The Devil's Doorknob BBS Capture (1996-2003)/devilsdoorknobbbscapture1996-2003.iso/Dloads/TEXTFILE/FICTION.ZIP/FICTION.TXT

Text File | 1991-11-11 | 10KB | 233 lines

                              -Intertec 2000-

                              by  Heliumsmith


    "One hundred, ninety-nine, ninety- eight, ninety-seven,... ninety-six,...
ninety-... unh... ninety-five, ninety-four,... nine ... "


    'So what? Who ever said that a cyborg had to have a humanoid form?'

    Those words keep ringing in my head, re-enforcing the image of the first
non-humanoid cyborg I ever saw. It was a terrifyingly lethal fighter jet, and
it's once human brain had been reprogrammed to one purpose, find and annihilate
the target.

    That summer I met the man who had wrought this fiendish perversion of my
research. I had only wanted to give functional limbs to paralysis victims. How
could he order my team to do this? I knew then that he must die.

    I only learned months later that I was considered expendable. That knowledge
began my life in this world of running, hiding, and revenge. My research has not
failed me. It is after all possible to create several bodies for one mind. The
bodies are expendable.

    Even knowing that I'm in the area hasn't helped them locate me. It's amusing
really, that they never know what appearance I might choose for a borg body to
carry my brain. This is the fifth time they've tracked me by following the flow
of specialized cybercircuits to my general area. Today I'm just a man out
walking his robofax dog.

    I didn't even see that dammed tiny borg hunting missile. The explosion
shattered windows all over the block, scorched the paint on nearby cars, and
scattered humanoid borg parts over the whole area. Ha, ha, what a laugh. It'll
take them weeks of analyzing the debris to realize that the dog behind the tree-
was me.


    "Mr. Thom...  are... awake? Are you... pain?"


    Why do I feel like I've been packed in cotton? So groggy and confused, where
am I? What in God's name was I drinking last night? Sheeze, I can hardly move
and my mouth tastes like the inside of one of my python boots.


    "Mr. Thompson, are you awake? Are you in any pain?"

    "My name is Steve and where the hell am I?"

    "You're in the recovery room. You just came back from surgery. Most people
don't wake up this soon."

    "Water, something to drink, anything."

    "I'll get you some juice. Will that be O.K.?"

    "Fine, just hurry."


Surgery? Accident? No, something else. Why can't I move? What the, why am I
strapped to this damned bed? Some one's in for a big law suit.


    "Here's your juice, I'll help you with it."

    "Thanks, thats a lot better. Why am I strapped down?"

    "The doctor will explain."

    "To Hell with the doctor, just get me out of this!"

    "I'm sorry, doctor's orders. You'll have to speak to him when he makes his
rounds. I have to go now, but I'll check in on you soon."

    "Fine, just fine."


    You would never believe just how God awful boring a blank wall can be when
you're strapped to a bed with stress mesh restraints. Knowing that the nurse's
station monitors were showing what the survailance camera was watching only made
it that much worse. The camera's incessant panning from side to side made the
minutes seem like hours. Thankfully the surgery had left me drained enough to
drift back into a peaceful slumber.


    "Good afternoon Mr. Thompson. I'm Dr. Clark. The nurse told me you were
upset about the restraints. I'm sorry about the discomfort but we weren't sure
how you would react to the neural implants. Do you remember us discussing the
surgery's possible adverse effects?"

    "Vaguely, but I was hoping it was all part of some twisted anesthesia
induced nightmare."

    "Ha, well I see that the operation hasn't improved your sense of humor."

    "What makes you think I was kidding?"

    "Ah well, anyway as soon as we run a few little tests we'll have you out of
the restraints and into your training program. In a few weeks you should have
full voluntary control over your new hardware."


    "A few little tests? Blood tests, urine tests, EKGs, EEGs,... CAT scans, and
MRI scans. Aw c'mon guys, no more blood tests! Give me a break."

    "Not to worry, this is the last medical test."

    "Great! It's finally over."

    "Not really."

    "What?"

    "Oh, I forgot to tell you. This afternoon we'll be starting a full battery
of psyche tests."

    "God."


    It started out simply enough. Doc Malik said, "Let me know when you think
one minute has passed starting now." Then he asked what I thought the phrase
"people who live in glass houses shouldn't throw stones" meant. Obviously he was
checking out both my sense of time and abstract reasoning. Before the day had
passed we went through ink blots, word association, four different forced choice
tests, and a two hour interview. When the final interview ended on the third day
I went back to my room and watched cartoons the entire rest of the evening. It
was the only thing I could do that didn't require any thinking.


    "So Professor Simms, how have I been doing in my most recent classes?"

    "You've gained full control over you're math co-processor. You gained
another few points on both speed and accuracy driving word processors. Results
of you're data base scanning tests are nothing short of phenomenol. All this
plus having aced you're spread sheet tests has put your training program almost
a week ahead of schedule. Which is why we're going to begin something new
today."

    "Sounds good. Lets get at it."

    "O.K. First did you scan the floppy I gave you yesterday?"

    "Sure did. It was loaded with tech notes on CD ROM discs and CD drives."

    "Fine. Lay back, fold you're hands in your lap, close your eyes, and relax.
Now, the IBM over on the lab bench is equipped with an Intertec module and a CD
ROM drive. The Intertec channel number is fifteen. There's a disc in the drive.
Can you tell me what it contains?"

    "Hmm. They weren't kidding about the storage capacity of these things were
they? It's a compleat copy of the 1994 Encyclopedia Britannica."

    "Very good. Find volume R, page five twenty three, and tell me the first
thing on the page."

    "It's an article about the early days of rocketry. Werner Von Braun,
Goddard, and all that."

    "O.K. Now go to volume A, page two thirty seven, and find the first article
in the second column. What is it?"

    "Albatross. Hmm, The black footed albatross is sometimes called a gooney
bird because of it's ungainly landings. How about that?"

    "O.K. We're going to take a break right now and continue after lunch"

    "I'm looking forward to it. This is interesting reading."



    That first few weeks was exceedingly strange. It was like waking up one
morning to find that you suddenly had sixteen arms and only knew how to control
two of them. Except, of course, this wasn't extra appendages, it was the
experimental Intertec 2000. I was one of the first to have a brain/computer
interface implanted inside of their skull. And I found that learning to control
it was similar to learning to read, write, and speak an alien language. Daunting
though it was, I still found the entire process highly amusing. You see, it
wasn't all running through data bases, spread sheets, and word processor files
at more than ten times normal speed. There was also this new ability to alter my
environment at will. I installed an Intertec module in my apartment's computer
control system. Now every thing from the security system to the light dimmers
are under direct thought control. It's almost magical the way the apartment's
atmosphere follows my moods from moment to moment. Even the volume levels of my
MIDI driven synthesizers are always absolutely perfect. It really is mood music.

    Aside from a few killer headaches during the first week I honestly don't
regret a single moment of this last month. I couldn't have made a better
decision.



    "Hey Steve, what time is it?"

    "Hey Tom, you're wearing a watch."

    "I know, but I can't figure out how you always guess the exact time when you
never wear one yourself."

    "Guess? Who's guessing? This gym bag I always carry has an Intertec module
and a cellular phone/modem in it. I just tie into the Bureau of Standards'
computer system and scan the data base."

    "Tie into what?"

    "Tom, it's a long story and I'm not up to tellin' any long stories right
now."

    "Sounds interesting. Let me know when you do feel like talking."

    "That I can do. Right now though, let's just grab a burito and some brew.
They've been killin' me at work and I need to get offline for awhile."

    "You know, you've never told me what kind of work you do."

    "That my old friend is classified information."

    "Yea right."


    I hate lying to friends, even so I never can tell him the whole story. I
can't tell him how the spooks in covert operations replace ROM chips in computer
systems. Or that the new chips are made to function and appear virtually
identical to the originals, even down to their serial numbers. No one can ever
know those chips give me, and others like me, a back door directly into their
data bases. Most of the time the switcheroo is done at the factory hours or even
days before the systems are delivered to them. There's no reason to do a
micro-code dump of a perfectly functional ROM chip. They never even suspect that
all of their security access codes are a cruel joke. Nineteen eighty four came
to pass years ago and no one even noticed. Here's lookin' at you kid.