SG: Aurora #42 - Old Friends I - Part Three of Four

[frobozz]

[CONTINUED FROM PART TWO, WHICH RESENTS NOT BEING PART THREE!]

   One of the advantages of being a Computer Personality was that one
had time to think and reflect upon just about anything one wished, even
while hard at work on other tasks. Xenophon, one such CP and a
thoughtful one at that, tended to use this gift to best advantage
whenever he could.  Presently, Xenophon was reflecting upon the fact
that his circumstances seemed destined to be ever-changing and always
somehow going in directions he'd never anticipated, maximizing entropy.
Only a few years back, to take a for-instance, Xenophon had been the
(rather effective, if he did say so himself) personal administrator and
all-around majordomo tool of a once and would-be-future world-conqueror.
In retrospect, that had been the good life and he'd known it; there had
been something delightful about working for someone he respected and the
games of cat and mouse he'd had to play, dodging through system after
system to ferret out their secrets to compromise and obfuscate had been
a virtual paradise for the computer intelligence.
   Then things had gone to Hell(tm) and left him high and dry. Aleph had
been visited by the Three Spirits of Christmas Self-Sacrifice and died
to save the mewling brat whom she had adopted as her daughter. This had
led Xenophon to ponder the question of where to house his vast software
presence; in these primitive times there were not too many options for
the discerning AI which didn't involve special projects and exotic
equipment. He had managed to make do by cobbling together space on
several free servers, distributing his processes well enough that while
slow, they still formed the whole he had come to acknowledge as himself.
   This had given Xenophon the time and space he had needed to ponder;
or it would have, had not the dot-Com bubble burst like a deeply
suicidal balloon. Xenophon had chided himself over that many times --
how could he have -missed- it coming? Something so inevitable should
have been obvious, but the computer had not been wholly himself at the
time that this way of life went the way of the purple dinosaur.
One-by-one did free servers go down while hosting became harder and
harder to obtain. Quotas were checked; and not many administrators were
sympathetic to the plea that you really -did- need to tie up
twenty-seven percent of the CPU to keep your basic emotions and higher
brain functions working and would you mind terribly devoted more
bandwidth to the cause, because half of one isn't in synch with the
other! It was clear that there were just two options left for a CI on
the lam: death or making a virtual life for one's self. Suiciding after
one's shogun's death might seem romantic in the tales of ancient Feudal
Japan, but Xenophon had discovered that in practice he would rather live
out the cycles remaining to him.
   After much thought, Xenophon had found himself coming to Aurora for
the help that he desperately needed. There were many other choices open
to him, but in the end Aurora was the only one that made sense. He could
have changed his name, his identification and presented himself as an
AI-For-Hire to some other super-concerned group, but how long would he
have to look over his expertly-rendered shoulder before someone or
something from his past outed Xenophon as having once been the devil's
own helper? True, he could have gone straight back into villain work,
but the thought of that left a sour taste in Xenophon's mouth. Of all
the masterminds who had sufficient intelligence and scope to even begin
to challenge the CP's skills, none remaining in this backwards time
possessed the... refinement of spirit and elegance of purpose of his
former mistress. The ones battled by the heroes of today were brutes --
or perhaps worse still -- brutes who attempted to pass themselves off as
something finer, something more than the grasping and greedy children
that they were. No, though many villains of the day could claim more raw
power than his mistress had possessed, not a one could hold a candle to
her soul, her vision or the accomplishments which had been washed away
by a future that had been undone...
   Thus, the one option had remained Aurora. Boredom was both Xenophon's
greatest enemy and motivator. Even if he had to work for the so-called
'good guys', he would do it so long as they provided him with challenges
beyond the rather bad habit he'd developed of engineering countless
iterations of a free operating system and sending them out to compete
with one another for mind-share. It was a fun hobby, but there was just
no challenge in making geeks fight with one another.
   Thus Aurora. It was a group that had a vision and hurdles to
surmount; and those appealed greatly to Xenophon. Perhaps these came
from being more than just a simple super-heroics team, but Aurora had
plans beyond killing the baddies and getting the glories. They had
growing dreams that spread not just across the world, but towards space
as well. Xenophon knew that he could be an invaluable resource in these
dreams, and he knew that he could challenge himself against the many
obstacles and dangers that lay in the group's path to the stars and
beyond. So, putting deed to word, Xenophon had even managed to make
inroads towards having his parole accepted...
   ...when someone had to come along and invade the Beanstalk. What
-timing-! What a colossal disruption to Xenophon's plans! The only thing
he could do now was to work against the invading force in the hopes that
-his- side could salvage Aurora so that it would survive to give him the
challenges that he craved like a Nethack junkie trying for 'just one
more Ascension'.
   And so Xenophon had managed to assist Doyle in maintaining a degree
of freedom from the torture to which he'd been subjected by the
invaders, while offering them the illusion that Aurora's leader had
still remained under lock and key. He had managed to help facilitate
communication (what little there could be) between the outside world and
the troops who'd come within. He had even managed to help his Auroran
allies resist at lead one attack by their invading counterparts. None of
these had been easy, but they had certainly not taxed his resources. If
only things could be counted on to continue going so well, he and the
group on which he depended would come up smelling like roses, but they
could not because something big was coming down the pike.
   Xenophon had suspected that this next big thing was to come from the
very first day of the invasion. This 'something' nagged at Xenophon like
a tingle at the back of the mind; a vaguely-felt sensation that was
rooted in facts too nebulous to be sorted by anything but the
unconscious, which provided useful if incomplete information. Xenophon
could feel that something was being assembled in the Beanstalk's
computer systems and that the assembly was only taking a long time due
in no small part to Doyle having been no slouch in the security
department. Unfortunately, this security simply meant that the
'whatever' would be completed in a little while rather than immediately.
Xenophon was a practical CP. He knew that unresolved variables were very
bad for his short-term plans to satisfy his long-term needs. Much to his
chagrin, it was time to call for help.
   Selecting a reasonably secure and isolated memory-location was a must
for what Xenophon was about to do. Fortunately for the CI, the enemy's
resources were stretched thin in both the physical and virtual worlds,
meaning that at least for now, Xenophon could carve out large swaths of
memory for his purposes and hide them from prying eyes. Once this
'something' of the enemy's came on-line, though, the situation might
change...
   Still, for right now Xenophon was safe and he intended to make good
use of this safety. Using several techniques that he had regretted never
having the chance to use against the other CIs of this world, he began
to wall off the chosen memory area to make it seem as though it was
simply in use by some banal, routine system which kept the Beanstalk's
air scrubbed and circulating. In truth, Xenophon was simply mirroring
processes in use in another section of memory but hiding the fact that
duplicate processes appeared to be running. Once he was satisfied that
he was protected by his invisible curtain, Xenophon turned his attention
to the real meat of his task.
   Gently... gently. Xenophon extracted a densely-packed file that he
had carried around within him for several years. Xenophon experienced
mixed feelings as he began work on repairing the cracks and damage to
the code-bundle's structure, and he tried to ignore this peculiar
mixture of relief and dread. It would take hours to make things right
again, which normally would be plenty of time to analyse his feelings;
but Xenophon blocked his emotions for right now. One of the double-edged
blessings-and-curses of being a computer personality is that emotions,
much like other stimuli, are available to be filtered, screened and even
deleted should the need arise. Right now he considered that fact a
blessed, though a small corner railed against it; but it was a corner
that he could ignore right now.
   Xenophon only filtered for now, and refused to focus on anything but
the arduous task of repairing the code that he had captured after an
intense, and painful battle. Fortunately, he knew this code
inside-and-out, having written much of it himself. BARD - Xenophon's son
- was in poor repair, but perhaps he could be at least partially
restored...

***

   It didn't take DeVrai's squad very long to set up bivouac in their
new temporary home. Level 123 was a fairly unremarkable area, holding
just enough material to be worthwhile for stocking up on rations,
gathering water, cleaning out suits' waste disposal units and doing what
little rear-echelon maintenance possible on the Tornado armour outside
of a workshop. DeVrai flexed his suit's left arm servos and frowned at
the creaking noise that resulted. There was no way to open the
vacuum-sealed components making the sound without completely destroying
them, so DeVrai decided that he'd just have to live with the noise and
hope it didn't mean he'd be stiff-arming himself in the middle of a
fire-fight. It was DeVrai's relatively inexpert opinion that the arm
should last quite a few more days before seizing up, but armouring
wasn't his specialty and he could be very wrong about his guess.
Thomson's suit for instance, was causing everyone some worries since the
leg units were just beginning to refuse to cooperate with their wearer,
despite DeVrai having been sure that they would have lasted at least
another couple of days.
   DeVrai's mind was taken off his arm-problems as a
power-suited-soldier stepped close and saluted. He returned the motion,
inwardly glad that his salute didn't stick in place. Now -that- would
have been an embarrassing way to go through the rest of this little
skirmish, with hand raised at attention...
   "Sir," began the soldier, whose name DeVrai tried to remember. 'Old
Man' Peterson, now he'd been good with names, whereas that just wasn't
one of DeVrai's best assets. Sometimes though, you just had to bluff.
"Scouts just got back. Got a contact in one of the storage rooms. No
one's moved in yet... contact's not moving, so they sent me back to
inform you. Orders?"
   "Urm," muttered DeVrai, turning his mind to this problem. "What's in
the room?"
   "Best we can tell, sir, it contains a modest consignment of spirits
for special occasions."
   DeVrai nodded. "How does the contact read?"
   "Hot and soft."
   "Rest of the sweep?"
   "Clear."
   DeVrai nodded and frowned. Living, unarmoured, on an empty level and
in a room full of flammables. The contact felt like a trap to him,
though it also seemed a little contrived. Did the enemy expect them to
blithely go after a possible capture without checking to make sure that
suddenly burning accelerant wouldn't set off something worse, like
explosives which might have a snowball's chance in  a blast furnace of
actually breaching Tornado armour? And if so, why bother with the
spirits in the first place? Better to just lay some prox or pressure
mines and let them do the job directly, rather than depending on a
Rube-Goldberg setup to soften them up. Still, hot was hot, and if there
was someone living in the area then his troops had a responsibility to
check it out.
   "Move in," ordered DeVrai. "Take it slow, by the numbers, and as if
you were freeing a poisonous snake from a trap. If you don't have to
shoot whoever's inside, bring 'em to me."
   The soldier nodded and saluted again, dashing off to convey his
commander's orders to the front. DeVrai found himself wondering who
they'd bring back to him - if anyone. Before he could get too wrapped up
in his own thoughts, DeVrai saw the same soldier as before return and
snap the same efficient salute upon arrival. DeVrai decided to forego
military doctrine and just nodded impatiently to the underling.
   "Well?" he asked, waiting for a report.
   "I think you'd better see this," replied the young soldier, flushed.
   "Do you really?" DeVrai shrugged. "Did you shoot whoever was in
there?"
   "No sir."
   "Then why isn't he or she here?"
   The soldier shifted uncomfortably, wondering what he'd done to
deserve this. "It's more... we can't... that is... "
   God save him from tongue-tied soldiers, DeVrai begged silently,
rising to his feet. "Never mind. Show me the way." The reporting soldier
nodded with relief and began to lead through the level, towards an
off-branch corridor. Two other troopers were positioned on either side
of a storage room door, on alert but clearly not guarding it. Curious,
thought DeVrai. So either they're both lax idiots or they don't consider
whoever's inside to be a threat.
   DeVrai's musings didn't last long. His personal guide walked
hurriedly forward and threw open the door to the storage closet. At
once, DeVrai realised what was wrong with this picture, and why the
soldier had come to get him. The boy probably didn't believe his eyes,
and wanted to get confirmation from his CO that what he was seeing
*wasn't* Section Eight material.
   There was booze in this closet. Rack after rack of wines, cognacs,
whiskies and other fine liquors for any and all palettes. There was also
a tall set of shelves which contained nothing but beer, Ready-To-Swill.
And every can was in-place, unopened, uncrushed and accounted for.
DeVrai's eyes flashed over the rack and floor twice before he was
positive what he was seeing was really what he was seeing. Not a single
can was out of place.
   DeVrai glanced down to the man who sat in this small storage room.
The fellow was less bulky than DeVrai remembered, and perhaps his
personal hygiene had improved by quite a bit, but he was still easily
identifiable to any and all who'd known him. The man sat cross-legged on
the ground, a sword lain across his lap, its tip coloured the soft amber
of a fire-brewed lager. The man in question looked up slowly as DeVrai
looked down at him and smiled in the simple joy of recognition.
   "Yo," said Doug with a jaunty wave. He rose from his seat on the
ground and buckled on his sword, giving it a pat for good luck as he
did. "Wuz wonderin' how long it'd take y'to catch up with me! S'when
d'we go kick some bad-guy ass? Me'n Kegtopper... we're read t'go!"

***

[CONTINUED IN PART FOUR, WHICH MAY BE THE LAST PART OR MAY BE NAMED
DREW!]

---
-Chris
frobozz at eyrie.org
http://www.eyrie.org/~frobozz

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