble as figures piled into the rear of the car. The Graf von Esbach had insisted on joining them, as had Colonel Vojak. Sergei was on board as well. Behind them, ready to charge in once they'd dealt with the door, was a squadron of cavalry.

  P. J. swung into the front seat. "Go, go, go, go!" he commanded in a tense whisper. Megan threw the car into gear, and the car shot into motion. They flew downhill, probably coming close to the forty-seven miles an hour the engine was rated for. Megan shifted again as they encountered the upward incline.

  As long as / don't turn us over, she thought, fighting to control the wheel as they bounced and shuddered up the rutted road.

  The world ahead turned pitch-black as the bulk of the keep blotted out the stars. Then they hit the door, the weight of the car and the ram and the passengers combined, all at full speed. Iron-strapped wood shattered, and they were through the door and into the keep. The first floor of the tower had been turned into an impromptu dining hall. A pair of trestle tables had been set up, and some of the guards were still carousing by the light of flickering torches. Megan steered their improvised tank right into one of the tables. Some seated drinkers went flying, while other revelers dove for their weapons.

  P. J. rose up behind the windshield, his twin Colts blazing away. Megan pulled out her pocket automatic and added to the fire. So did the others. Von Esbach and Sergei both used their big horse pistols. Vojak had a rifle and bayonet-"More used to it," he'd said.

  By the time the cavalry came thundering in, many of the guards were down, and the rest were retreating for the stairs that led to the upper levels.

  "Don't let them make a stand!" Vojak roared, leading his dismounted soldiers in a charge.

  Megan tucked away her now-empty pistol and drew her saber. It was a hand-to-hand fight now, her side trying to drive back Gray Piotr's people before they could block the stairs.

  Von Esbach held her back from plunging into the fray. "We still can't risk you," he said. So she was pushed toward the end of the column as Vojak and his troopers stabbed and hacked their way up the stairs. The second-floor landing became a massacre-ground for both sides. Gray Piotr's people were, after all, great swordsmen, and now they were recovering from the shock of the sneak attack.

  Then a lone figure came down the stairs from the top floor of the tower-Gray Piotr himself.

  "Surrender, traitor!" Vojak shouted. Rifle held high, he lunged with the bayonet.

  "No!" Megan shouted, realizing Alan was unarmed.

  All Alan did was raise a hand. Megan heard a muted crackle, then the boom of thunder as a bolt like lightning struck the colonel!

  "We've got to call Captain Winters," David insisted as he and Leif sat in the back seat of the autocab. 'This is a job for Net Force."

  "It's the middle of the night. We'd get some automatic answering program. Besides, we don't have the time to tell him, much less convince him, before it's too late," Leif argued. "He'll want proof-and what can we offer him?"

  "We have all those archives-" David began.

  "All theory, unless you personally know Alan Slaney," Leif snapped. "And how are we going to explain where we got all this perfectly legal theoretical literature that's making us panic? 'Well, you see, Captain, we just happened to be inside the guy's computer. How did we get in? Was it a legal search? Er, ah… not exactly.' Right now we're the only real lawbreakers in this mess, even though we were careful not to leave any traces of evidence leading to us behind."

  Leif shook his head. "Assuming we did manage to convince Winters to help us, he couldn't get a search warrant based on what we've got Any court would toss the request out, which means Net Force would have its hands tied."

  "Until Slaney actually uses his computer to kill someone, and the body's discovered," David said heavily.

  "Exactly. I won't wait that long." The image of Megan lying helpless on a computer-link couch while Slaney did whatever he had planned to her just froze Leif's heart. "If we get into the salle and see something that's not right, then we can call in the cavalry. But first we've got to get there and see what gives. And, maybe, just maybe, we're wrong. I don't know about you, but that's what I'm praying we'll discover."

  He glared out the cab window. What was all this traffic doing out at ten o'clock, blocking the roads?

  Actually, he knew the traffic was only moderate for D. C. The cab was moving along at the speed limit. It was only Leif's sense of impending disaster urging him to go ever faster that made it seem like the cab was moving at a snail's pace.

  They reached the salle; David dashed for the door while Leif ran a card down the credit slot to pay for the ride. He joined his friend to find David tugging fruitlessly at the door handle.

  "Locked," David announced. Further inspection revealed that the locks were mechanical rather than electronic, and wouldn't respond to any tweaking they could try via the Net.

  "There's got to be a back way in, a window-somethingr Leif said.

  The building was a leftover from the dangerous old days of Washington, when this neighborhood had been crime-ridden. The front w
indows had been bricked up. Leif ran around the block. An alleyway gave access to the rear of the building, where deliveries would be made. The door was solid metal, without even an exterior doorknob.

  "If the whole place is sealed up, how do they breathe while they're working out?" Leif asked.

  "There." David pointed to a ventilation system outlet far above their heads. "Metal grill, and then we'd have to get past the fan."

  "Great," Leif muttered. They went back to the door, but it was sturdily built and stoutly locked.

  "I don't suppose you have any lock-picking experience we could apply to the front door?" David said.

  Leif shook his head.

  "But what have we here?" David exclaimed, going farther along the rear of the building. The light back here was dim. Although there was a lamp fixture over the back door, it lacked a bulb. But Leif's eyes managed to pierce the dimness to see what David was looking at. A glint of light on glass somewhere on the second floor, located next to one of those old-fashioned metal exterior fire escapes.

  "Give me a boost up," David said.

  Leif helped his friend stand on his shoulders, then watched as he clambered up onto the balcony of the fire escape. David lowered the ladder strapped to the balcony, and Leif climbed up and stood beside him.

  "It's a window-maybe for an office," David said, carefully feeling along the dirty glass. "And it seems to be slightly open. Let's see if we can improve upon that situation."

  Gently pushing the window up, David began climbing through it into the darkness beyond. He was only halfway in when he knocked into something that fell with a clatter.

  A second later Leif heard a muffled whumppppfff! — and a scream from David!

  Chapter 19

  "What the hell do you think you're doing?" von Esbach demanded, shaken out of his usual suavity. Or rather, Joe Brodsky had been shaken out of his usual character. "This is supposed to be a historical simulation, even if it's a little romanticized. We're supposed to be doing Anthony Hope, not H. P. Lovecraft. When AHSO hears about this-"