blip of an occasional plane or ship was the only movement.
John waved the warrant officer back to his chair. "It's ok, Mr. Blackstone, just familiarizing myself with Operations.
"The red is what?" he asked, pointing up at the board. "Perimeter sensors, Major."
A solid crimson ribbon sat alone above the warrant officer's right pocket: the First Day Ribbon. John wondered what irony had let Blackstone survive the Japan Invasion only to end up in UC.
"We monitor all activity along that perimeter, sir. We respond on anything BOSCO flags suspicious."
"BOSCO?"
"Boston Base Operations Command and Control." His hand swept the wall and its color graphics. "BOSCO— actually, the whole 7117 series—was designed for UC by Nixdorf-IBM."
"And you watch for ... ?"
"Gangers raiding, gangersymps bringing in supplies and weapons. Anything out of the ordinary. We weigh the threat and react intelligently—a strategy of selective response."
The cities are lost, Guan-Sharick had said. Everyone knows it, but no one may speak of it. Policy is that they're not lost. Policy brings in the technos, to tax-free government R&D enclaves. Policy maintains a garrison to protect them. It's all a fragile artifice. The cities are lost. Those garrisons are penal brigades, badly understrength, living on tactical myths and Benzedrine. Let the gangs attack as one, Urban Command and the techno enclaves would vanish, a bloody bit of bad policy.
"Selective response," said John. "Interesting."
"Ah! A situation." Blackstone's eyes focused on the wall. "Excuse me."
John saw it then, the flashing red cross moving across the red line, into the green.
Who says there's no God? he thought as Operations came to life, technicians busy, guards turning to watch. Forgotten, John slipped around into the deserted computer area. Shielded by gray equipment banks, he inserted the authenticator into the slot below the big red arrow.
The CRT came on, amber letters flashing across the screen, select voice or screen , it said.
Typing screen , he homed the cursor.
select modality preceded a menu of options.
32, he responded, keying for restricted access.
? asked BOSCO, giving no clue.
maximus , typed John.
doppleganger , challenged the machine.
Palms sweating, John waited for the alarm klaxon. If Heather's gift didn't work, BOSCO would scream for help.
lilith , BOSCO said, duped into answering its own challenge. select project file.
He had it all in five minutes, neatly transferred to a microfiche, pocketing it as a smiling Blackstone found him.
"Major Harrison, you missed a neat intercept," he said happily. "We zapped a dozen gangers, maybe survivors of our raid on Viper HQ. We'll know more after a G2 workup."
"We were the ones with survivors in that action," said John as the warrant officer saw him to the door. "Second battalion had sixty-two percent casualties and lost ten choppers. There were no ganger casualties. Jack Grady says the LZ smelled like a crematorium on a warm August night."
"That rabble couldn't ..."
"They're very well organized rabble." John stepped past the guards and into the white corridor. "They fight for their lives, their homes, their families. What are we fighting for, Blackstone? Our pensions?"
"We're fighting for America," said the warrant officer, puzzled.
"Of course," said John. "Good night."
Your hours here are numbered, boy, thought John. Shooting up the help, thinking out loud, stealing from the cookie jar. Aldridge's going to feed you to his larks.
Microfiche still warm in his pocket, he went up to his quarters.
Alone in the room, he switched the film to the hollow heel of his right boot, then searched his pockets for the authenticator.
He'd been reaching for the authenticator. Blackstone's footfalls had alerted him. Tucking the fiche into his shirt pocket, he'd turned . . .
The authenticator was still in BOSCO's port, bloody red arrow pointing to it like a finger of doom.
How long till someone found it, saw that it
John waved the warrant officer back to his chair. "It's ok, Mr. Blackstone, just familiarizing myself with Operations.
"The red is what?" he asked, pointing up at the board. "Perimeter sensors, Major."
A solid crimson ribbon sat alone above the warrant officer's right pocket: the First Day Ribbon. John wondered what irony had let Blackstone survive the Japan Invasion only to end up in UC.
"We monitor all activity along that perimeter, sir. We respond on anything BOSCO flags suspicious."
"BOSCO?"
"Boston Base Operations Command and Control." His hand swept the wall and its color graphics. "BOSCO— actually, the whole 7117 series—was designed for UC by Nixdorf-IBM."
"And you watch for ... ?"
"Gangers raiding, gangersymps bringing in supplies and weapons. Anything out of the ordinary. We weigh the threat and react intelligently—a strategy of selective response."
The cities are lost, Guan-Sharick had said. Everyone knows it, but no one may speak of it. Policy is that they're not lost. Policy brings in the technos, to tax-free government R&D enclaves. Policy maintains a garrison to protect them. It's all a fragile artifice. The cities are lost. Those garrisons are penal brigades, badly understrength, living on tactical myths and Benzedrine. Let the gangs attack as one, Urban Command and the techno enclaves would vanish, a bloody bit of bad policy.
"Selective response," said John. "Interesting."
"Ah! A situation." Blackstone's eyes focused on the wall. "Excuse me."
John saw it then, the flashing red cross moving across the red line, into the green.
Who says there's no God? he thought as Operations came to life, technicians busy, guards turning to watch. Forgotten, John slipped around into the deserted computer area. Shielded by gray equipment banks, he inserted the authenticator into the slot below the big red arrow.
The CRT came on, amber letters flashing across the screen, select voice or screen , it said.
Typing screen , he homed the cursor.
select modality preceded a menu of options.
32, he responded, keying for restricted access.
? asked BOSCO, giving no clue.
maximus , typed John.
doppleganger , challenged the machine.
Palms sweating, John waited for the alarm klaxon. If Heather's gift didn't work, BOSCO would scream for help.
lilith , BOSCO said, duped into answering its own challenge. select project file.
He had it all in five minutes, neatly transferred to a microfiche, pocketing it as a smiling Blackstone found him.
"Major Harrison, you missed a neat intercept," he said happily. "We zapped a dozen gangers, maybe survivors of our raid on Viper HQ. We'll know more after a G2 workup."
"We were the ones with survivors in that action," said John as the warrant officer saw him to the door. "Second battalion had sixty-two percent casualties and lost ten choppers. There were no ganger casualties. Jack Grady says the LZ smelled like a crematorium on a warm August night."
"That rabble couldn't ..."
"They're very well organized rabble." John stepped past the guards and into the white corridor. "They fight for their lives, their homes, their families. What are we fighting for, Blackstone? Our pensions?"
"We're fighting for America," said the warrant officer, puzzled.
"Of course," said John. "Good night."
Your hours here are numbered, boy, thought John. Shooting up the help, thinking out loud, stealing from the cookie jar. Aldridge's going to feed you to his larks.
Microfiche still warm in his pocket, he went up to his quarters.
Alone in the room, he switched the film to the hollow heel of his right boot, then searched his pockets for the authenticator.
He'd been reaching for the authenticator. Blackstone's footfalls had alerted him. Tucking the fiche into his shirt pocket, he'd turned . . .
The authenticator was still in BOSCO's port, bloody red arrow pointing to it like a finger of doom.
How long till someone found it, saw that it
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