Mytholumina by Storm Constantine
Con Redley hadn’t yet left the complex. He eyed Ola’s evident worry with speculation. ‘What is it?’ he asked her, looking over her shoulder. Incoce appeared to be giving a theatrical display of colours.
‘What is this?’ Ola barked in reply, gesturing at the nonsensical information on her screen. ‘Has the terminal been acting up today?’
‘No. Been fine.’ Con reached over and stroked a few keys. ‘Little more patience, eh?’ he said smugly as the chaotic lines settled down.
‘I don’t understand this,’ Ola said. Incoce had ignored her request for access to Lancy’s mail-file. She made a swift interrogation only to be presented with the more concise message: Authorisation Code does not match request. Please abandon transaction. She turned to Con Redley. ‘Do you get this, Con?’
‘What are you trying to do?’
‘Oh, something terribly classified – reach Lancy Lefarr’s mail-file!’
‘Has she been upgraded?’
‘Not that I know of.’
Con Redley shrugged and finished wrapping himself in his coat. ‘Must be some kind of error, then. Want me to give Lancy a message if I see her?’
‘Are you likely to?’
Con shrugged again. ‘Don’t know. She shows up sometimes in Blitza’s.’
‘If you see her, tell her to get in touch, that’s all.’
‘OK.’ Con wandered from the Recess, leaving Ola alone. She was aware of her heart beating faster than usual, her body becoming instinctively aware of her next course of action before her conscious mind.
She waited until she was sure there would be no immediate interruptions, until the last echoing footsteps had faded down the corridor outside, the last farewell called out for the night. She waited until the lights began to dim, but there was no atmosphere of tranquillity in Recess 920 that night. Perhaps it was in her own head, but Ola sensed a tightness in the air, a watchfulness.
‘Incoce, can I trust you?’ she muttered. With damp fingers she activated vocal command; there was less chance of records being kept of her transactions that way. At least she hoped so. There was no real way of telling just how much Incoce kept in its memory, or even how much it was prepared to divulge if requested. The machine had been innovatory back in the days of Osmund Brickman, one of the new computers whose intelligence was contained in charged fluid rather than microchips. Because it was a prototype, Incoce had enormous vats and pipes running all over the place; nowadays its younger brothers were more compact. Because of this huge, rambling mind, half of the workings of which its creators hadn’t fully understood, it was suspected that Incoce operatives did not have access to all parts of the machine. The comparison with the human brain had to be made then. Did Incoce have consciousness, or more to the point in Ola’s case, did it have a conscience? If Lancy’s file had become inaccessible, it would at the very least be frowned upon for Ola to try and break into it. If it was just a fault, surely she was entitled...?
Steeling herself, Ola made one or two brief preliminary enquiries. Incoce replied that Lancy’s security code had been changed and unfortunately Ola did not possess enough security clearance to breach it. ‘We’ll see about that,’ Ola muttered, tapping keys.
It took her nearly an hour; one long hour of swerving and dodging, playing strange, convoluted games with the system’s logic, but eventually, Ola found a way through. She’d been careful to hide her tracks, as much as possible, and now the familiar logo of Lancy’s mail-file was on screen before her. Releasing a breath that had been held for considerable time, Ola tapped in a simple message: ‘Where the hell are you? Are you dead? Are we conducting a silence I’m not aware of? Get in touch, Lancy. Now. As soon as you read this. Ola.’
Rubbing her face, Ola stroked keys to file the message and was unprepared for the sudden blast of colour, accompanied by a previously unheard of whine, which swept across the screen. As if the machine had gone mad, text poured over the page, too fast for Ola to understand it. She frantically hissed a few commands, stroking keys simultaneously, and for a few moments the text wobbled and then became more or less static, if leaning rather drunkenly to the left.
Ola’s mouth dropped silently open in surprise. She read quickly, voicelessly forming the words as she read. Other messages had been left in the file. Normally, these wouldn’t be displayed to a new caller, but for some reason, probably because of her meddling, the entire store was on screen. ‘Lefarr: access genetic data, operative level 23, class OO47. Results by 04:09:378.’ ‘Operative 23/0048/cgH2059 unsuitable for conversion; hereditary disorder. Please amend record.’ ‘Operative 23/0048/oeS3001; report accepted. Personality update required, including psychological analysis. Immediate response.’
Other, even more cryptic messages followed, esoteric, Ola reasoned, because perhaps parts of them were not displayed. Acting on instinct, she immediately erased her own chatty little missive from the end of the file. ‘Make that a certain, Incoce,’ she said. ‘Wipe it. Kill it.’ She considered making a hard copy of what was left, but thought it too risky. Best to get out. Now.
Already suppositions were forming in her mind, not least because one of the messages bore her own code, telling her the report had been accepted and that they, whoever ‘they’ were, would be investigating her psychological state.
Ola fled from Incoce’s mind. She sat staring at the blank screen. What was Lancy involved in? She wasn’t even a supervisor, just a simple data clerk of low security clearance, junior salary grade and working on the most routine of medical records; no classified stuff at all. Most of the information Lancy’s crew handled was out of date by the time it reached Incoce. It was just history. But this? How was Ola involved? Why were they investigating her and what for? It was creepy.
Ola’s voice sounded small in the huge, crepuscular dimness of Recess 920. ‘Incoce, can you tell me?’ she whispered. The machine only blinked slowly, revealing nothing. Ola sighed, shudderingly. ‘Put me on Check, Inc,’ she said, and began her night’s work.
Ola was almost overcome by superstitious paranoia when Lancy called around the next day. She woke Ola early, finger pressed unrelentingly on access buzzer, until Ola came, dishevelled, to the door. Ola couldn’t repress the suspicious ‘What do you want?’ that slipped from her lips as soon as she saw who’d come visiting.
Lancy swept into the apartment, to all appearances acting as if nothing unusual had been going on. ‘Con Redley said you’d been trying to reach me,’ she said, peeling off long gloves and touching up her long, red hair before dropping fluidly into a chair.
Ola shuffled into her kitchen to fumble with the coffee dispenser, uncomfortably conscious of her messy appearance, trying to pat her haystack hair into shape without success. She needed a few moments to wake up properly. ‘Yeah, I thought you’d disappeared for good!’ she called out.
‘Sorry, Ola, I’ve been that busy!’ Lancy said cheerfully. ‘I was going to call you soon, honest.’
Ola brought two drinks into the room. She didn’t sit down. ‘I tried to leave a message in your mail-file,’ she said. ‘Couldn’t get through.’
Lancy didn’t even blink. ‘I know. It’s been acting up recently.’
Ola had to turn her face away from such a blatant lie. She wanted to interrogate her friend, while aware such action would be fruitless. She wanted Lancy to go. She wanted to shout. She wanted to remind Lancy Lefarr they’d been friends for fifteen years, and didn’t that imply they should have mutual trust and loyalty? ‘So what’s been keeping you so busy, then?’ she said, her outrage under constraint.
‘Oh, this and that. We had a huge workload come in from some distant speck or another. We’ve all been on overtime. I’ve been too bushed to call anyone at nights.’
Ola stared at her friend hard, only prudence concerning her own safety preventing the hundred questions bursting to be voiced. Lancy stared back without wavering, but Ola could sense the barrier between them as if it had been constructed in brick. ‘There’s a rumour you’ve been upg
An alert flash passed over Lancy’s face.
Did you really think I was that stupid? Ola wondered.
‘You know what rumours are,’ Lancy said lamely.
‘Why are you giving me this bullshit?’ Ola asked, caution giving way to outrage.
Lancy dropped her eyes then. ‘I’m not going to say “I don’t know what you mean,” Ola, but I can’t answer, OK. Just drop it.’
‘Lancy, we’re an information collection centre; bibliographers, encyclopaedia compilers. What the hell is going on that suddenly there’s the scent of conspiracy all over the place?’
‘There isn’t. It’s just you. You think too much, imagine things.’
Like I imagined the messages in your mail-file, Ola thought, but of course she could not say that. ‘Suit yourself, but I’m not pleased you don’t trust me, Lancy. Not pleased at all. You were like a sister to me, more than that.’ She got up stiffly and took the coffee cups back into the kitchen. Behind her, she heard Lancy sigh. Soon after, neither of them able to overcome a static discomfort, Lancy made excuses and left.
Con Redley was surprised by Ola’s uncharacteristic desire to have him hang around the Recess and chat that evening. Usually, she couldn’t wait to get rid of him. ‘You saw Lancy, then?’ he asked.
‘Yes, she called around today. Thanks.’
‘Everything OK?’
‘Everything’s fine. It’s all sorted out.’
‘Good. Seems to have put your mind at rest anyway. Any more trouble with the terminal last night?’
‘No. Lancy said she’d been having trouble with her mail-file. It’s probably been fixed by now.’
‘Yeah. Fine.’ He picked up his coat. ‘I’ll be off, then.’
‘OK. Have a good time.’ Ola sat down and made a few preliminary keystrokes.
Con Redley stared at her for a moment. ‘Lennering’s been sniffing around today,’ he said. Mr. Lennering was their head of department.
‘The man’s a prat! What did he want?’
‘Asked me how you were.’
Ola laughed nervously. ‘He hardly knows me!’
‘Yeah, I know...’
‘I’m honoured, then. Hope you said I was fine.’
‘Naturally.’
‘Great. Well, don’t let me keep you.’ Ola waved him away but he paused at the door, causing it to hover half-shut, confused.
‘Ola, are you OK?’
‘Yes. Of course I am. See you.’
Ola was conscious of holding her breath until he’d gone. She hoped he hadn’t picked up her eagerness to get down to what she’d decided to do. Had she been unconvincing? Oh well, she thought, too late to worry about that now. It’s just another night’s work, nothing more. Stop panicking.
She fetched herself a cup of coffee and watched the ceiling lights dim. Incoce blinked expectantly in front of her. She glanced to either side at the rows of blank screens, each terminal personalised in some way by its operator; stickers, mascots, slogans. She no longer felt part of that.
Anton Givesey was a personnel supervisor, grade 2. He had access to all personnel files and Ola, a long time ago and for a completely innocent purpose, had memorised his authorisation code. It had been a favour for Anton; he’d been sick. She’d completed a small job he should have finished the day before. Anton trusted her. Now, she hesitantly tapped his code into the machine and soon after, requested access to Lancy Lefarr’s file. It was only a simple request. The personnel staff worked on these files every day. There was no need to feel so nervous.
Startlingly, Incoce flashed up the message: ‘Classified. Please access WX/3000/05 for authorisation.’ Should she do that? Anton would have to give reasons why he wanted to consult that file. Probably, he’d just be asked to enter his request and wait for a reply without being granted direct access. Ola hesitated. What could she ask that Anton would possibly want to know that would help her in any way?
To hell with it: take risks. She compiled an innocent query regarding Lancy’s insurance code. At least that would show whether she’d been upgraded. As she’d expected, she had to wait for a reply without being given access to the file. Incoce displayed Lancy’s code. It was unchanged. So why the hell was her file classified? Ola did all she could again to cover her tracks, hoping no record of the query would be sustained.
Her hopes were short-lived. The next day, Anton Givesey was requested to attend the Law Enforcement Office to assist enquiries into illegal activities concerning data store. Ola found this out as soon as she got to work. Everyone was full of it.
Con Redley didn’t even wait until she’d got her jacket off to tell her the news. ‘What’s happening?’ he asked, a rhetorical question. What could Ola know that he didn’t? ‘Illegal activities? How? Nothing we do is remotely interesting is it?’
‘I’m sure we don’t know about everything that gets stored in Inoce,’ Ola answered, rather stiffly.
Con Redley shrugged. ‘You’re right, I suppose, but I can’t think what. They have other centres for that sort of thing, don’t they?’
Now, people were beginning to get jumpy. Nothing like this had ever happened before. Incoce was only a big book, after all. Ola sat down before her terminal, heart thumping. She felt as if something were closing in on her. Extreme measures of self-preservation were called for. There was no denying it; she had every reason to feel afraid. It would not take long for the authorities to discover, by process of elimination, given they possessed knowledge of the times and location of the ‘aberrations’, who might be responsible for them. Ola knew she would have to act fast. If she could find out what was going on, at least she’d have some kind of armour, find out what she was up against. It might be nothing. Oh, don’t fool yourself, girl, she thought.
For nearly two years, Ola had been working on a programme for Incoce for her own use. Although she hadn’t kept this a secret, she hadn’t exactly divulged what it was. Many Incoce operatives possessed personal programmes, usually recreational software, which they’d slip in to the appropriate terminals whenever they got the chance for a little entertainment. Ola supposed her employers were indulgent enough to let sporadic game-playing go on if it didn’t get out of hand. Perhaps the information gained from it was even useful to Incoce. Ola’s programme, however, was not a game.
Everything relied on privacy. Ola went softly to the door, trying to hear the murmur of voices from other Recesses nearby. Silence did not necessarily mean safety. She was aware of how anyone who was quietly working at this moment might decide to walk over at any time to ask her a question. ‘Get a hold of yourself,’ she said under her breath.
Apart from the regular terminals, there was one designed to take software, further up the Recess. It was not used very often, so the screen was one of the older types of lesser quality. It did possess the facility for a neural link, however. Ola approached it with a feeling close to dread. She picked up the sensor unit, slipping it over her head even before she sat down. Might as well be as quick as possible. This had better work! she thought.
Because she’d always felt such an affinity for Incoce, Ola had been working on the idea that, through a neural link, she could attempt to communicate direct with the machine. It had only been an idle interest up till now, something to ponder over and fiddle about with. She had realised she’d have to make pretty well sure the use of such a programme was undetectable, for she had a feeling her employers would not approve. Such a move might be regarded as the unhealthy practice of machine/man link. Scientists had proved it possible for computer and human brains to interact in complete accord, but it was felt being able to effectively turn living beings into half-machines was morally wrong. Mankind, through its own ingenious and galloping intrusion into the world of technology had everything it needed to survive and expand. There was no real need to tamper with the body and mind’s original layout. A religious revival in the forty-eighth cycle, spearheaded by top figures in the galactic authorities, had made th
Ola sat down at the console. Fumbling in her trouser pocket, she pulled out the programme software, a sac of bio-conductive fluid, still warm from contact with her skin. Sighing through her nose, she inserted it into the machine. ‘Incoce, don’t fail me,’ she said as the screen before her sprang to life. As she stroked keys, Ola’s mind was more concerned with the threat of interruption than with what she was actually doing. What hit her was met entirely without preparation of any kind.
First it was a blinding headache sweeping chaotic migraine colours through her head. This stunned her so much, more because of its instantaneous assault than for what it really was, that Ola was virtually flung back in her chair. Then it was sound, a high-pitched scraping. Ola’s instinct was to writhe, twist and bleat in pain, but some mercifully rational part of her brain ordered her to attempt to take control. She should have known something like this would happen. Regulating her breathing, Ola calmed herself. Gradually the pain subsided to a dull, heavy ache and behind her closed lids acid green and blue pools floated lazily across her vision. The sound had become virtually inaudible.
‘Incoce, this is operative Ola Embeleny,’ she thought, clearly. The silence was infinite. She was conscious of a hugeness inside her head as if she was floating in space, a starless space. Timeless seconds seemed stretched into hours as Ola waited for a response. The sensation of limitless emptiness was getting to her. She was beginning to experience a tremendous vertigo that nauseated her. It was very similar to massive over-indulgence in alcohol, only worse. Just as she was about to pull out, she became aware of a dim rosy glow beginning to swell behind her. She could see it even though it felt as if she faced the opposite way.