"c261" - читать интересную книгу автора (Burt Andrew - Noontide Night)

2:53 P.M., Thursday, February 24, 2000
Halifax, Nova Scotia

Nate was deep in thought about Amber. She wasn't much of a phone talker. Thus, he reasoned, for her to call she must be in trouble. At a conscious level he knew this wasn't logical, but try telling your subconscious that, his conscious mind said. Nate had calmed down enough to realize that what he needed to do was get in touch with Russ at the farmhouse. They'd know if she called there. How else could she have tracked him to Halifax? He wasn't sure the CyberCorps even knew he was here; slightly reassuring to know they did. Unless it was a call for some other Nate, a Nate Smith, say, and a wild sequence of operators had clownishly directed this random call to that phone there. Nate was only dimly aware of Morgan's pacing behind him. His time sense told him the guy had been pacing for minutes, but Nate wasn't really checking in with his time sense. In fact, he'd pretty much been in a haze. Why exactly was Morgan pacing around? He hadn't really a clue. When the phone rang, Morgan was at the back of the room. Morgan sprinted. Nate jumped out of his chair shouting "Amber!" They collided at the phone. They knocked the base off the desk in their eagerness to grab it. They fumbled the receiver. They did a three-stooges impression trying to catch it. Nate finally wound up with it, holding it protectively against the ear farthest from Morgan. "Yes! Amber?" "No, my name's David. I'm sorry, but I wasn't able to reach New Zealand." "New Z..." He handed the phone out to Morgan and sat down dejectedly. Why wasn't it Amber calling him? It wasn't fair. Nate sulked for a moment, got up. "I'm heading for a beer. Anyone want to join me? No? Suit yourself." "You're on report if you leave this room, Zamora." Littlefield delighted in saying "You're on report if." Nate shot over his shoulder, "Yeah, yeah. You can't fire me—I quit, Littledick." Littledick. Nate snickered. He'd meant to say Littlefield, then changed his mind and decided to call him Dick. But the name fit. Oops, what a shame, he thought, darn those Freudian slips. Nate crunched his way over to the mess hall. He shuffled in the cafeteria line and picked up his pile of cream of chipped beef. Not even warm. Nor ice cold. Just barf-inducing cold. It irritated him that the so-called officers, mostly yo-yos who couldn't tell one end of a keyboard from another, got the posh officers club to eat at, while the brains of this operation, the programmers, got the shit-on-a-shingle mess hall. This whole scene just stunk shit. He could understand that they needed to draft programmers. Fine. But let the programmers decide how to fix things. All this pseudo-military crap and catch-22 bureaucracy was imbecilic. Programmers are problems solvers. Let them solve the problems. Hell, just give them a smidge of respect, some room, and voilà. But no, they knew better. They even knew they were doing it wrong, he reasoned. They knew the programmers held all the cards in this game. Witness their lack of prosecution at his assorted crimes. Littlefield could write him up all he wanted, and it wouldn't matter. Sure, some discipline was necessary. But corporate America had worked with programmers for decades doing mission critical jobs. Just because the government wallowed in bureaucracy for constitutional reasons—a good thing, generally; keeping the branches of government on the up and up—when they needed to react fast like now, they should have known to structure themselves accordingly. A military model. Kee-rist. Nate had had enough. It didn't matter what he did. They ignored his ideas. He'd only wanted to fix the one damn program. If they hadn't denied him that one little thing, none of this crap would have happened. He'd have answered the phone when Amber called. He'd have gotten leave to go help her out of whatever her tribulation. The world would be okay again. He slopped down his spoonful of creamed shit. The smell was nauseating. The feel of it sliding down his gullet like wriggling worms was nauseating. The subdued atmosphere of hopelessness in the room was nauseating. And somewhere out there, Amber was in trouble. "That's it," he said aloud. He walked away from his tray (against regs). He went out the "in" door (against regs). He spit on the "Mess Hall" plaque (against regs). What did he care? Programmers were untouchable. Golden. "Shit on the goose that lays the golden eggs," he said to a random soldier shoveling snow outside the door, "and the goose walks." He went back to his bunk, scribbled a quick note on the back of the program he'd fixed, "Went to get Amber, be back whenever" and dropped the note onto Morgan's bunk. He pocketed the extra copy he'd made of Leon's leave pass. Outside he gunned a jeep with the keys in it, whistled his way through the gate, and headed toward New Brunswick.

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Chapter 26.1

2:53 P.M., Thursday, February 24, 2000
Halifax, Nova Scotia

Nate was deep in thought about Amber. She wasn't much of a phone talker. Thus, he reasoned, for her to call she must be in trouble. At a conscious level he knew this wasn't logical, but try telling your subconscious that, his conscious mind said. Nate had calmed down enough to realize that what he needed to do was get in touch with Russ at the farmhouse. They'd know if she called there. How else could she have tracked him to Halifax? He wasn't sure the CyberCorps even knew he was here; slightly reassuring to know they did. Unless it was a call for some other Nate, a Nate Smith, say, and a wild sequence of operators had clownishly directed this random call to that phone there. Nate was only dimly aware of Morgan's pacing behind him. His time sense told him the guy had been pacing for minutes, but Nate wasn't really checking in with his time sense. In fact, he'd pretty much been in a haze. Why exactly was Morgan pacing around? He hadn't really a clue. When the phone rang, Morgan was at the back of the room. Morgan sprinted. Nate jumped out of his chair shouting "Amber!" They collided at the phone. They knocked the base off the desk in their eagerness to grab it. They fumbled the receiver. They did a three-stooges impression trying to catch it. Nate finally wound up with it, holding it protectively against the ear farthest from Morgan. "Yes! Amber?" "No, my name's David. I'm sorry, but I wasn't able to reach New Zealand." "New Z..." He handed the phone out to Morgan and sat down dejectedly. Why wasn't it Amber calling him? It wasn't fair. Nate sulked for a moment, got up. "I'm heading for a beer. Anyone want to join me? No? Suit yourself." "You're on report if you leave this room, Zamora." Littlefield delighted in saying "You're on report if." Nate shot over his shoulder, "Yeah, yeah. You can't fire me—I quit, Littledick." Littledick. Nate snickered. He'd meant to say Littlefield, then changed his mind and decided to call him Dick. But the name fit. Oops, what a shame, he thought, darn those Freudian slips. Nate crunched his way over to the mess hall. He shuffled in the cafeteria line and picked up his pile of cream of chipped beef. Not even warm. Nor ice cold. Just barf-inducing cold. It irritated him that the so-called officers, mostly yo-yos who couldn't tell one end of a keyboard from another, got the posh officers club to eat at, while the brains of this operation, the programmers, got the shit-on-a-shingle mess hall. This whole scene just stunk shit. He could understand that they needed to draft programmers. Fine. But let the programmers decide how to fix things. All this pseudo-military crap and catch-22 bureaucracy was imbecilic. Programmers are problems solvers. Let them solve the problems. Hell, just give them a smidge of respect, some room, and voilà. But no, they knew better. They even knew they were doing it wrong, he reasoned. They knew the programmers held all the cards in this game. Witness their lack of prosecution at his assorted crimes. Littlefield could write him up all he wanted, and it wouldn't matter. Sure, some discipline was necessary. But corporate America had worked with programmers for decades doing mission critical jobs. Just because the government wallowed in bureaucracy for constitutional reasons—a good thing, generally; keeping the branches of government on the up and up—when they needed to react fast like now, they should have known to structure themselves accordingly. A military model. Kee-rist. Nate had had enough. It didn't matter what he did. They ignored his ideas. He'd only wanted to fix the one damn program. If they hadn't denied him that one little thing, none of this crap would have happened. He'd have answered the phone when Amber called. He'd have gotten leave to go help her out of whatever her tribulation. The world would be okay again. He slopped down his spoonful of creamed shit. The smell was nauseating. The feel of it sliding down his gullet like wriggling worms was nauseating. The subdued atmosphere of hopelessness in the room was nauseating. And somewhere out there, Amber was in trouble. "That's it," he said aloud. He walked away from his tray (against regs). He went out the "in" door (against regs). He spit on the "Mess Hall" plaque (against regs). What did he care? Programmers were untouchable. Golden. "Shit on the goose that lays the golden eggs," he said to a random soldier shoveling snow outside the door, "and the goose walks." He went back to his bunk, scribbled a quick note on the back of the program he'd fixed, "Went to get Amber, be back whenever" and dropped the note onto Morgan's bunk. He pocketed the extra copy he'd made of Leon's leave pass. Outside he gunned a jeep with the keys in it, whistled his way through the gate, and headed toward New Brunswick.


back | next home