Saint Vidicon to the Rescue

Chapter 17

Tony leaped out of the way and the snake crashed into the panel—well, not crashed, really, since it went right through, being only an idea. The lights on the panel went crazy for a second before the cobra slithered back out. “You have defeated me in my duty! You must pay!” It reared up, hood spread, fangs gaping.

“But you’ve deserted your post,” Tony pointed out. “What kind of alien thoughts are entering his mind while you’re here trying for revenge?”

“Then I shall slay you quickly!” the snake hissed, and struck again.

Tony sprang high, and the scaly body swished past—only this time, he landed on Ben’s head. “I’m going to put a thought into his brain,” Tony said, “a thought of a pretty girl!”

The snake hissed in rage and struck.

Tony leaped aside, but not quite fast enough; fire scored his ribs. Then he was down on the panel again, the snake was coiling protectively around Ben’s head, and Tony found himself puzzling how to rid Tony of the serpent for once and for all. Then he remembered that wasn’t what St. Vidicon had sent him here to do and watched anxiously as Ben frantically punched buttons.

The signal was still coming through from Manhattan and transponder six wasn’t due to be illuminated for four more hours. Ben only had to receive that signal, not send it, and its link was one of the smaller dishes. That might be time enough to restore power to the main dish. One way or another, it was the only way to get this program through to its destination. Ben punched buttons, routing the signal from Manhattan through to transponder six; the tally glowed, confirming the connection, then Ben picked up the phone and dialed the number for the earth station in California. “Hi, this is Ben from the New York link . . . Yes, I know you’ve lost The Guided World; we’ve had a disruption here. No time to explain—just look to Interworld Four, transponder six vertical . . . yeah, it’s there, okay, take it. I’ll send a full report as soon as we’re done.” Then he sat back and blew out a long shuddering breath, nearly limp with relief. The crisis was past.

But only temporarily. Reviving, he picked up the phone again and called the power company.

Tony paced the maroon corridor beside Father Vidicon. “Okay, the country is now receiving their favorite soap opera. Tell me I did the right thing.”

“You did the right thing,” Father Vidicon said, amused. “If they hadn’t watched that soap opera, they would have watched another, and at least The Guided World isn’t glorifying premarital sex or organized crime.”

“I suppose there’s that,” Tony admitted. “Of course, it could be more important that I saved Ben’s job.”

“Yes, we do have to balance society’s needs against the individual person’s,” Father Vidicon agreed, “say—Sandy’s.”

Tony looked up, startled. “You don’t mean I’m ignoring her needs!”

“It may seem that way to her at the moment,” St. Vidicon said. “You made a good beginning sending roses, Tony. Be sure you follow it up.”

“I will,” Tony said, then realized that he had said it out loud to a computer monitor. He glanced around, face burning, but no one seemed to have heard him—no faces were prairie-dogging over the partition to see what he was talking about. He turned back to the screen just in time to see Father Vidicon wink before the screen cleared.

Tony glanced at the clock, remembering Sandy and wondering if it was time for the next step in his campaign to win her back.

Sandy waited in an agony of impatience before she left the building; she knew it would take five minutes to walk to Nepenthe, and she didn’t want to get there first.

She needn’t have worried; Tony was sitting at their usual table against the wall, staring morosely into a cup watching the foam settle. Sandy felt her self-confidence renewing and sauntered over to him. “Hi, hacker.”

His head snapped up, his eyes locked on hers. His mouth moved once before sound came out, and it was hoarse and strained. “Hi.” Then, a bit stronger, “Hi, beautiful.”

Sandy tried to hide her glow. “Mind if I sit down?”

“No, not at all! I mean, please! Uh . . . what can I get you? Raspberry mocha?”

He’d remembered. “Yeah, thanks.”

“Coming right up.” Tony darted away.

Sandy sat by herself, realizing that she was in a stronger negotiating position than she’d thought. Well, actually, she hadn’t thought—she’d just been ready to agree to anything he wanted so long as they were dating again.

Even marriage.

Now, though, it looked as though she could make a few demands, such as not accepting a ring yet.

She suddenly realized that wasn’t a priority. Maybe the folklore she’d grown up hearing was true, maybe she should find out how good a lover he was first.

The mocha appeared in front of her. She looked up from it to see Tony’s anxious gaze as he sat. “You, uh . . . have a good week?”

From anybody else that would have been a probe, but she knew Tony was only trying to make small talk. “Things have been pretty quiet. Yours?”

“Just the usual.” He thought of telling her that “the usual” had included a company of actors that was about to self-implode and a frantic earth station operator, but decided against it. Honesty didn’t mean answering questions she hadn’t asked, after all—especially if they might make her think he was delusional.

“So life as usual, huh?” Sandy lifted her cup.

“I can hope,” Tony said softly. “I’d like ‘usual’ to include going out with you—except that life is never ‘usual’ when you’re in it.”

Sandy took a breath; the boy was definitely improving. “I think that could be arranged,” she said carefully, “but there’d have to be some after-show activity.”

“Anything you want!”

He was so earnest, so forlorn, that Sandy realized she could make whatever demands she wanted—and that made her realize she should keep them moderate. It would be wrong, very wrong, to take advantage of the poor guy.

But it was wrong to take advantage of her, too.

“All I want is for nature to take its course,” she said slowly.

“And hope that it passes?” Tony asked, heartened.

Sandy looked up at him in surprize, then smiled with affection. Tony might have been callow and naive, but he was so real.

Cute, too.

And he was the only guy who hadn’t dated her just because he wanted sex. “Let’s hope nature gets an ‘A,’ ” she said.

“Even if it has to plagiarize?”

Sandy stared in surprize, then felt her smile grow into a grin. “I have no objection to your reading the occasional book,” she said. “Found any good ones lately?”

The topic shifted into literary gear without a tremor—and that easily, the relationship was back on.

Even as he climbed into bed—his own, and alone—Tony was still marvelling that the evening had gone so much better than his usual dates. The conversation hadn’t lagged, not a single awkward pause, and Sandy had actually seemed to enjoy his company. Must be her generous nature.

Then another possible explanation occurred to him, and he stiffened, staring up at the lights on the ceiling. Thank you, St. Vidicon, he thought.

There was no answering admonition, no booming voice, but he did feel an aura of amusement and satisfaction that quickly passed but left in its wake the conviction that he wasn’t alone.

Tony dreamed, of course—dreamed that he was walking down that humid hallway that was beginning to feel more and more organic, and Father Vidicon was saying, “So I’ve faced three of them now, and can only wonder when I’ll confront Finagle himself.”

“Sounds pretty busy.” Tony frowned. “How can there be people claiming you’ve worked miracles to protect them from things going wrong?”

“There’s time for the occasional rescue while I’m walking down this hallway waiting for the next ambush,” Father Vidicon said, “though I must admit you have helped considerably.”

“Quid pro quo.” Tony grinned. “Thanks for helping me with Sandy.”

“Me?” Father Vidicon said with exaggerated innocence, but when Tony chuckled, he admitted, “Well, I might have put a thought or two into your mind. Which reminds me—how are the dance lessons going?”

“Me? The original two-left-feet fool? I tried to learn when I was twelve and tried again when I was sixteen, and the best I can say of it was that I didn’t trip anybody else.”

“Perhaps, but your midteens are ten years in the past, aren’t they? You may find your coordination has improved considerably—and I asked how you’re doing now.”

Tony sighed and confessed.

“Don’t think of your legs as having to hold up your body,” the dancing teacher advised. “Think of it as supported by invisible wires from above you—that’s it! Back straight, shoulders square—posture is very important. Now, step, rock, back, and step!”

The music started, and neither Tony nor his partner spoke, concentrating fiercely on getting the steps right. He felt vaguely disloyal to Sandy, dancing with another woman even if it was just a dance class. He consoled himself with the thought that she wasn’t very pretty. None of the girls here were.

But, truth to tell, neither were the women he passed on the street, which was strange, since only a few months ago, he had been amazed how many beautiful women there were on his way to work. The traitorous thought crossed his mind that having met Sandy, only the most dazzling of women would seem beautiful to him, but of course that couldn’t be true.

“Step - rock - back - step!”

Tony did.

Gail stepped into the studio to wave before she left the radio station. “See you, Gordon.”

Gordon looked up in surprize. “You’re leaving early. It’s scarcely drive time.”

“Came in early, too,” Gail said. “My little girl’s in a grade-school pageant, so I knew I’d have to bow out at four.”

Gordon shuddered. “Better you than me. Good luck.”

“You too, Gordon. Station’s all yours. See you tomorrow.”

“Tomorrow, Gail.” Gordon gave a quick wave, then hit the program button and began talking into the mike. “That was the Everly Brothers with ‘Wake Up, Little Susie.’ We’ll have another twelve in a row up for you in just a minute here on Rollin’ Oldies One-oh-one, but first, let’s check the traffic report. How’re things at Twelfth and C, Carmen?” He toggled the “remote” and eased in the sound of helicopter rotors. After all, everyone knew Carmen prowled the back streets in a Bug-mobile and hiked to the intersections from a parking place, and they hadn’t actually said she was in a helicopter, so what was the harm?

“Well, Gordon, we’ve hit a snarl here,” Carmen’s voice said. “Only a fender-bender, fortunately, and the officers are here taking the accident report, but it’s slowing westbound traffic to a snail’s pace. I’d recommend you homebound people try Church Street all the way to Eighth Street, then double back to Avenue C after the snarl. I’ll talk to you from Second and Avenue K in ...”

A raw, monotonous beat crashed in, bass drum and snare with some sort of string, and a driving nasal voice chanted,

Gordon made a frantic dive for the studio monitor and yanked it down to a bare mumble. “What the hell?”

The phone rang. Gordon grabbed it and pasted on the smile. “Rollin’ Oldies One-oh-one! Sorry, no requests just now, gotta little problem . . .”

“It’s going to be a really big problem really fast if you can’t get that racket off our station,” Josh’s voice said. “What the hell got into you, playing that teenage garbage during drive time?”

The boss, of course! “I ain’t playing it, Josh.” Gordon swept the board with a glance. “It’s not coming through the board at all.”

“You kidding? Everything comes through the board.”

“Yeah, I know.” Inspiration struck. “Everything except . . .” Gordon turned to the automation computer and saw the activity light fluttering. “Josh, it’s the computer! It kicked in early!”

“That kind of music on our computer?”

“It’s a computer, Josh, and we’re hooked into a music service. It feeds all kinds of music.”

“You mean somebody actually broadcasts that sludge?”

Gordon froze, listening to the music. That repetitive beat, inhumanly regular, and the teenage lack of resonance . . . “Josh, that ain’t coming from the music service. If that’s a pro band, I’ll eat the hard drive!”

“A garage band?” Josh sounded confounded. “How could they be on our station?”

“Because they hacked into our computer, that’s how! Haven’t you heard the kids around town griping because none of the stations plays their kind of music? Get our computer consultant down here fast or we’ll lose every listener we’ve got! ’Bye, now—I’ve got a few phones to answer.” He hung up, rolled his eyes up to Heaven for a brief “St. Vidicon, protect us from Finagle!” under his breath, then punched another line and picked up the phone again. “Rollin’ Oldies, but not our usual style . . .”

“Hey, Tony!”

Tony looked up at Harve, feeling the thrill of the call to battle. “Something come up?”

“Just your cup of coffee! Get down to WOLD-FM right away—some kid has hacked into their automation computer!”

Tony didn’t stop to ask how they knew it was a kid, just grabbed his laptop and headed down to the garage and slipped into a company car. Once outside the steel box of the building, he turned on the radio and realized why they were sure the hacker was a teenager.

Bells were ringing, and they weren’t on Santa’s sleigh. Gordon took a quick look at the phone and saw every line glowing. “Send an engineer, St. Vidicon! ’Scuse me, now—I’ve got phones to answer.” He hit another line. “Rollin’ Old . . . yeah, I know it’s a shock. Wires crossed somewhere; it’s not what we’re playing . . . How? Well, we think some kid has hacked into our computer . . . Thanks, I’ll need it. I’ve got it turned way down low, but I have to keep an ear on it, and I’m out of ibuprofen . . . No, you don’t really need to bring me any; why should my problems be your problems? Don’t worry, I’ll get it off the air as soon as our engineers figure out how to disconnect it. G’bye, now!” He hit another line. “Rollin’ Oldies One-oh . . . Yeah, I’m real sorry about that, ma’am, but there isn’t a whole lot I can do about it yet—the wonders of modern computers, you know? We’ll get back to the British Invasion as soon as we . . . Yeah, you too, thanks.” He punched another line. “Rollin’ Oldies One-oh . . .” The doorbell rang. He looked up in relief, and said, “Lemme put you on hold just a sec. The repairman has arrived.” He punched hold and ran to let Tony in. “Thank heavens you’re here! There’s the computer! Good luck!”

Tony almost said he wouldn’t need it but bit back the show of arrogance and only grinned as the DJ hurried off to answer another call. Tony patched in his laptop, powered up, and gazed at the screen, letting his consciousness drift into the circuit, trying to do as St. Vidicon would as his fingers flew over the keyboard. He knew St. Vidicon was with him when the program became more real to him than the room around him and he found himself swimming through a tide of ones and zeros. But it was a rip tide, torn by another stream surging through a jury-rigged gateway that shouldn’t have been there.

Know your enemy—or at least, your opponent. Before Tony did anything to close that ramshackle gateway, he swam through it and upstream to find out where the alien signal was coming from.

In a bedroom on the other side of town, the cheering slackened and the short, pudgy African-American teenager clapped her hands over her keyboard. “I am so wicked!”

“You go, Randy!” The bass player slapped her shoulder. “You got us on the air!”

“Easy picking,” Miranda assured him. “Seems they never stopped to think somebody might want to change their playlist.”

The lead singer had his ear to the radio. “That really us? Sounds thin.”

“Hey, they ain’t got the kind of equipment I do,” Randy protested. “ ’Course they’re gonna sound coarse!”

“ ’Course they’re gonna sound coarse!” the lead guitar player repeated, musing, and the drummer took it up. “ ’Course they’re gonna sound coarse!” He hit the kick drum and added a lick on the snare topped by the tom-tom, then repeated it again and again.

“ ’Course they’re gonna sound coarse!” the rest of the group chanted. “’Course they’re gonna sound coarse!” They picked up their instruments.

Randy glanced at the CD light to make sure the recording was still spinning, then heard the music behind her and decided the nature of the problem had changed. Could she put this band on the air live?

Of course she could! She was almost tempted to tell those fat middle-aged listeners, “This is Randy, bringing you the music of today!” but there was no point in giving the cops her name and address, was there? After all, what they were doing was technically illegal.

“Tell the computer guy I want that racket stopped now!” Josh raged over the phone. “Then tell him to trace the hacker! I want that kid in jail for life!”

“Yeah, sure, Chief, but he’s working as fast as he can.” Gordon glanced at the engineer, who sat motionless, gazing at the automation computer’s screen with a very thoughtful look on his face. It wasn’t really a lie—hadn’t Edison said brainwork was the toughest kind of all? And he should have known, he had hired enough brains to be an expert.

“Tell him to unplug the blasted thing!”

“He can’t, it’s hard-wired,” Gordon explained. “So’s the input from the music service.”

“Tell him to cut the lines!”

“First off, he says that if we do that, it will take a day and a half to get the system back on-line,” Gordon explained, “and the kid will just hack in again anyway. Says he has to find out how the hacker got in and un-hack him. It’ll be quicker and a lot more permanent.”

Josh groaned.

A harried middle-aged woman called up the stairs, “Miranda! Time for dinner!” But she heard the music and started the climb, shaking her head with a sigh. Those kids would never hear her over that noise—and if it was that loud, they were practicing something new, not listening to a cut they’d recorded earlier. They wouldn’t be happy about having to shut down—but they all knew what her cooking was like, and in teenagers, appetite just might win out over the need for self-expression. Good thing she’d cooked enough for a small army.

It was a tough problem for Tony—how to get the kids off the air, without leaving a trace for a security expert to follow. They seemed like good kids, and there was no point in getting them in trouble for a prank. A mighty big prank, mind you, and one that was costing the station a lot of money, but nonetheless a prank. He could scramble the code as a first step . . . He dived into the data stream and flailed about, making ones and zeros crash into each other, changing the music to static—and was shocked to see them being restored to their positions and the music clearing.

That was why—here came an unearthly-looking creature with more heads than Tony could count and at least a hundred tentacles, carefully setting the numbers back in order with a uniform distance between them. “Who the heck are you?” Tony cried.

“I am a Centimanes; I am the Hundred-Handed,” the creature replied,

“A Centimanes?” Tony stared. “You can’t be inside a circuit! You’re a Titan! You’re supposed to be the size of a mountain!”

“We are magical creatures.” The monstrosity didn’t miss a beat, or a digit. “I can take any size I deem necessary for the service of Order.”

“Well, you’re certainly performing a disservice to the radio station that’s trying to broadcast oldies!”

“That is no concern of mine,” the Centimanes answered. “I am the Servant of Order; I see to it that the data stream is kept neat and tidy.”

Tony frowned. “And you don’t worry about whose data you’re ordering?”

“Neatness counts,” the monster answered. “Tidiness is next to godliness.”

With a shock, Tony realized he had met a supernatural obsessive-compulsive. “You’re only dealing with the symptoms,” he protested. “You have to attack the problem at its source.”

“I care not whence the digits come,” the Centimanes returned. “I only care that they stand neatly.”

A wave toppled the numbers—a minor power surge. The Centimanes righted them.

Tony made another try. “The numbers keep scrambling because there are two information flows. Let’s go find the junction.”

But the Centimanes kept tapping numbers with its hundred hands. “I must be sure they stand in order.”

With a flash of inspiration, Tony realized how he could lead the micro-monster to solve the radio station’s problem without hurting Randy. “Let’s go!” He shot away through the silicon, reaching out a hand to topple numbers like a child running a stick along a picket fence. The Centimanes gave a squawk of horror and dashed after him, righting numbers as it went.

Randy had an audio mixer for the band, of course—she had made it in electronics class, and the instructor had been so delighted he had given her an “A.” She had designed it with an input for each instrument plus five singers’ mikes, and they were all plugged in and showing green on her peak meter. With a devilish grin, she plugged the output into her computer, called up the audio card’s mixer, made sure the levels were right, then routed the signal into the data stream. “You’re on the air—live!”