Virtual Vandals

Chapter 8

“What is it?” Caitlin hissed as Matt dashed up — and roughly pushed her aside. “What are you doing?” she demanded, sounding more scared than angry.

He paid no attention, scratching simulated nail-bitten fingers along the wall. Nothing! The sticky label he had seen Cat slap onto the green paint had left no trace.

Correction, Matt thought. It left no visible trace. The blasted thing had somehow become one with this simulated room. Oh, it was possible that the Irish designers’ programming had simply erased an element that didn’t belong. But these are the virtual vandals we’re dealing with, Matt thought. Whoever they’ve got behind them, I can’t believe the genius’s handiwork could disappear so easily. Unless it was built to do that.

He turned cold eyes on Caitlin Corrigan. “That label you were fiddling with — that’s a program icon, isn’t it? Removing the backing — that started the program. Now it’s eased its way into the coding for this simulation — probably for the whole veeyar.”

He caught the flash of terror in her eyes. Even as he wondered why she was getting so upset over what he’d realized, his hand darted out to grab her by the arm.

That was a lucky move. Just as he established contact with her, Cat bailed out of the press conference.

Because he was holding on, Matt followed along as they rocketed wildly through the Net.

Caitlin tried to peel him off, dragging him through roaring rivers of daytime data exchange. Even with flex-time, the hours from nine to five were still the heaviest times for information passage.

Matt hung on for dear life as they bounced around like a pinball moving at light speed. Now he had two questions he really wanted an answer for. What was in that weird label-program she’d left in Sean McArdle’s veeyar? And why would simply asking about it result in this frenzied attempt to run away?

Cat was gulping in air as if she’d been running for miles — or was she simply sobbing? Finally, they pin-wheeled into a familiar setting.

They were back in the virtual chem lab at Bradford Academy.

“You know,” Matt said, “my lab partner managed to make a mistake in here that would have blown us up out in reality. Instead, we got caught in a system freeze and had all our chemicals deleted from the simulation.” He paused. “And, of course, everybody in the class laughed at us because of the big red warning label that appeared—‘UNSTABLE REACTION INITIATED.’ They called us the Unstable Boys for weeks, until somebody else got shut down for spilling hydrochloric acid down the front of his shirt. I guess we were lucky. People still call that guy by the nickname ‘Bernie’—for acid burns.”

You’re babbling, he told himself sternly. Pull the plug on it before you say too much!

Caitlin crouched against one of the stone-topped laboratory tables, her eyes closed. “Just get your hands off. Let me go, will you?” she begged.

“I told you those stories to show that anybody can make a mistake,” Matt said gently. “Didn’t you think I’d ask about that stick-on program if I saw you use it? It’s pretty ingenious, after all. Subtle. Not exactly the style of your jeweled-up pal or that cartoon cowboy, I’d think. Was it whipped up by that guy who morphed from a giant frog into a fancy swordsman?”

Still resting her cheek against the cool stone tabletop, Caitlin stared at him wide-eyed. “I can’t tell you! I can’t!”

“You mean you have to talk it out with your friends first?” Matt said. “I can live with that.”

“Just let me be!” Tears sparkled in Caitlin’s eyes and began streaking across her cheek.

Matt couldn’t stand watching the girl cry. He relaxed his grip on her arm.

Instantly, she disappeared.

Nice going, he told himself sourly. That’s two experiments you’ve blown in here. It’s lucky the monitoring program isn’t on, or there’d be big red letters glaring around me now. He could just imagine the error message: “SOFTHEARTED JERK.”

Matt quickly bailed out of the virtual chemistry lab — it was forbidden territory except for working classes. He’d have been in a lot of trouble if he’d gotten caught in there. Still playing it safe, he visited another busy Net node before returning to his home veeyar.

The more he thought about it, the more he became convinced that there was someone behind the virtual vandals he’d seen. Whoever it might be, this genius just about scared the fertilizer out of Caitlin Corrigan. In comparison, she’d been downright calm when her friends had threatened to silence Matt permanently. She’d even been cool when Mr. Jewels — Gerry the Savage — had loomed over her, threatening Cat with a pounding.

What was it about whoever created their programs? Why did that person fill Caitlin with such terror that she just wanted to run away?

Matt couldn’t be absolutely sure about his suspicions. He’d have to dig deeper into Gerald Savage’s background, find out how much programming the English kid knew. Somehow, he’d also have to unmask the other characters and do the same with them. It had been a gut feeling, saying that the stick-label program seemed too subtle compared to the proxies the three boys were using.

But then, maybe somebody really subtle would be able to hide behind an obvious mask….

Matt reached his home veeyar, broke the connection, and sat slumped in his computer-link chair. He could play what-if and maybe until he grew a long gray beard. What Net Force needed was to get a little hands-on with some of the other side’s programming.

He got out of the chair and went to the phone, just managing to catch Captain Winters. The captain was not delighted to hear from him.

“Are you now suggesting that the son of the Irish ambassador is involved with this bunch?” he demanded.

“No, sir. I think he may be a target. He has a very open veeyar. It’s used for junior press conferences—”

“And it’s protected by diplomatic immunity,” Winters cut in.

“I think the programming may have been corrupted,” Matt went on. “Maybe you could try an unofficial approach, tell them you’ve heard about the press conferences, and express interest in the programming behind them. They give out copies of the program. If you ask for recordings of recent conferences, you might get a reproduction of the corrupted coding.”

Captain Winters gave a short, irritated grunt. “It might be worth a try,” he admitted. “Let me make the contact, and we’ll see what happens.”

The phone rang just as the Hunter family was sitting down for dinner. Matt’s mother answered from the kitchen extension, putting down the platter of protein burgers she’d prepared.

“Hello? Oh, yes, Captain. He’s right here.”

She passed the phone to Matt, then pointed to the tray.

Matt got the message. “Hello, Captain Winters. We’re just sitting down to supper.”

“Then I’ll keep it brief,” the captain said brusquely. “Looks like you were right about that program corruption. I got a copy from the Irish embassy and sent it down to Quantico. Our technicians there found an entire section of coding that doesn’t belong. It looks like an old-fashioned trapdoor program, allowing access to the simulation and the computer hardware from outside.”

“Really?” Matt said in surprise. “But I thought modern programming made that sort of setup impossible.”

“Not anymore,” the captain said grimly. “It may be an old-fashioned idea, but whoever whomped this up has managed to evade even the newest security routines.” He paused for a second. “There are lots of people at Net Force who’d very much like to talk with this person.”

“If I find anything out, Captain, I’ll be sure to let you know.”

Captain Winters made a noise that sounded suspiciously like “Humph!” Then he said, “I guess that’s all we can ask for. Good night, Matt.”

“Good night, sir.” Matt hung up the phone and picked at dinner until his father gathered up the dishes and began washing them. Matt dried, then went to his room — and the computer-link chair.

Again, Matt waited until he’d reached a busy Net node before he donned Leif Anderson’s Mr. Sticks proxy. Then he activated Cat Corrigan’s communications protocol and streaked across the neon wonderland. Yes, he was coming up on the government Net areas. Then he veered off into the quieter neighborhood of the rich and well-connected.

There was the glowing version of Mount Vernon, dead ahead.

He rocketed straight for the glowing wall…and crashed.

Matt huddled on the cushions of his computer-link chair, holding on to his head as if he feared it was about to fall off. His teeth were gritted together so tightly, the muscles in his jaw ached. But he didn’t want to yell, didn’t want to bring his parents in.

Pain seemed to be pounding along every neuron in his brain. He’d experienced system crashes before, and this was no worse than any of them. Certainly, he was better off than Leif Anderson had been after being hit by that virtual bullet.

Matt was conscious, and breathing…and aware of every twinge racing around his nervous system. He knew that the fizzling pain would die away. By the time he woke up tomorrow morning, all he’d have was a mild headache.

What really hurt was the way he’d been cut off from Caitlin Corrigan.

Man, Matt thought. When she doesn’t want to answer questions, she certainly lets you know!