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It is thus impossible for the farohad to perform the function you wish it to. In theory, it should simulate the functions of a Matrix gopher program-one with unlimited access to data. It could bypass any intrusion countermeasures, seek out a keyword, reconfigure a portion of its body to exactly duplicate the data that contains this keyword, and return again to a computer to write that copied data on an optical memory chip or datastore. In theory. Obviously, in hindsight, this does not and ca
I ca
I have already outlined my opposition, on religious grounds, to the direction in which the Mitsuhama Seattle lab has taken my research. While I realize that my moral arguments ca
I ca
Farazad Samji.
Automatically, Carla framed the memo with her cybereye. did an overall shot, then went to macro-focus and sca
Except that no mage or decker could control it.
And now its energy was ru
Carla stared at the project name: Lucifer Deck. Farazad Samji certainly considered the spirit to be an angel-a farohad. His boss had probably dreamed up the word Lucifer, putting a Christian spin on the concept. Lucifer, the “bringer of light,” the shining angel who later fell from heaven in the form of lightning and became Satan, lord of darkness. The name choice was both ironic and appropriate. The spirit-Lucifer-was indeed the fallen son; instead of serving Mitsuhama, it now was trying to destroy the corporation’s kingdom-the Matrix. It was, in every respect, as unruly and antagonistic an angel as the original Lucifer had been.
Carla folded the paper and slipped it into a pocket. That was it. She had what she needed. Her incursion was a wrap. But she’d been trained to be thorough, and so she peeked into the only other room she had yet to explore-a private office. Judging by its comfortable, overstuffed chair and plush carpet, it must belong to the lab’s director. If so, the work station it contained just might contain some other, vital piece of information that Carla could weave into her story.
The data terminal here, like those in the front room, had been taken apart and its central processing unit removed. Carla wasn’t going to get anything from it. And the rest of the room didn’t hold anything of interest; there was no enticing hardcopy lying about. She was just about to leave when she noticed an electronic daytimer that had fallen onto the carpeted floor, under the workstation itself. It was a micro-thin model, no more than a few centimeters long. Picking it up, she thumbed the button that activated it.
The tiny liquid-crystal screen on the top of the data-pad came to life, revealing a name and title in an ornate gold font: Ambrose Wilks. Director MCT Seattle.
Curious to see what the daytimer contained, Carla paged through its entries, starting with a date three weeks ago. To her mounting disappointment, she saw that all of the entries were personal appointments and self-reminders: Pick up Valerie after school. Lunch with Yuki, 2 p.m. Retirement present for Sabrina. No wonder the datapad had no log-in code. It didn’t contain anything incriminating at all. Still, she continued doggedly on through the entries, right up to today’s date. And then gasped when she saw the name listed there: Meeting with Aziz Fader, 6 pm. Alabaster Maiden Nightclub.
Blast that man! Carla had asked Aziz, after their visit to Evelyn Belanger’s home yesterday, about his offer to sell Mitsuhama the information it needed to control the spirit. He told her that he was just sending out feelers to see if the corporation was interested-that it would be a day or two, at least, before he’d learned enough about Pita’s magical abilities to make a serious sales pitch. He promised Carla he wouldn’t begin negotiating with the corporation until after she’d put her story to bed. But he’d been lying. He’d gone ahead and set up this meeting with the director of the research laboratory without even asking if it would slot up her story.
Had Aziz already sold out Pita, turning over this “key” to the spell formula to Mitsuhama for a large chunk of nuyen? More to the point, had he sold out Carla? Was he telling Mitsuhama, even now, how far she’d gotten with her story on their research project?
Carla was furious. She glanced at her watch. It was already nine o’clock; Aziz would probably be home from the meeting with Ambrose Wilks by now. He wouldn’t have stayed to party at the nightclub, even though it was a Saturday night. When Aziz was hot on the trail of a new magical formula, he was as much of a workaholic as Carla. He’d rush right home and pick up where he left off-and would probably work through the night.
Carla pulled out her cel phone and started to dial Aziz’s number. But then she realized what she was doing, and thumbed the Off button. The confrontation would have to wait until she was out of this place. The thing to do now was get back to the station and file the footage she’d just shot.
Still angry, Carla headed for the main room and shut off the fuel cell. She stood for a moment or two in the silence, debating which exit to take. The door marked “emergency” probably led straight to the surface. It would be the quickest way out. But she didn’t know what she’d find there. The carefully landscaped grounds were probably patrolled by security guards and bristling with hidden sensors. The smarter thing to do would be to go back the way she came. She still had the employee ID badge, after all. It wasn’t that late yet. She could just say she’d been putting in a little overtime, and stroll right out the front doors. But she had to check on something, first.