Mount Dragon (24 page)
Authors: Douglas Preston
The finger moved up to a row of oversized, color-coded keys and selected one.
Silent seconds stretched into minutes. The figure in the wheelchair did not believe in breaking into computer systems by methods as crude as brute-force attacks or algorithm reversals. Instead, his program inserted itself at the point where the external Internet traffic entered the corporation's private network, piggybacking onto the header packets entering at the gate machine and circumventing the password routines completely. Suddenly the screen flashed and a torrent of code began scrolling by. The withered arm raised itself again and began typing first slowly, and then somewhat more rapidly, tapping out chunks of hexadecimal computer code, pausing every so often to wait for a response. The screen turned red, and the words “GeneDyne Online SystemsâMaintenance Subsection” appeared, followed by a short list of options.
Once again, he had penetrated the GeneDyne firewall.
The undeveloped arm raised a third time, initiating two programs that would work symbiotically. The first would place a temporary patch on one of the operating system files, masking the movements of the second by making it look like a harmless network maintenance agent. The second, meanwhile, would create a secure channel through the network backbone to the Mount Dragon facility.
The figure in the wheelchair waited patiently as the programs bypassed the network bridges and pipelines. At last came a low beep, then a series of routing messages scrolled across the screen.
The arm reached out to the keyboard again, and the hissing shriek of a modem filled the room. A second screen popped to life and a sentence, rapidly typed by an unseen hand, appeared on it.
You said you'd call an hour ago! It's not easy, keeping my schedule clear while I wait to hear from you.
The shriveled finger pressed out a response on the padded keyboard: I love it when you get all righteous on me, professor-man. Testify! Write that funky formula for me one time!
It's too late, he must have left the lab by now.
The finger tapped another message.
O ye of little faith! No doubt Dr. Carson has another computer in his room. We should be able to gain his undivided attention there. Now remember the ground rules.
Right. Let's go.
The finger pressed a button, and another waiting subroutine began executing, sending an anonymous page across the Mount Dragon WAN to Guy Carson. Based on the previous encounter, Mime decided to dispense with his standard greeting card; Carson might turn off his computer if he saw Mime's introductory logo again. A moment passed; then a response appeared, out of the New Mexico desert:
Guy here. Who's this?
The finger pressed a single color-coded key, sending a pre-typed message across the network.
What it is! Let me introduce myself again: I am Mime, bearer of tidings. I give you Professor Levine. With the push of another key, the finger patched Levine into the secure channel.
Forget it, came Carson's response. Get off the system now.
Guy, please, this is Charles Levine. Wait a minute. Let me talk.
No way. I'm rebooting.
Mime pressed another button, and another message flashed on the screen.
Just a dern minute, pardner! This is Mime you're dealing with. We control the vertical, we control the horizontal. I've put a little snare on your network node, and if you cut our connection now you'll trigger the internal alarms. Then you'd have some fast talking to do to your dear Mr. Scopes. I'm afraid the only way to get rid of the Mime is to hear the good professor out. Now listen, cowboy. At the professor-man's request, I have set up a means by which you can call him. Should you ever wish to reach him, simply send a chat request to yourself. That's correct: to yourself. This will initiate a communications daemon I've hidden inside the net. The daemon will dial out and connect you with the good professor, as long as his trusty laptop is on-line. I now yield the floor to Professor Levine.
If you think this is the way to persuade me, Levine, you're mistaken. You're jeopardizing my whole career. I don't want anything to do with you and your crusade, whatever it is.
I have no choice, Guy. The virus is a killer.
We have the best safety precautions of any lab in the worldâ
Apparently not good enough.
That was a freak accident.
Most accidents are.
We're working on a medical product that will produce incalculable good, that will save millions of lives every year. Don't tell me what we're doing is wrong.
Guy, I believe you. Then why mess around with a deadly virus like this?
Look, that's the whole problem, we're trying to neutralize the virus, make it harmless. Now get off the net.
Not yet. What's this medical miracle you mentioned?
I can't talk about it.
Answer this: does this virus alter the DNA in human germ cells, or just in somatic cells?
Germ cells.
I knew it. Guy, do you really think you have the moral right to alter the human genome?
For a beneficial alteration, why not? If we can rid the human race of a terrible disease forever, where's the immorality?
What disease?
None of your business.
I get it. You're using the virus to make the genetic alteration. This virus, is it a doomsday virus? Could it destroy the human race? Answer that question and I'll get off.
I don't know. Its epidemiology in humans is mostly unknown, but it's been 100% lethal in chimpanzees. We're taking all precautions. Especially now.
Is it an airborne contagion?
Yes.
Incubation period?
One day to two weeks, depending on the strain.
Time between first symptoms and mortality?
Impossible to predict with any certainty. Several minutes to several hours.
Several minutes? Dear God. Mode of lethality?
I've answered enough questions. Get off.
Mode of lethality?
Massive increase in CSF, causing edema and hemorrhaging of the brain tissue.
That sure sounds like a doomsday virus to me. What's its name?
That's it, Levine. No more questions. Get the hell off the system and don't call again.
Back at the little house on the corner of Church and Sycamore, the arm gently pressed a few keys. One CRT screen showed the daemon program cutting communications and sneaking back out of the GeneDyne net. The other screen showed Levine's frantic message:
Damn! We were cut off. Mime, I need more time!
The finger pressed out a response:
Chill, professor. Your zeal will do you in. Now, on to other business. Ready your computer, I'm going to be sending you an interesting little file. As you'll see, I was able to obtain the information you requested. Naturally. It posed a rather unique challenge, and you'd be astonished at the phone charges I rang up in the process. A certain Mrs. Harriet Smythe of Northfield, Minnesota, is going to be rather upset when she gets her long-distance bill next month, I'm afraid.
The finger pressed a few more keys and waited while the file was downloaded. Then both screens zapped to black. For a moment, the only sound in the room was the soft whine of the CPU fans, and, through the open window, a single cricket chirruping in the warm night. And then there came a low laugh, a rising wheeze of mirth that racked and rattled the wasted, shrunken body in the wheelchair.
The chef at Mount Dragonâan Italian named Riccioliniâalways served the main course himself, in order to bask in the expected compliments, and as a result dinner service was execrably slow. Carson sat at a center table with Harper and Vanderwagon, battling a stubborn headache without success. Despite the pressure from Scopes, he'd been able to accomplish almost nothing that day, his mind full of Levine's message. He wondered how in hell Levine was able to get inside the GeneDyne net, and why Levine had picked him to contact.
At least
, he thought,
nobody noticed
. As far as he could tell.
The little chef laid the plates with a flourish at Carson's table and stepped back expectantly. Carson looked suspiciously at his serving. The menu called them sweetbreads but what arrived did not look like bread at all, but the mysterious inner part of some animal.
“Wonderful!” cried Harper, taking the cue. “A masterpiece!”
The Italian gave a quick half bow, his face a mask of delight.
Vanderwagon sat silently, polishing his silverware with a napkin.
“What is it, exactly?” inquired Carson.
“
Animella con marsala e funghi!
” the chef cried. “Sweetbreads with wine and mushrooms.”
“Sweet bread?” Carson asked.
A puzzled expression came over the man's face. “Is not English? Sweetbreads?”
“What I mean is, exactly what part of the cowâ?”
Harper clapped him on the back. “'Tis better not to inquire too closely into some things, my friend.”
The Italian gave a puzzled smile and returned to the kitchen.
“They should clean these dishes better,” Vanderwagon muttered, wiping his wineglass, holding it up to the light, and wiping again.
Harper shot a look across the room, where Teece was eating at a table by himself. His fastidious manners were almost a caricature of perfection.
“Has he talked to you yet?” Harper whispered to Carson.
“No. You?”
“He buttonholed me this morning.”
Vanderwagon turned. “What did he ask?”
“Just a lot of sly questions about the accident. Don't be deceived by his looks. That guy is no fool.”
“Sly questions,” Vanderwagon repeated, picking up his knife a second time and wiping it carefully. Then he laid it down and carefully squared it with his fork.
“Why the hell can't we have a nice steak once in a while?” Carson complained. “I never know what I'm eating.”
“Think of it as experiencing international cuisine,” said Harper, slicing open the sweetbreads and stuffing a jiggling piece into his mouth. “Excellent,” he said, his mouth full.
Carson took a tentative bite. “Hey, these aren't bad,” he said. “Not very sweet, though. So much for truth in advertising.”
“Pancreas,” said Harper.
Carson laid down his fork with a clatter. “Thanks a lot.”
“What kind of sly questions?” Vanderwagon asked.
“I'm not supposed to say.” Harper winked at Carson.
Vanderwagon turned sideways and gave Harper a penetrating stare. “About me.”
“No, not about you, Andrew. Well, maybe a few, you know. You were, shall we say, in the thick of things.”
Vanderwagon slid his uneaten plate away and said nothing.
Carson leaned over. “This is from the pancreas of a
cow
?”
Harper shoveled another mouthful in. “Who cares? That Ricciolini can cook anything. Anyway, Guy, you grew up eating Rocky Mountain oysters, right?”
“Never touched 'em,” Carson said. “That was just something we served to the dudes as a joke.”
“If thy right eye offends thee,” Vanderwagon said.
The others turned to look at him.
“Getting religion?” Harper asked.
“Yes. Pluck it out,” Vanderwagon said.
There was an uneasy silence.
“You all right, Andrew?” Carson asked.
“Oh, yes,” said Vanderwagon.
“Remember Biology 101?” Harper asked. “The Islets of Langerhans?”
“Shut up,” Carson warned.
“Islets of Langerhans,” Harper continued. “Those clusters of cells in the pancreas that secrete hormones. I wonder if you can see them with the naked eye?”
Vanderwagon stared at his plate, then slowly brought his knife up and sliced neatly through the sweetbreads. He picked up the piece of organ with his fingers, looked carefully at the incision he'd made, then dropped the morsel again, sending sauce and pieces of mushroom flying onto the white tablecloth. He poured some water into his napkin, folded it, and carefully wiped his hands. “No,” he said.
“No what?”
“They're not visible.”
Harper snickered. “If Ricciolini saw us playing with our food like this, he'd poison us.”
“What?” Vanderwagon said loudly.
“I was just kidding. Calm down.”
“Not you,” Vanderwagon said. “I was talking to him.”
There was another silence.
“Yes sir, I will!” Vanderwagon shouted. He came to attention suddenly, knocking his chair over as he stood up. His hands were straight at his sides, fork in one and knife in the other. Slowly, he raised the fork, then swiveled it toward his face. Each movement was calculated, almost reverent. He looked as if he was about to take a bite from the empty fork.
“Andrew, what are you up to now?” Harper said, chuckling nervously. “Look at this guy, will you?”
Vanderwagon raised the fork several inches.
“For Chrissakes, sit down,” Harper said.
The fork inched closer, the tines trembling slightly in Vanderwagon's hand.