Exceptions to Reality_ Stories - Alan Dean Foster [63]
Rumford didn’t have to. Hayes could see it for himself.
Their host looked up at the agent. His expression was set. “Hand me that box of flash drives, will you?” He pointed. “The one in the open cabinet, over there.”
Hayes fetched the indicated container. For a box full of flash drives, it seemed excessive. Solid steel, with a tiny combination lock. Returning, he tripped on a roll in the throw rug and nearly fell. Their host’s reaction was instructive.
“For God’s sake, don’t drop that!” Rumford’s round pink face had turned white.
Hayes frowned at the metal box, infinitely sturdier than the usual plastic container. “Flash drives can handle shock. What’s the problem?”
“Just don’t drop it.” Carefully taking the container from the bemused agent, their host opened it slowly. Spitzer was surprised to see that it contained only one silvery KeyDrive. Mumbling something under his breath, Rumford slipped this into the appropriate socket on his main machine. The drive did not, Hayes observed, automatically identify itself.
A couple of clicks and a macro or two later, and the monitor filled with a jumble of symbols and words that were unintelligible to the two agents. Working with grim-faced determination, their host began to use his mouse to methodically highlight specific sections. These were then cut and copied to another page, where he proceeded to carefully position them over an intricate template of symbols. After some twenty minutes of this, he sat back and double-clicked. Immediately the monitor began to pulse with a rich red glow.
Spitzer observed the vivid visual activity with interest. “Java applet?” he wondered aloud. “ActiveX?”
Rumford shook his head. “Not exactly.”
“Nice animation,” the agent continued, watching without understanding what was going on. “Bryce or something from SG?”
“My own code. I correspond with people with similar interests. There’s a guy in Germany, and interestingly, a woman in R’yleh—sorry, Riyadh. We play around with our own software. Closed-source. It’s kind of a hobby within a hobby.”
Hayes indicated the monitor. The intense, swirling, necrotic colors had given way to the more familiar instant-messaging screen format.
What do you think you’re doing? You think you can trouble me with this?
“What did you do?” Spitzer leaned even closer, dominating his surroundings. “Send him a virus?”
“Something like that,” Rumford replied noncommittally. In his server, the flash drive continued to blink softly even though no eldritch colors or patterns were visible any longer on the monitor.
Wait—what’s going on?
A pause, then,
Stop it…stop it now! You can’t block me. I’m not waiting any longer. Just for this, I’m going to post the first chapter right now!
Hayes tensed, but their host did not appear overly concerned. He just sat staring, Buddha-like, at the screen.
What is this? Make it stop—stop it now, I’m warning you! Rumford, make it stop! You sonofabitch bastard, do something!
A chill trickled down Spitzer’s broad back as the words appeared on the screen. The flash drive, he noted, had stopped blinking.
Make it go away! Rumford, do something now! I won’t post—I’ll do anything you want. Make it go away! Rumford, please, don’t let it—oh god, stop it now—please, do someth
No more words appeared on the screen.
Sighing softly, Rumford leaned back in his chair and rubbed his forehead. He looked and sounded like a man who had just driven several fast laps around an especially bumpy track. “That’s it.”
Hayes made a face. “That’s it? What do you mean, ‘that’s it’?”
Turning away from the monitor, their host looked up at him. “It’s over. He’s not going to post anything. Not now. Not ever.”
The chill Spitzer had been experiencing deepened. “What did you do? Where is he? What did you send him?”
Rumford rose. “Something to drink? No? Well, I’m thirsty. Nasty business, this. You need to tell those people at Harvard to be more careful. They really ought to burn the damn thing, but I know they won’t.” He shook his head dolefully.