John Shirley - A Song Called Youth

“That’s exactly the reason we ought to stand up to them,” he said. “Because it’s immoral to give in to people like that. And giving in’s even more dangerous, maybe, in the long run, than fighting them now. They’re consolidating their power. We’ve got to take some of that power from them while we can. We got to face the risks.”

She repressed the outburst of exasperation she felt at his bravado. Holding back wasn’t easy—being pregnant made you cranky. She wanted to yell, to grab him and shake him. But it was especially unwise to argue when you were in the Colony housing units. The claustrophobic compactness of a unit acted like an electrical transformer on the current of anger, pulsing it up to absurd extremes.

“Okay, Lester—yes, we ought to stand up to them. But… but don’t you think it’d be more, um, more powerful… that it’d give us, you know, a better chance, if you wait till the blockade’s over? So they don’t just use it as an excuse to come down on you? They’ve got to lift the martial law alert eventually.”

He frowned, and shook his head. But after a moment he said, “Maybe. Maybe so.”

The videoscreen gave off an uncharacteristic crackle. In the image, electronic snow fell over the mountain snow. They stared at the screen, both wondering the same thing: Are they bugging us? Listening in on this? Is it that far along?

And then a voice spoke from the intercom grid over the door. It was a computer simulation of a woman’s soothing but firm voice. Little Mom, some of the Colonists called her. Or else they called her Libish : Technicki for “lying bitch.”

“Please take note. Please take note,” the voice said sweetly. “The Boulevard of Lights”… that was Corridor C… “—has been sealed off due to flooding. Do not attempt to enter the corridor until entry is reauthorized. The corridor flooding is believed to be caused by sabotaged pipes. If you have any information about the vandals, your security report will be treated confidentially. Should your report lead to the apprehension of the vandals, you will be rewarded, also in confidence. Remember, helping Security maintain order is helping you! Thank you for helping yourself!” She repeated the message in technicki.

So someone had sabotaged the pipes at Corridor C…

Kitty looked at Lester questioningly. He shook his head. “It wasn’t us.”

The videoscreen gave out another raucous buzzing—and then the image cleared. Kitty and Lester stared at it. They looked at one another; then back at the screen.

It was different. The scene was an endless digital loop, and it should always be the same sequence, wind blowing soft banners of powdery snow from a Himalayan mountaintop; feathery whiteness blown from the stark, dignified peak, trailing into crystal-blue sky. But now there was a man in the mountaintop image. He was sitting on the mountain’s peak, kicking the snow up with his feet like a little kid, laughing. He was nude, for God’s sake, on a mountaintop. And he was an old man. Skinny, potbellied, white-haired. And evidently crazy.

“ Yugg’nshid!” Lester swore in technicki. “ Hooftzit?”

“I don’t know,” Kitty murmured. The image of the man was small. It was hard to see his face. “But he looks familiar…”

In another part of the Colony, at exactly that moment, someone else found the image familiar.

“Shoot me for a wetback, but by God I think that’s Professor Rimpler!” Russ burst out.

“It is indeed,” Praeger said. He was on a separate screen in Russ’s office, monitoring the transmission anomaly from his quarters. “This reinforces my opinion: There is a Rimpler cult. And they’ve broken into our system somehow.”

“Maybe you’re right. I don’t know what else it could be. But if the guy’s a hero to them, why they making him look… like that? Like he’s gonzo-whack. Seems to me—shit!” The mountaintop image had vanished, replaced by a close-up of Rimpler’s leering face. The face tried to speak, but the words came out garbled.

The image on the screen flickered, vanished. The snowy mountaintop returned, sans Rimpler.

“What are our chances of tracing the source of the superimposed images?” Praeger asked.

“I don’t know. I’ll have to ask the techs. But until we know when it’s going to happen ahead of time, it’s hard to be prepared to trace anything…”

“Then have the computer continually monitor all channels for anomaly. At the first anomaly it should trace automatically.”

“That’ll take time to set up—in fact, with the damage that’s been done in Central, I’m not sure if…”

Russ was interrupted by the red flash from the Security Priority screen. He thumbed acknowledge and tapped to tie it in to Praeger’s line.

One of Russ’s technical investigators came onto the priority screen. It was Faid, a tech-intelligence officer who’d come to the Colony from the People’s Republic of Palestine; he’d been one of Russ’s own men before Praeger brought the SA in. He was one of the few left from the original security roster. “Right, we have source of water leakings in Corridor C, Chief. Martinson is having it for you, what?” That was just the way Faid talked. “He is made determination.”

“Put him on.”

Martinson’s lean black face came on the screen. “The valves are auto-operated by the Tertiary Life Support System. The computer opened two of the unconnected valves. It simply opened them and increased water pressure in them. Whoever programmed Tertiary…” He shrugged.

“Must’ve been. Thanks. The water shut off?”

“Shut off and permacapped. They’re draining for recycling now. And that’s all we’ve got for you.”

Russ nodded and cut the transmission.

“Why are those men still in the field?” Praeger asked.

Russ was caught by surprise. “Uh—Faid? Martinson? Why?”

“According to the new personnel guidelines, they should have been replaced. Especially this Faid person. He’s culturally contraindicated for Security.”

“Because he’s an Arab? Sir, he may be a… a wog… but he’s a damn efficient one. You saw how fast he got on top of—”

“Replace him!” Praeger barked. “And when you find out who programmed Tertiary, let me know.”

Praeger cut off, and Russ stared at the blank screen where his image had been. There was an ugly taste in his mouth. Damn Praeger, that arrogant, bigoted son of a bitch!

But after a moment he muttered, “Nothing I can do about it.”

Faid would have to go, maybe Martinson too. It was stupid, but it was unavoidable.

He ran the check himself on the programmer for Tertiary Life Support. It was Kevin Brock. Kevin Brock ? Brock was SA! Hell, he was one of Praeger’s toadies.

Russ shook his head in wonder. Had someone turned Brock? Converted him to a radical saboteur? Fat, middle-aged, overpaid, bigoted Brock had become a revolutionary?

Bullshit.

Someone unauthorized had gotten into the computer somehow. Life Support computers were triple-protected against unauthorized access and tampering. How had it been done?

The valve control tampering, the image of Rimpler—none of it should have been possible.

It was as if the computer itself had it in for them. Which wasn’t possible, either. Was it?

Steinfeld had ordered them out for assault exercises.

The Maltese Army was holding exercises on other parts of the island’s coast.

NATO, and hence the Second Alliance, knew about the Maltese exercises. With luck they’d be camouflaged amongst Maltese activities.

Today, one hundred and eighty NR were out in six boats, thirty guerrillas apiece. They were green US Army amphibious landing vehicles, creaky old buckets with the insignia painted out. Witcher had bought ten of them from war surplus, had them partially refitted, smuggled them here in one of his false-bottomed oil tankers.