Saint Vidicon to the Rescue

Chapter 1

The door was all glass with the company’s name and logo etched in:

RODRIGO AND ASSOCIATES

Market Analysis

Inside all was chrome, glass, and plush. Everyone was dressed to the nines, so Tony was glad he had elected to wear a suit that day, even if it was somewhat rumpled. Computer troubleshooters didn’t have to dress up, but Tony tried to fit in with the employees at whatever company he was visiting. From the Wall Street address, he’d guessed these people believed in formality.

He pushed on through the door. The receptionist looked up with a smile. “Good morning. What can I do for you?”

Tony stepped up to the desk and handed the young man his card. “Business Systems Solutions.”

“Ah.” The receptionist nodded and gestured toward a chair. “Would you like to sit down? Ms. Clavier will be with you in a moment.

“Thanks.” Tony stepped over and sank down into plush so thick it seemed to embrace him—not an entirely pleasant experience. He took advantage of the opportunity to give the reception area a more thorough examination. Everything screamed “Now!” and “Rich!” The receptionist’s desktop was thick glass, its legs chrome; the floor was thick burgundy carpet with such a deep pile that it had to be synthetic. The only organic note was the walnut panelling, and it seemed out of place. Rich, but out of place. The room was obviously designed to impress visitors with the firm’s wealth and stability, both rather necessary on Wall Street.

A young woman came in, and Tony forgot to breathe for a minute or two. She was beautiful, that was all there was to it, from the auburn hair cut in a sleek bob to the tailored jacket and skirt that let eighteen inches of shapely calf show above the slender shoes. But it was her face that really caught Tony’s attention, the look of a pixie grown up—and she was coming toward him!

“Mr. Ricci?” She held out a hand. “I’m Sandra Clavier, the company’s network administrator.”

Tony stood and took her hand as his stomach sank; network administrators didn’t like calling for help. If you had to bring in an outside specialist, it meant you didn’t know everything about your job. Normally it didn’t bother him, but the other people he dealt with weren’t quietly gorgeous. Nonetheless, he managed to screw up his courage, and say, “Puh-pleased to meet you, Ms. Clavier.”

“Call me Sandy,” she invited, “and if you can make our computers work smoothly again, I’ll be very pleased to have met you.” She turned toward the door. “I’ll show you to a cubicle where you can work, if you’ll follow me.”

Tony would have followed her anywhere for the sheer joy of it. The graceful sway was hypnotizing and made him feel like a lumbering elephant as he followed.

Well, no, a lumbering log was more like it—Tony was lean, at least; all his working out did that much for him. Other than that, following a fascinating creature like this, he felt awkward and weird, like a gargoyle in a jacket and tie. His hair was the color of straw and not much more manageable; he knew his nose was too long, his eyes too narrow, and his chin too much of a lump. He might not be all that bad to look at most of the time, but compared to Sandra Clavier, he must be downright ugly.

She led him through a door and into a huge room filled with standard-issue cubicles. She navigated the maze with ease and stopped by a gray-walled enclosure like all the rest, except that it held only a chair, desk, and filing cabinet; the desktop was bare, and so were the walls. “We cleared one for you to work with,” Ms. Clavier said. “If there’s anything else you need, just give me a call; I’m extension two-eight-four-one.”

“Two-eight-four-one,” Tony repeated, that being all he could think of to say, and sat down so that he would look a little less awkward. He should have booted the desktop, but that would have required looking away from her. “You’ve been having interruptions in service?”

“Yes, the strangest kind.” Sandy frowned, and Tony stopped breathing again. “I’ve never seen a virus like this one. Every now and then, for no reason I can pinpoint, all the screens go blank. Then text starts to scroll up, bits and tags of some story in a weird archaic style, like something out of the King James Bible—but the Bible doesn’t describe a modern man going down the road to Hell.”

Not having read the Book, Tony frowned and tried to look wise. “That’s a new one on me, too. Any idea what triggers it?”

“None.” Sandy was beginning to sound exasperated. “I’ve asked everyone to keep logging their work, and whenever one of the interruptions occurred, I had them print out the few minutes before and went through them—but I can’t find any word or phrase that’s entered every time. No number, either, for that matter.”

“A real puzzle.” Tony grinned in spite of himself, then tried to squelch it.

But Sandy smiled. “You like puzzles too, huh? Well, I guess it goes with the territory. Do you want the printouts?”

“If you don’t mind.” Tony nodded, then took refuge in more talk about the problem—what else could he say to a creature like this? “How long do the interruptions last?”

“Six minutes,” Sandy said. “Always six minutes to the second; I’ve timed them. Then the screens revert to the current work without any changes at all, almost as though it had been saved.” She sighed. “No damage, really—just a very frustrating inconvenience. Add up all the interruptions, and it’s really hurting productivity. Six minutes is enough to break a worker’s concentration so badly that it takes a while to get it back, so it’s costing the company a great deal of time—especially since the staff has figured out that the interruptions always last just long enough to work in an extra coffee break. Then it takes another five minutes to get them back to their desks and working again.” She shook her head, clearly frazzled.

“Sounds like you’re being hacked, sure enough,” Tony said. “Well, let me talk to your mainframe and see what I can find.”

“A cure, I hope.” Sandy flashed him a dazzling smile. “Get that priest out of our system, Mr. Ricci, and I’ll owe you a big one.”

Priest?

She turned and glided away. Tony watched the folds of her suit amplify her movements as long as he could, then turned away with a distinct sense of disappointment and reached down to power up the desktop.

As it booted, he let himself envision Sandy’s face. Contemplating the memory, he wondered why she had cast such a spell over him. He forced himself to be as analytical as possible—it was the only defense against the emotions she raised—and had to admit that she was only moderately pretty; the suit only hinted at a figure, and neither the tilt of her nose nor the curve of her lip was exceptional—until she smiled, of course—and her complexion wasn’t quite flawless. The slight touches of makeup were applied perfectly, but Tony was old enough to know the difference between art and nature, though he had to admire skill. He decided it was her eyes that had cast the spell over him. They were dark, a wonderful shade of green (like old jade, he thought) with long, thick lashes; very, very large—and, Tony decided, horribly distracting.

He’d never been very good at talking with women, though, so as the terminal screen unfolded from the top of the desk, revealing a glass window through which he saw a keyboard, he banished the vision of jade eyes and turned his attention to the glowing rectangle. He plugged in his laptop and ran the diagnostic program. The screen lit up with the trademark for a few seconds; then the results box came up. Tony glanced and nodded; as he’d expected, the hardware was sound. He hit a few keys, and the diagnostics program began checking the software. It had almost finished, showing no viruses or unauthorized programs, when the screen went blank.

Tony stared; this wasn’t the usual procedure.

Then white type started scrolling up the screen and merry calls echoed from cubicle to cubicle. Chairs rolled and footsteps hissed across carpet as the workers, chatting gaily, headed toward the coffeemaker.

Tony stayed in place, of course, running program after program with staccato bursts of keystrokes, trying to track the streaming letters to their source and ignoring the happy conversation in the coffee alcove. With his gaze mostly on his laptop’s screen, he caught only quick glimpses of the text on the terminal, but those piqued his curiosity savagely. Still, while the program was actually running was golden time, and he didn’t dare pay attention to anything but his own trace programs.

Then the last line of type scrolled off the top of the screen. Tony watched the blank rectangle, fingers poised, and in the alcove, somebody called, “Okay, six minutes. Back to work.”

As though it had heard him, the screen came to life with its virtual desktop.

Tony relaxed, sitting back and studying the test readouts on his laptop screen.

A soft footstep made him look up, then freeze, because Sandy was leaning on the cubicle screen and smiling down at him. “That tell you anything?”

Tony threw off the strange paralysis she induced and gestured at his laptop. “Yeah, a little bit. As far as I can tell, the problem’s in the system.”

“Inside?” Sandy frowned. “You mean it’s not coming from outside?”

Tony managed to start breathing again—even her frowns were affecting him—and said, “The signal originated inside the mainframe.”

“Then it’s infected.” Sandy’s frown darkened with concern. “Can you kill the virus?”

“Can’t say for sure.” Tony turned his gaze resolutely to the laptop screen. “I’ll give it everything I’ve got.”

“I hope you can,” Sandy said. “It’s going to be very, very expensive if we have to junk the mainframe.”

“We can put in a new one in twenty-four hours,” Tony said, “but let’s not play the funeral hymn until we’re sure it’s dead. After all, I’ve got a lot of results to analyze.”

“Oh.” Sandy’s face cleared. “Of course—while the text was scrolling, you were running test programs and saving the results. You haven’t had a chance to check them yet.”

Tony nodded. “It’s going to take some time. If my bugcatcher doesn’t find the problem, I’ll have to print out the code and analyze it line by line.”

Sandra shuddered. “I wish you luck.”

“Thanks.” Tony started hitting keys and studying results; he was about to turn and tell Sandra the latest (negative) report when he realized she’d gone. He sighed and let the bugcatcher run. While it did, he called up the code and scanned it quickly. With just a light once-over, it looked to be the standard operating system, nothing different, nothing alien.

Then he realized that the virus might be buried in the text of the story itself.

He cleared the code and opened the log of the text. He started to scan it, too, but within two lines, he was caught and found himself reading the story.

When that the blessed Father Vidicon did seize upon a high-voltage line and did cleave unto it, aye, even unto death, so that the words of our blessed Holy Father the Pope might reach out through the satellites to all the television transmitters of the world, for the saving of our most Holy and Catholic Church—aye, when that Father Vidicon did thus die for the Faith and did pass into one enduring instant of blinding pain, he was upheld and sustained by the knowledge that, dying a martyr, he would pass straightway to Heaven and be numbered among the Blest.

How great was his dismay, then, to find himself, as pain dimmed and awareness returned, to be falling through darkness amidst a cold that did sear his very soul—for in truth, he was naught but soul. Distantly did he espy certain suns, knew thereby that he did pass through the Void, and that his eternal fall was not truly so, but was only the absence of gravity. Indeed, he knew the place for an absence of all, and fear bit him sharply—for thus, he knew, must Hell be: a place of lacking, an absence of being.

Then, in his terror, did he cry out in anger, “My God! For Thee did I give my life! Wherefore hast Thou doomed me?” Yet no sooner were the words said than he did repent, and cursed himself for a faithless fool, thus to doubt even now in death, that the Christ would uphold him.

And straightway on the heels of that thought came the shock of insight—for he saw that, if he did die to cheat the Imp of the Perverse, defeating Finagle himself by his very perversity, he must needs expect reversal of expectation—which is to say that, if he died expecting the vistas of Heaven, he would most certainly discover the enclosures of Hell.

Then courage returned, and resolution; for he did come to see that the struggle was not ended, but only begun anew—that if he did desire Heaven, he would have to win to it. Then did he wonder if even the saints, they who dwelt in God, could count their toils ended—or if they chose eternally to struggle ’gainst greater forces.

Then did his Mission become clear to him, and the Blessed One knew wherefore he had come to this Void. The enemy ’gainst whom he had striven throughout his life endured still—and now would Father Vidicon confront him and look upon his face.

With the thought, his fall slowed, and he saw the mouth of a tunnel ope in the darkness before him, and it did glow within, a sullen red. Closer it did come, and wider, stretching and yawning to swallow him; yet Father Vidicon quailed not, nor attempted to draw back. Nay, bravely he stood, stalwart in nothingness; yea, even eagerly did he strain forward, to set foot upon infirm fungoid flesh and stride into Hellmouth.

As he strode, the sullen glow did brighten, gaining heat until he feared it would sear his flesh, then remembered that he had none. Brighter and hotter it flowed, until he turned thorough a bend in its tube and found himself staring upon the Imp of the Perverse.

Gross it was, and palpable, swollen with falsehood and twisted with paradoxes. Syllogisms sprouted from its sides, reaching toward Father Vidicon with complexes of bitterness, and it stood, but did not stand, on existential extensions.

“Turn back!” roared the Imp in awesome sardonicism. “Regress, retrograde! For none can progress that do come within!”

“Avaunt thee!” cried Father Vidicon. “For I know thee of old, bloody Imp! ’Tis thou who doth drive every suicide, thou who doth strengthen the one arm of the Bandit who doth rob the gambler compulsive, thou who doth bring down freezing snow upon the recumbent form of the will-leached narcotic! Nay, I know thee of old and know that he who retreats from thee, must needs pursue thee! Get THEE behind ME—for I shall surpass thee!”

“Wilt thou?” cried the Imp. “Then look to thy defense—for I shall undo thee!”

So saying, it reached toward Father Vidicon, twisting its hand—and of a sudden, thirst unbearable did seize the priest, a craving that could be slaked only by cheap rum. The Imp did hold out to him a bottle of brown glass with a garish label, and Father Vidicon’s hand stretched out seemingly of its own accord. Appalled, the priest did pull back his hand, and the Imp did laugh at the shock that filled his face. “Surrender, cleric,” it cried, “for soon or late, thou shalt take of this bottle and drink till that thirst is slaked!”

With dismay, Father Vidicon felt his hand rise and fought muscle against muscle to keep it from stretching toward that bottle.

A shout of anger escaped; shocked, Tony realized it had come from his own lips. He stared, astounded—could he really care that much whether or not the fictitious character took a drink? Surely not! He shook off the spell and punched in the commands necessary to reveal the code that underlay the letters. It would be subtle and devious, but the unknown hacker might have buried a virus in the shapes of the letters themselves.

The code appeared; he started scanning with a frown. No need to slow down and study—it was all familiar. He could have scanned the whole six minutes’ worth, of course, but a sudden hunch had him checking the interval before the message, and sure enough, a few keystrokes brought another burst of code to the screen.

Now Tony did slow down and study character by character. This code was new, nothing he had ever seen before. He took a pencil and pad out of his briefcase and started trying to unsnarl it. As he worked, his frown deepened to a scowl. Faster and faster his pencil worked until it was fairly flying across the paper as he tried combination after combination.

“Mr. Ricci?”

Tony started as though he’d been bitten, head snapping up.

“Gee, sorry,” Sandy said. “No harm intended.”

“Me neither.” Tony closed his eyes, wiping a hand across them. “Sorry—I was just concentrating so hard . . .”

“I could see that.” Sandy smiled. “Think you could use a lunch break?”

“Definitely. My brain was beginning to go around in circles.” Tony closed his laptop and stood up—and was amazed how his joints hurt. “Ouch!”

“Yes, too intense by far.” Sandy smiled. “The restaurant next door is pretty good, nothing special. There’s an excellent Chinese place down in the next block, though.”

“I probably couldn’t tell the difference between ‘pretty good’ and ‘excellent’ anyway,” Tony confessed. “The restaurant next door will be fine.”

They joined the line filing into the elevator, and an uncomfortable silence fell—uncomfortable for Tony, at least. He scanned his memory for possible conversational topics, and tried, “How long have you been here?”

“Three years,” Sandy said. “It’s a good place to work, and I’m learning a lot about telling a good stock from a bad one.”

“Must come in handy,” Tony said. “Just knowing how to analyze a stock isn’t insider trading, is it?”

“Far from it,” Sandy said, amused. “In fact, it’s very much from the outside.”

The elevator stopped, and they moved slowly with the tide of other lunch-bound workers. “It does take a lot of research, though,” Sandy said.

“I’ll bet.” Tony pursed his lips. “How do you start—with a company’s earnings report?”

“That’s one place,” Sandy said, “but there are others ...”

Tony managed to keep her talking for most of the next hour, but he didn’t really register much about market research, though he did become an offhand expert on Sandy’s hair, on her eyes, her nose, the expressive-ness of her lips and gestures. By the time they were back in the office, she was calling him Tony, and he was very much afraid he had fallen in love—afraid because it couldn’t be mutual. After all, she was beautiful, and he was a nerd—maybe pretty stylish, as nerds go, but still a nerd.

With a sigh, he stepped back into the cubicle and settled into the chair, hoping the streams of numbers would banish the vision of huge eyes and mobile lips. He lit the laptop, picked up his pencil, and began analyzing.

It worked; in a few minutes he was so deeply immersed in code that the outside world ceased to exist. He glanced at the desktop from time to time, of course, but most of his attention was on the yellow pad.

Then something changed. He glanced at the desktop and saw the screen was blank. His heart leaped; with three keystrokes, he opened a new file and started copying just in time for the first line of type to rise from the bottom of the screen. Dimly, he heard the workers’ whoop of delight and their chatter as they moved toward the coffee alcove, but he stayed in his chair, dying to know whether Father Vidicon took the bottle or not.