``VERVICOM VIRUS'' RAMPANT
Eight years ago, an error in the software safeguards at the Mason
Nuclear Power plant resulted in an accident. This accident caused
several cases of radiation poisoning, and the aftereffects are
still being felt today.
Six years ago, the supertanker Henry David ran aground, spilling
a million gallons of oil over the previously pristine beach of
Waldport, Washington.
Earlier this week, the Mason Nuclear Power Plant's safety systems
again failed, this time by shutting down power to the entire
city, resulting in many injuries and even deaths.
The common factor in all these incidents is Vervicom Software.
They were the creators of both the Mason safeguards and the GPS
system which steered the ill-fated tanker off course. Victims of
the power plant accident have received generous settlements, all
lawsuits relating to the Henry David are closed, and the software
giant is said to be in talks with the city regarding restitution
for its most current accident. While Vervicom has painted a
picture of 'trying to set things right' in these settlements, has
it really learned anything?
One employee says no. An anonymous source inside the company
reports that the fault lies in a virus that has lain dormant in
Vervicom's computers over the past decade. ``[It] is slippery and
vanishes when you try to lock it down. But I wouldn’t be
surprised if it’s the root of all the strange things that have
gone on in this company.” While the source could not locate
copies of the virus in archives of older code, it did become
apparent that ``Some of the code that’s misbehaving right now
[is] still broken in the same way.”
Officials at Vervicom Software declined to comment.
8 Deus Ex
There had been one moment, about ten minutes long, where Grant's
phone had stopped ringing. That had been a good ten minutes.
He tried, as a general rule, to keep his work life and his
private life separate. His card only had the paper's number on
it, but when he was dealing with a source he'd often put his cell
on there as well. In this case, it was coming back to haunt him.
His cellphone was currently turned off and hidden in his desk
drawer so he wouldn't be tempted to pick it up and look at the
horrid number of voice mail messages piling up. His desk phone
was the one that kept ringing. He had to take those calls, too.
Morgan - the new Morgan - had quit when the deluge hit. She was
replaced by the temp agency - in an hour - by the old Morgan. The
old Morgan was ruthlessly efficient at preventing Vervicom
employees or others with their retirements invested in Vervicom
stock from getting through to Grant, and he was thankful, but
this left a number of others he had to call.
The story had taken him the remainder of the week to finish, with
research and vetting and some additional interviews with Patrick.
Anders had wanted to save it for the Sunday edition, and Grant
had been fine with it. He'd written unflattering stories before
and the worst he'd end up with was usually an e-mail inbox of
irate letters. At the moment all his e-mail was going through a
series of filters to pick out death threats.
This was the second time in two weeks he'd come in in the
morning. Unlike the last time, nobody was poking fun at him.
Instead, they were congratulating him. He'd been with the Gazette
his entire post-college career, but it hadn't been until this
story broke and all the havoc came with it that he'd gotten a
sense of respect. It was, he'd realized, the first bit of real
journalism he'd done.
Naturally, this meant he was catching hell from it.
The first people to contact him had been Vervicom's lawyers. They
were very stern, and Grant forwarded them to Anders quickly.
Hearing the editor loudly berate them on how seriously the paper
treated the anonymity of its sources, he almost felt sorry for
them.
He'd gotten some calls of support, and more than a few calls he
wanted to return at some point when his phone was free. Most
Vervicom employees hated him for ruining their pension (shares in
VRVC were down 3 and 3/8 on the news) but a few had phoned in
saying they'd seen evidence of the virus, too. The majority of
the rest of his calls were from people dissatisfied with
Vervicom's more consumer-oriented software and who thought this
was somehow related.
His phone rang again and he was about to pick it up when Anders
came over to his desk and unplugged it. ``That's it!'' the editor
proclaimed. ``You've done enough damage for the day.''
``As annoying as most of these calls are,'' Grant said, not
without some measure of relief, ``A few of them are genuine new
sources. I should probably hear what they have to say.''
``That's Morgan's job.'' he paused. ``It's Morgan again, yes?''
``The last person was also Morgan.'' Grant added unhelpfully.
``Anyway, it's his job to screen calls and he was getting a
little upset that you wouldn't let him do it.'' Anders said.
Grant couldn't tell if the man was kidding.
``So if I'm not talking to sources, what am I doing?''
``You're going home.'' Anders emphasized this part. ``Believe me,
I know how reckless and foolhardy you can be when you've got a
story, so the best thing you can do right now is go home, get
some rest, and not let fame go to your head.''
``But I-''
``Go home!'' Anders reiterated. ``If you're here in five minutes
I'm sending you home with a pink slip!''
Grant knew that his editor was probably not going to fire the man
responsible for the latest front-page exclusive, but he wasn't
willing to take the chance. After all, Anders had not earned his
reputation as a lunatic for nothing.
On his way out, he glanced at his phone to see 42 unanswered
messages. He sighed - at least it was fewer than awaited his
inbox.
``Mr. Wynn!'' A sharp voice intruded as he walked to his car.
Grant frowned and turned cautiously toward its originator. He'd
never really had to think about personal security before, and he
was finding that it was probably something he should have looked
into sooner rather than later.
Malachai VonCannon was walking toward him urgently. Part of him
relaxed while another part of his mind tensed up. Good, it wasn't
some lunatic. Bad, it was this particular lunatic.
``I need to see your car.'' he said pointedly, looking around
erratically. He would stare directly at Grant for a few moments,
then check his surroundings to ensure he hadn't been followed.
The reporter would ordinarily have found such paranoia to be
overrated, but in his current situation it seemed entirely
justified.
``I'm walking to it now.'' Grant replied uncertainly. Why did the
inventor need to see his car?
Malachai didn't elaborate as he shuffled along behind. The
reporter found himself wondering how crazy the crazy old man
actually was.
The moment Grant pulled out his keys, VonCannon had darted out in
front of him and was peering through the glass. ``Ha! I knew it
would be the case! I knew it!''
Wynn wasn't sure he wanted to ask, but did nonetheless. ``Knew
what?''
``Drive me back to my warehouse, I've got quite a bit to show
you.''
Grant looked at the man askance. ``Now hold on just a second
there. I need to know how and why you're here. It is not typical
to wait outside someone's place of work, it's the kind of thing
someone with a grudge and a tire iron would do.''
``Hmph.'' was the impatient reply. ``I'm here because I've got a
better story than the one you printed yesterday. Oh, I read it,
it got me thinking. How I got here is simple, I took the bus. And
as to why I'm waiting out here, perhaps I wouldn't need to if
you'd answer your damn phone!''
There was a moment of silence. Grant broke it by saying, in a
level voice, ``Fair enough.''
``Now, are you going to drive me back to my warehouse, or are you
going to force an old man to wait in the heat for the return bus?''
Grant sighed and unlocked the doors. ``Hop in.''
VonCannon had seemed a recalcitrant, taciturn man those few times
that Grant had possessed the ill-fortune to speak with him. What
the reporter was in the process of learning as he drove was that
this was only because Malachai hadn't had a topic until now.
``Did they tell you about my time machine?'' he asked. Grant
risked a look away from the road to see that the ex-professor
looked almost giddy.
``They?''
VonCannon waved the question aside. ``The people you talked to
about me. Or about the Disappointment Machine, it's not
important. Do you know about the time machine?''
``Someone at the university mentioned you built something along
those lines.'' he replied guardedly. It wouldn't be wise to point
out that such a thing was impossible.
``Of course, a real time machine is impossible.'' Malachai
pointed out. ``At least in the sense of a time-traveling car or
phone booth or something like that. What I did - and this is
ongoing, understand - is open a wormhole and anchor it in time.
It's a tiny wormhole, only information can travel through, and
I've been spending decades deciphering what it means. Now, thanks
to your story, I know!''
``What does this have to do with my car?'' Grant asked. ``I'm
guessing you wanted the ride, but you seemed intent on looking it
over first.''
``It has nothing to do with your car,'' Malachai insisted
disdainfully, ``and everything to do with your GPS. You remember
the first time we met, yes?''
Grant just nodded. None of his meetings so far with the professor
had gone well. This sentiment included the current one.
``You arrived at my warehouse hoping to go, instead, to Sandys
recycling. You were not the first that day to do so and you were
not the last. Since I saw your story, I did an informal poll
among those who came by that day - at least, those whose phone
numbers I could locate. Guess who manufactures the software for
their GPS systems?''
``Verv-'' Grant started.
``Vervicom!'' VonCannon shouted ecstatically. Grant risked
another look and saw that, indeed, the man was grinning from ear
to ear.
If Malachai noticed the attention, he did not respond, instead
continuing on about his discovery. ``That's just the tip of the
iceberg, though. All those people who stopped by my place of
business, they're just the ones that didn't know that my
warehouse was not their intended destination! What about the more
street-savvy, those who rely on the GPS for navigation but know
the city well enough to know when the directions don't make any
sense?'' Grant suspected if he glanced over right now, he'd see
the man rubbing his hands together like a modern-day mad
scientist. ``Ah, but I checked on them, too! Vervicom has a
number of forums, official and less so, and there are some of
them broken down by region. I checked this region on the day in
question, and I find no fewer than a dozen people who began their
mistaken trek to my workplace only to retreat when they realized
their mistake! And every single one, as you might imagine from
their posting, possessed a Vervicom GPS.''
Grant was personally glad that they were nearing the destination.
``Is that really such a surprise?'' he asked. ``I mean, I'd be
more suspicious if it was just my GPS and not a whole bunch of
people.''
VonCannon shook his head. ``You've got to look at the pattern! Do
you know all the things that Vervicom software runs?''
``No.'' was the reply. He wasn't sure he wanted to.
``Their safeguard routines are industry standard. Power plants,
GPS, and most relevant to this conversation, automatic navigation
systems in general.''
``I'm not sure I follow.'' They had reached the warehouse. Grant
was already out of the car and Malachai followed almost
immediately after, babbling as he went.
``Automatic navigation! Not full-fledged autonomy, of course, but
driver-assisted! The city contracted out the safety protocols for
its buses when it requisitioned them. A local company won the
bid.''
``The anti-lock brakes?'' Wynn almost stopped walking. ``Vervicom
killed Dr. Caster?''
VonCannon opened the door to his warehouse and ushered Grant
impatiently inside. ``No, of course not. Their software did it.''
he turned a few switches near the door and the various pools of
light flickered on. ``So, see the pattern. Dr. Caster is killed
by a Vervicom glitch. Then you are directed to me by another
glitch in the same company's software. You, the person capable of
exposing this problem!'' The professor was walking more quickly
now, more comfortable in his own domain.
``You're talking as though someone's doing this on purpose.''
Grant pointed out. ``My source tells me it's just a virus,
there's not a person controlling it.''
``Ha!'' Malachai's laugh was as pointed as his speech. ``Not a
person indeed! Your friend is very observant. I would like a copy
of this virus, if I am correct it is the vehicle through which
all these things are happening.''
``It's just coincidence.'' Grant insisted.
``It was no coincidence that we met!'' The professor's own
insistence was more forceful by far. ``In fact, I am beginning to
disbelieve in coincidence altogether. Come, see this machine.''
They'd arrived at a pool of light closer to the back of the
warehouse. Grant could see the desk area the professor used as a
workstation. In the distance, though its light was off, he knew
the Disappointment Machine lurked.
He wasn't thrilled with this table, either. On it was a segmented
metal ring, about a foot in diameter. It writhed in complete
silence, performing some task Grant couldn't identify.
``This is my Oroboros.'' VonCannon proclaimed. ``I'm not sure
what to name it. Part of me likes to call it the Perpetual Motion
Machine, but that's not technically true. It is very efficient
but it will not run forever. I'll probably simply call it the
Recycling Machine.''
``What, exactly, is it doing?'' Grant asked. Every time it seemed
the professor had a thread of conversation, he would do something
like this and change directions completely.
VonCannon pointed at a bump in the metal that Grant had
originally assumed was a design flaw. ``This opening is where
material goes to be recycled. The machine uses it to build more
of itself, which it then devours.''
Grant could see it now; the bump was a mechanical mouth, it was
moving slowly, crushing in almost total silence the metal of the
machine's ``tail''.
Malachai had already motioned him over to the desk area. A
whiteboard covered in mathematical notation and other less
intelligible drawings was testament to the work done recently. ``
All these things I've built over the years, they work on
principles nobody else seems to understand. I build a time
machine that doesn't travel through time, an immobile machine
that ceases to exist the moment you perfect it, a disappointment
machine that can't fail to be built, and a machine which is
constantly reinventing itself. They seem unrelated... until you
came along.
``Knowing what I know now,'' the ex-professor continued, ``
knowing that things were arranged this way, I thought of the
machines differently. What if, instead of being mere experiments
of mine, they were prerequisites to something bigger? Something
which takes from all of them? Something which reaches through
time, and arranges things so it was built? How would the effects
of such a machine look to observers, hmmm?''
Grant wasn't sure he liked the manic gleam in VonCannon's eyes.
He tried to stay firm in his conviction that the coincidences
he'd endured were in fact just coincidence. ``I met Rosetta
Sandys, `` he said evenly, ``because of that power outage. And
now you're suggesting that some machine from the future arranged
that? No. I don't buy it.''
Malachai calmed down and seemed his old thoughtful self
momentarily. ``I told you, didn't I, that the night Dr. Caster
died, he called me to apologize?''
``I seem to recall that.'' Grant said warily.
``You know, then, that we had an argument some years past? Do you
know the subject?''
Grant shook his head. He didn't want to be convinced. He wanted
to get out of this warehouse, go see Rosetta, and pretend the
world was a normal place where some force from the future wasn't
lining up happy horrible little coincidences.
``Doctor Caster accused me of colluding with industry during my
time at the university.'' VonCannon revealed. ``Given he was
accused of the same thing, he was understandably sensitive about
such transgressions. They were baseless accusations, and I said
so. It was the last we'd spoke until I got his message. The
reason he gave me, at the time of our argument, was that he'd
discovered blueprints for the Immobile machine in the Vervicom
system.''
Grant was about to open his mouth to object when Malachai
interrupted him.
``Look at the pattern! First, my time machine's unpredictable
nature forces Dr. Caster to fire me, thus separating us. Then, he
discovers blueprints that cannot have been on that system,
separating us again! When he finally implements them and sees
that I am right, he is stopped again from coming to me! And you
would put this all down as coincidence? It doesn't matter that
this Vervicom Virus of yours, the one that vanishes when its work
is done, has been orchestrating all these seemingly unrelated
events? This is not evidence to you?''
``But why?'' Grant replied, his voice a great deal harsher than
he'd meant to. ``Why go through all this trouble? Why bring me
here, why murder Dr. Caster?''
``To ensure it is built!'' VonCannon replied. ``Before you wrote
that story, I had my suspicions, but now I know. The Coincidence
Machine must be built. It is altering history through this virus
in order to become created. It kept Caster away from me for
reasons of its own, probably because the man had a good head for
management but wasn't technical enough to keep up, may he rest in
peace. And finally, the machine brought you to me. So I would
know. So I would begin my research.''
A stony silence sat between them.
``It's insane.'' Grant insisted quietly. ``I don't want to
believe this.''
``It's real.''
``So now what?'' Grant said suddenly. ``Now that the machine's
got what it wanted, what happens now?''
Malachai shrugged. ``You wrote a story exposing Vervicom. The
machine can't use the software giant for its ends anymore, from
which we can conclude it is finished. I imagine we go about our
lives. I build the machine so it stops interfering with
everything, you go become a famous journalist. We put this behind
us.''
``A man is dead.'' Wynn reminded him.
``Who's to say you wouldn't have died instead, hm? We don't know
what the world was like before this thing got started. Maybe
Vervicom doesn't exist in the unaltered timeline, maybe there's
no such thing as Mason Power in the real world. We live now. That
is what is important.'' VonCannon paused. ``There is only one
more task I need you to do. Get me a copy of that virus. Once I
have it, I can create software that will find it no matter where
it lies. More importantly, I can disassemble it, find out what it
was doing and what it is yet to do, and thus verify we are done
with it.''
``If I get you this virus, it's over?''
``I guarantee nothing.'' Malachai spoke with his usual candor. ``
But if you do not get me the virus, you will never know. Whenever
any coincidence, serendipity, or fluke of chance effects you, you
will ask yourself - it is a genuine coincidence, or are you still
running on the treadmill your new fate has set for you?''
``Fine.'' Grant said, his nerves shot. With that, he turned from
the building and left.
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