Seurat threw his comset across the room, the small device making a muffled
Replacing a comset with every bad piece of news would be shamefully wasteful, even when the news was this bad.
He hurried towards the garage, grabbing his wallet and a set of keys for the old 914 he favored for going into Paris. The small, mid-engine Porsche was easier to navigate in the narrow streets of the big city.
Thousands of CyberNation’s residents had been dropped into blackness across Europe, with outages and other interruptions of service. Milo Saens, his chief security expert, had related several disturbing ramifications of the incident in addition to the most important one:
The failure was the result of sabotage.
Seurat slapped the garage door opener and jumped down the small flight of steps leading into what had once been a wine cellar, but which now included a space for his cars.
He opened the door of the 914 and slid in, jamming the key into the slot. He entered the comp code as well; a necessary evil that allowed him to drive on streets with other cars of later make.
Now the car would be recognized by the city traffic computer for what it was, and should he deviate from traffic laws in the presence of other cars, the onboard computer would force him to the side of the road.
A small smile played across his face. He’d be forced over if he
The two-liter engine roared and the acceleration pushed Seurat back in his seat as he ran through the first two gears. He lived on the new Rue de Soie — the Silk Road — part of an expensive development of both new and refurbished homes, and none of them cheap. He found it very amusing that his house was but a short trip away from Euro-Disneyland. Had it been possible, he would have bought a home on Rue de Goofy — just to irritate the traditionalists still trying to keep the language “pure.”
What a waste of time and effort
It had taken him months to find this particular 914, and even longer to restore the car to the condition in which he kept it, but the effort had been worth it.
Patience. It was all about taking the time.
The attack on CyberNation had ended. Saens, who had called on his comset, had explained that the network would be back up in minutes; had Seurat waited but a little while, he could have gotten a full briefing in a secure CyberNation chatroom without leaving his home.
But the drive to the city would give him time to think, to plan out the best response for what had happened. Like his distant ancestor, Charles Seurat liked to work deliberately and thoughtfully.
The attack had been bad. According to Saens, it had blacked out most of the continent, with tendrils of the blackout spreading to the U.S., South America, and Asia. Reports were still coming in.
Worse, prior to the actual shutdown, the attackers had spoofed servers for passwords and had removed some of the careful barriers that separated bits of CyberNation — protected chatrooms had suddenly been joined by on-line sex groups, personal information of all sorts had been dragged out into common areas, and other doors that were normally closed had opened.
It hadn’t lasted long, according to Saens, but any amount of time was too long.
Throughout his life, Seurat had found that every strength held a weakness. CyberNation — with true liberty, equality, and brotherhood for all — was a nonphysical ideal. That removed most of the grime and grit of the world and made it impervious to destruction from physical attack, but its noncorporeal state made it susceptible in other ways.
Like this.
The question was not, “Who would do such a thing?” There were many who were jealous, more who were simply malicious, and there were those who were afraid of CyberNation and what it stood for. No, the question was, “Who is
CyberNation had security second to none. Whoever had done this thing was more than expert.
The CyberNation leader knew that he wouldn’t be needed to repair the network — his people were already working on that.
But more than the network needed repair. Those who had lost service could lose faith — might even lose belief in the new nation that was supposed to shelter them. If the citizens of CyberNation could lose their perfect world for any reason — well, it wouldn’t be perfect, then,
They would want an explanation — and satisfaction.
And so did he.
Seurat signaled to exit to the Boulevard Peripherique, the ring road that circled the center of the city, and accelerated, overtaking a large hauler. The truck driver shook his fist at Seurat as the little sports car sailed past. It was currently de rigueur to hate older fossil-fuel cars. Seurat didn’t know if it was due to jealousy or environmentalism, although he suspected the former. Not everyone could afford to operate an older car.
Once on the ring road, he stayed in the right lane. The Porte d’Orleans was just one exit ahead. Another hauler was ahead of him, this one painted with signs extolling the virtues of fresh produce.
The lingering thread of his thoughts hung there, waiting.
What would be the best way to give his people what they craved? How could he promise safety and freedom for all? He was the leader of something more than a mere nation. For a moment he saw himself on the spectrum of world leaders: How it must have been throughout the ages for such, trying to satisfy the people they led, promising them what they needed, while trying to deny reality. To offer safety, even where it did not exist.
He supposed that they had found what he did: Sometimes it worked, sometimes it did not.
This had to be resolved, and quickly. They had an enemy, one who was adept enough to damage them. This could not be allowed.
He must be found.
And destroyed.
Ahead finally sat the Nouvel building, a postmodern masterpiece that he and the other leaders of CyberNation had chosen for its aesthetics as much as for its functionality and fully integrated net-backbone.
Nearby, parked under the light of a street lamp, was a newsvan.
Ah. No surprise there. The media was ever alert. Like sharks, they came at the merest whiff of blood in the water.
Well, no matter. Someone had handed him a sour lemon, and he was going to make a refreshing drink from it.
He slowed his car and, instead of going into his private underground parking spot, he pulled over on the street outside the building. As he stepped from the car, lights came on from near the newsvan, forcing him to squint slightly as he walked toward them. He squared his shoulders and smiled. He would spin them a story, and they would serve him as he would have it.
Lying naked and sweaty upon the bed, Mayli looked up at Locke as he dressed. She smiled. “You know that Wu would probably kill you if he knew we were doing this.”
Locke smiled in return. “Me? I doubt it. Besides, I am certain that he does know. General Wu did not rise to his current position by being a fool. I imagine that he is having you and me watched — I would in his place. I’d
