Rudy Rucker - The hacker and the ants

Looking desperately around, I noticed the cardboard box of tools in the corner. I rummaged through the box and found a flashlight and a hammer. Wonderfully, the flashlight worked.

I went back into the living room with the idea of trying to smash the plastic ants with my hammer. The cone of my flashlight beam showed three of them on the floor. I rushed forward and managed to pound and crush two of them. Bang bang! But the third ant scurried in close to me and bit me on the ankle. I picked it off and pressed its snapping head against the floor while I pulverized its gaster with the hammer. More ants came, some crawling and some flying, their silicon wings glittering in the beam of my flashlight.

I tried yelling the binary digits of Hex DEF6, but it didn’t do a thing-not that it should have. I was dealing with real-world ant robots now instead of the GoMotion software ants of cyberspace. Surely there was some radio control signal to turn these plastic ants off, but without hours of detective-work hacking, I had no way of knowing how to send it.

No, instead of using some subtle software code, I was pounding at the plastic ants with my hammer. Meanwhile they kept attacking me-circling around, jumping up, and dive-bombing; sinking their pincers into my arms, legs, and even my neck; coordinating their motions with the inaudible chirps of robot radio waves. I picked the attackers off and smashed them as best I could, ignoring the cuts in my fingers. I grew dizzy with the pain and the heat. If the ants didn’t kill me, the house would cook me to death-but I didn’t know what to do besides keep crushing ants.

Around then the beam of my flashlight happened to fall on the blue-and-white tile stove, and I saw that hundreds more plastic ants were crawling and flying out through the vents in the stove’s door. Some kind of steam tunnel must have led from the factory to here. The flying ants stuttered their wings and lifted into the air to spiral toward me.

If I stayed here and kept fighting, the plastic ants would bring me down like piranhas attacking a wading cow. Years ago the kids and I had seen just such a cow getting eaten on a TV nature show. The kids had loved it so much that they’d made up a game-Piranhas And Cow-in which Daddy would crawl around on all fours and they’d “bite” at him with their hands until I, Daddy, would collapse in giggles with my arms clamped protectively over my belly and sides.

I slapped a flying ant off my cheek. Thinking of Piranhas And Cow made me think of water, which made me think of Roger’s swimming pool. The pool roof was nothing but corrugated plastic! Still clutching my flashlight and hammer, I tottered back to the front hall, grabbed my black satchel, and ran through the kitchen and down the short hall to the room at the end of the house with the swimming pool. Thank God there was no door to close off the pool room. I reached up and whaled against the plastic of the pool room roof with my hammer till I had in Roger’s office a good-sized hole in it. Rain poured in. I tossed my satchel up through the hole and began trying to crawl out after it.

I nearly made it. But the hole was six feet off the ground, the dirt at the edge of the pool was muddy, the plastic was weak and saggy, and my hands were slippery with blood and rain. I kept falling back. Now the plastic ants were swarming through the kitchen and into the pool room with me, a few of them flying like air support over the advancing army of the crawling ones. With a final titanic effort, I levered my upper body out into the rainy Swiss morning, but a big piece of the plastic broke loose and I fell backward, hitting my head on the ground. The last thing I saw was flying plastic ants angling down toward me.

I woke to the sound of a telephone endlessly ringing. There was a mud puddle next to my face with rain splashing into it through the jagged hole I’d made in the pool room roof. Floating in the puddle were scores of plastic ants with their little metal legs folded up against their bodies. Some of them had folded-up wings as well. The cuts in my hands had clotted over. Still the phone rang.

I sat up and felt my head. There was a painful egg on the back of my noggin-nothing serious. I could see more motionless plastic ants in the hallway and in the kitchen. Still the phone rang.

I hoisted myself to my feet. My socks were stiff with blood from the bites the ants had given me. I picked up my flashlight and hammer, and made my way through Roger’s kitchen, the beads of stilled plastic ants sliding beneath my feet. The dark house was hotter than ever; the furnace continued to blast away. Might the boiler actually explode? I moved faster.

When I picked up the phone, a mechanical voice said, “There is a cyberspace call for you, sir. Please put on your headset.”

I snatched up Roger’s headset and looked into it. There, staring at me with an expression that was not quite a smile, was Riscky Pharbeque. He was in a car driving on what looked like Route 1 near Big Sur.

“Shit howdy,” he said. “Don’t say I never did you no favors.”

“Riscky! What happened?”

“Just naturally I put a watchbug into that Pemex twelve I sold you, Jerzy. Sucker paged me when you and your son started using the Hex DEF6 code. You choked, my man, you screwed the pooch! You’re old and slow. Two GoMotion ants from the third colony got away!“

“Do you know where they are? Can you stop them?”

“ Hell yes. I’m no friend of Roger Coolidge’s-son of a bitch never did pay me for that phreak job I ran on you. Not to speak unkindly of the dear departed, but he was dumb as dog shit to try and short yours truly. Not paying Riscky was about the last thing Roger ever did, if you catch my drift.”

“You-you had a hand in making his new robots turn bad?”

“Well now, Roger made some random mutations in the colonies writing his robot code-but who’s to say what random is? Phreaky-deaky, dude.” Riscky cackled and held up ten long, wiggling fingers as the cliffs of Big Sur went whipping past.

“Oh God. So what about the escaped GoMotion ants?”

“They jumped right down onto Roger’s house computer hoping to fuck you up. But good ole Riscky came in and took over that machine’s comm ports. The ants can’t get back out. Before you do anything else, Jerzy, run in there and rip that computer out of the wall. Smash it up and bring me its big RAM chip. Just so’s if I ever need it, I can get the GoMotion ant code off of there.”

“Do it now?”

“Do it! I’ll wait.”

I ran into Roger’s living room and yanked his house computer out of its ragged niche. The naked machine crashed to the floor. I used my hammer-yes I was still carrying it-to kill the power supply. Right away the runaway furnace downstairs stopped. And then I pulled the big gigabyte RAM chip off the motherboard. I went back into Roger’s study and put on the headset.

“I got it.”

“Way to go, old son,” said Riscky. “Now gather up a couple or three dozen of those flying ants and bring them and that RAM chip on back to me.”

“How did you turn off the plastic ants, Riscky?”

He opened and closed his right hand rapidly several times, miming signals emanating from a source. His long thin lips drew back toward the rasta tangles of his hair “ Radio. The plastic ants have the same stop signal as any other robot. Being as how I’d taken over the house computer’s communications, I used it to put the plastic ants to sleep. All of them.”

“Thank you, Riscky. Thank you so much.”

“Don’t thank me yet. I want one more thing.”

“Money?”

“My girlfriend’s turned movie agent. I want you to let her handle the rights to your TV miniseries.”

“What?”

“Your adventure, Jerzy, your story. Let my girlfriend handle the rights, or I’ll wake up the plastic ants and there won’t be no story.”