Douglas Preston - Mount Dragon

I’ve seen that name before, came the response. I think he’s head of security. Just a moment.Once again, the screen went blank.

I’ve done a brief survey of net activity within the GeneDyne building,Mime replied after several minutes. All seems quiet in the enemy’s camp. Are you ready to proceed?

Against his better judgment, Levine replied: Yes.

Very good. Remember what I told you, professor-man. Scopes, and Scopes alone, controls the computer security of the upper floors of the building. That means you have to sneak into his personal cyberspace. I’ve told you what I know about it. It will be like nothing you could possibly imagine. Nobody knows much about Scopes’s cyberspace beyond the few working images he showed years ago at the Center for Advanced Neurocybernetics. At the time, he spoke of a new technology he was developing called ‘cypherspace.’ It’s some kind of three-dimensional environment, his private home base from which he can surf his network at will. Since then, nada. I guess the thing was so bodacious he wanted to hog it all for himself. I’ve determined from the compiler logs that the program runs to fifteen million lines of code. It’s the Big Kahuna of coding, professor-man. I know where the cypherspace server is located, and I can provide a navigation tool that will allow you access to it. But nothing more. You need to be physically inside the building to jack in.

But can’t I bring you along, using this remote link?

NFW, came the response. The omnidirectional infrared unit attached to your laptop allows us to communicate only through the standard net, and only from a roaming-enabled access point. GeneDyne’s internal transceiver is located on the seventh floor, within spitting distance of your elevator. That’s why I parked you there.

Isn’t there anything else you can tell me?

I can tell you that the computing resources this Scopes program soaks up makes the SAC missile-trajectory routines look like bean-counters. And it takes up entire terabytes of data storage. Only massive video archives would require that. It may well be much more real than you can imagine.

Not likely, on a nine-inch laptop screen, Levine replied.

Have you been sleeping through my lectures, professor-man? Scopes is working with much larger canvases in his headquarters. Or hadn’t you noticed?

Levine started blankly at the words. Then he realized what Mime meant.

He looked up from the laptop. The view out of the elevator was breathtaking. But there was something odd that, in his haste, he hadn’t noticed when he first entered. The stars in the eastern sky hung over the quiet scene. He could see the harbor spread out below him, a million tiny pinpoints of light in the warm Massachusetts darkness.

Yet he was only on the seventh floor. The view he was seeing should be from a much higher vantage point.

It was no wall of glass he was staring out of. It was a wall-sized flat-panel display, currently showing a virtual image of an imaginary view outside the GeneDyne building.

I understand, he typed.

Good. I have marked your elevator as being out of service and under repair. That should keep prying eyes away. However, I would not stay longer than necessary. I’ll remain on the net here as long as I can, updating its repair status from time to time, to avoid any suspicion. That’s all, I’m afraid, that I can do to protect you.

Thank you, Mime.

One more word. You said something about this not being a game. I would ask you to remember your own advice. GeneDyne takes a dim view of intruders, within cyberspace or without. You’re embarked on an extremely dangerous journey. If they find you, I will be forced to flee. There will be nothing I can do for you, and I have no intention of being a martyr a second time. You see, if they find me, they’ll take my computers. If that happens, I might as well be dead.

I understand, Levine typed again.

There was a pause. It is possible that we may never speak again, professor. I would like to say that I have valued this acquaintance with you.

And I as well.

MTRRUTMY;MTWABAYB;MYBIHHAHBTDKYAD.

Mime?

Just a sentimental old Irish saying, Professor Levine. Good-bye.

The screen winked to black. There was no time now to decipher Mime’s parting acronym. Taking a deep breath, Levine typed another brief command:

Lancet.

“What is it?” de Vaca asked as Carson sat up abruptly.

“I just smelled something,” he whispered. “I think it’s a horse.” He licked his finger and held it up in the drifting air.

“One of ours?”

“No. The wind’s from the wrong direction. I swear to God, I just smelled a sweaty horse. From behind us.”

There was a silence. Carson felt a sudden cold feeling in the pit of his stomach. It was Nye. There was no other explanation. And the man was very close.

“Are you sure—?”

Quickly, Carson covered her mouth with one hand, and with the other drew her ear close to his lips.

“Listen to me. Nye is waiting out there somewhere. He didn’t go with the Hummers. Once dawn breaks, we’re dead. We’ve got to get out of here, and we’ve got to do it in utter silence. Do you understand?”

“Yes,” came the strained reply.

“We’ll move toward the sound of our horses. But we’ll have to walk by feel. Don’t just plant one foot in front of the other; let it rest an inch above the ground until you’re sure you have a clear step. If we step on some dry grass or a piece of brush, he’ll hear it. We’ll have to untie the hobbles without making a sound. Don’t get on your horse at first—lead it away. We’d better go east, back toward the lava fields. It’s our only hope of losing him. Head ninety degrees to the right of the North Star.”

He felt, more than saw, de Vaca’s head rise and fall in a vigorous nod.

“I’ll be going the same way, but don’t try to follow me. It’s too dark for that. Just try to maintain as straight a course as possible. Keep low, because he might glimpse you moving against the stars. We’ll be able to see each other at first light.”

“But what if he hears—?”

“If he comes after us, run like hell for the lava. When you get there, ditch your horse, whack him on the ass, and hide as best you can. Like as not he’ll follow your horse.” He paused. “That’s the best I can do. Sorry.”

There was a brief silence. Carson realized that de Vaca was trembling slightly, and he released her. His hand groped for hers, found it, squeezed.

They moved slowly toward the linking sound of the horses. Carson knew that their chances of survival, never good, were now minute. It had been bad enough without Nye. But the security director had found them. And he’d found them very quickly—he hadn’t been fooled for a moment by their detour on the lava. He had the better horse. And that damned wicked rifle.

Carson realized he had grossly underestimated Nye.

As he crept across the sand, a sudden image of Charley, his half-Lite great-uncle, came back into his mind. He wondered what synaptic trick had brought Charley to mind, now of all times.

Most of the old man’s stories had been about a Ute ancestor named Gato who had undertaken numerous livestock raids against the Navajos and U.S. cavalry. Charley had loved to recount those raids. There were other stories about Gato’s tracking exploits, his skill with a horse. And the various tricks he’d used to throw off pursuers, usually of the official variety. Charley had recounted all these stories with quiet relish, there in the rocking chair before the fire.