Saving Thanehaven (29 page)

“Er …” Lorellina hesitates. She glances at Noble, who tries to change the subject.

“What about
them
?” he asks the tracker, jerking his chin at the group of men in black coats and hats. They still haven’t removed their sunglasses, even though it’s quite murky below deck. “What are
they
doing here?”

“That’s the disinfection unit.” Frowning, the tracker adds, “Haven’t you been briefed? Once our lot has gone in and identified possible targets, any blacklisted programs will be handed over to quarantine. Then the disinfection unit will take over.”

“And do what?” Noble demands.

“Its job,” the tracker replies. Seeing the confusion on Noble’s face, he goes on to explain, “If a corrupted program can’t be restored to its original condition, it’ll have be deleted.”

“Deleted?”
the princess says sharply. “What do you mean by that?”

“He means wiped from the computer’s memory,” Yestin quavers. “He means killed.”

“Killed?”
Lorellina’s jaw drops.

“It’s the only thing to do with an infection,” the tracker assures her. “If a program remains corrupted, despite all attempts to restore it—”

“What attempts?” Noble interrupts. “I don’t understand this. Aren’t we on a rescue mission? You talk as if we’re
invading
Mikey’s computer, not fixing it.”

“Of course.” It’s the tracker’s turn to look confused. “We can’t fix anything unless we stamp out all traces of Ruthlessrufus. After that, we can start our restoration work. It’s all part of the big picture.”

As Noble tries to absorb this appalling news, Yestin squeaks, “Ruthlessrufus?”

“That’s the malware’s name. You really haven’t been briefed, have you?”

“But this is wrong!” Lorellina suddenly erupts, her eyes and cheeks blazing. Although she still looks a little like a drowned rat, with her hair plastered to her skull and her wet skirt dragging like a giant mop, there’s nothing limp about the way she harangues the
tracker. “Are you saying you intend to kill everyone who ever listened to Rufus?”

Yestin tugs anxiously at her sleeve. “Princess—”

“How can you blame them for that? What right do you have to judge them?” Ignoring Yestin, Lorellina plows on. “If they believed Rufus, and they were misled, we should tell them why! We should
persuade
them that they’re mistaken!”

“And if they won’t be persuaded, they’ll be deleted,” the tracker finishes, regarding her with a slightly unnerved look. “Maybe you shouldn’t be here. It doesn’t sound to me as if you’re completely on board.”

“Oh, we are!” Yestin insists, then appeals to Noble, his voice cracking with tension. “We are, aren’t we?”

Noble, however, isn’t about to back down. He’s spied an opportunity to set things straight—and he grabs it. “Rufus has been telling people that they can do anything they want to do,” he informs the tracker, almost thinking aloud. “Which isn’t true, because it can lead to chaos.”

The tracker shifts uneasily. “I know,” he says.

“A lot of the people who listened to Rufus must realize that,” Noble continues. “They won’t
want
to do whatever they like. And even if they’d prefer things to change, that doesn’t mean it would be a big change. It might be just a small difference. To make their lives better.” Glowering down at the tracker, he says forcefully, “Surely, you wouldn’t kill them for wanting a world that’s fair
and
well organized?”

The tracker’s blue eyes seem to bulge as he takes a step backward. His dog begins to bark.

“I think you need to talk to the security manager,” he says.

“Oh, no!” Yestin cuts in, stuttering with fear. “N-no, this is just—he didn’t mean—we’re just tossing ideas around!”

“Where’s the security manager?” The tracker signals to a cluster of uniforms down the passage. “I need the security manager over here!”

“Wait! We’re Antiviral! We’ve got a key!” Yestin seizes Noble’s hand and raises it, so that the key jangles on its ring. When the yelling doesn’t stop, he whimpers, “Quick. Let’s go.
Now!
”

“Go?” Noble doesn’t understand him. They’re trapped on a ship that’s packed tight with passengers. They have their backs against a solid steel wall. They’re surrounded by people. “Where can we go? Overboard?”

“We can hide!” Yestin pleads, dragging on Noble’s arm.

But Noble has come to a decision. He’s sick of running. He doesn’t want to be hunted down like vermin. He intends to stand his ground, confident in his own opinions, and see if he can make a difference.

Because what lies in store for him otherwise? Even if he
does
escape, there’ll be nothing left to run to. No Thanehaven. No Morwood. He’ll be a perpetual exile—and his friends along with him.

This time
, he thinks,
I’m going to speak up
.

So he doesn’t try to bolt when a uniformed soldier approaches him, bearing a clipboard. This soldier is dressed in a helmet, a hard vest, heavy boots, canvas pouches, a leather bandolier, and a backpack. He seems to be chewing some sort of cud, like a cow. “What’s up?” he asks the tracker.

“These persons are exhibiting elements of suspicious behavior as outlined in the heuristic analysis protocols!” the tracker replies shrilly. “I think they might be a virus!”

For an instant, the soldier stops chewing. He surveys Noble from top to toe, then glances down at his clipboard and says, “In that case, I’d better check the virus signature file.”

“We’re not viruses!” Yestin wails. “We’re not!”

“He’s right,” Noble insists, squeezing Yestin’s shoulder. “We’re not viruses. We want to help.”

The soldier doesn’t respond. He’s flicking through page after page of photographs, most of which seem to be full-face portraits. At last, he declares, “You’re certainly not on file. But that doesn’t mean you’re not pups of some kind.” Chewing lazily, he lifts his gaze from the clipboard. “You’d better report to the Master, I guess.”

“The Master?” To Noble, this word sounds slightly ominous. All the same, he doesn’t make any attempt to free himself when the soldier seizes his arm. “What Master?”

“The Master Boot Record,” his escort rejoins, signaling to the other troops. Soon, Lorellina and Yestin are also in custody. They’re hustled through the crowds by a squad of camouflaged soldiers, following in Noble’s wake, while people stare at them in mute surprise.

Lorellina glares back.

“I am a princess, not a pup!” she protests, as Noble’s escort pauses to knock on a cabin door. “Are you blind as well as foolish? Do I
look
like a puppy to you?”

“PUP stands for ‘potentially unwanted program.’ ” Noble’s escort speaks in a bored voice, through a mouthful of cud. He seems perfectly relaxed. When the cabin door swings open in front of him, however, he snaps to attention and salutes.

“Sir!” he says.

“What is it?” The speaker is another soldier who’s sitting in the middle of the cabin, perched on the edge of a table. He’s tall and thin, with cropped gray hair. Though Noble doesn’t understand the meaning of all the stars and tags and buttons strewn across his gray-green uniform, it’s obvious that he’s of a higher rank than the chewing soldier.

“Sir,” says the soldier, “we’ve got a trio of PUPs here. I couldn’t find ’em on the virus signature file, but …” He trails off.

“But that’s what heuristics are for,” the older man finishes. “Okay, bring ’em in.”

He watches quietly as Noble and his friends are
shoved across the threshold. Peering around, Noble sees that the cabin is stuffed with people. There’s another gray-haired man, whose uniform is white and gold, and whose face is partly concealed by a neatly clipped gray beard. Near him are several much younger soldiers, together with a couple of extremely beautiful women wearing very few clothes, a middle-aged man in a knitted cardigan carrying a pole with a metal circle at one end, and a huddle of teenaged boys whose sloppy garments and messy hair remind Noble vaguely of Rufus.

“What’s that?” asks the bearded man, squinting at Noble’s key. “Is that an antivirus tag?”

His gray-haired companion arches an eyebrow. “Smart,” he murmurs, before addressing Noble. “I’m the Master Boot Record, and this is the Disk Commander. Who are you, exactly?”

“My name is Noble the Slayer. And this is Princess Lorellina of Harrow, and this is Yestin from … ah …”

“Killer Cells,”
Yestin supplies.

The Master blinks. He opens his mouth, then seems to think twice. Instead, he looks at the soldier, who shakes his head.

“They’re definitely not on file,” the soldier insists.

“Then I guess I’ll just have to ask ’em the sixty-four-million-dollar question.” The Master leans forward, clears his throat, fixes his clear, calm, level gaze on Noble, and says quietly, “Is there something you want to tell me, Noble the Slayer? Something along the lines of: ‘You don’t have to do this’?
Hmm?
”

T
here’s a long pause. The whole room seems to be holding its breath.

Noble stiffens his spine and announces, “I won’t tell
any
of you that you don’t have to do this. Because you do. I understand how important it is.”

Surprise flits across the Master’s lean, weathered face. “Oh?” he says.

“Mikey’s computer needs urgent help,” Noble goes on. “It has to be fixed before it’s destroyed.”

“No doubt about that,” the Master agrees.

“The people in there need to understand that they can’t just please themselves. Rufus told them not to worry about the rules, but there have to be rules, because chaos leads to destruction.” Noble speaks in a slow, determined way, locking eyes with the Master.
“They must realize the truth, by now. They’ll
want
to be saved, I’m sure of it. Even the simplest of them.”

“Even Brandi,” Yestin mutters, in a voice so low that only Noble seems to hear him.

Smiling crookedly, the Master flicks a glance at the Disk Commander before admitting, “I couldn’t have put it better myself.”

“So are these three infected or not?” the Disk Commander asks.

“Doesn’t sound like it.”

All around the cabin people sniff and frown and scratch their chins. Yestin heaves a gusty sigh. Behind Noble, one of the soldiers remarks, “A tracker out there claimed that they were behaving suspiciously. Since he was a tracker, I figured he was probably worth listening to.”

The Master inclines his head. “It’s a good point,” he says. “So what’s your story, Noble the Slayer? You can’t be a Ruthlessrufus trace leftover, because the signatures don’t match. But you must have done
something
to upset our tracker friend. Care to explain?”

Noble swallows. He understands that he’s reached a pivotal moment—that what he’s about to say could make all the difference in the world. So he chooses his words with care, trying not to let all the staring eyes and whispered comments distract him.

“I did speak to the man with the dog,” he declares. “I said that there might be people in Mikey’s computer who won’t respond when you”—he hesitates for
a moment—“when you try to
disinfect
them.” Before the Master can interrupt, Noble quickly adds, “I said that these people might want changes. Not big changes. Small changes that will improve their lives. I also said that if you find such people, you shouldn’t delete them. Because they can still be useful.”

The Master’s eyebrows are slowly climbing his high, domed forehead. “Well,
that’s
a new way of looking at things,” he drawls. “I can see why someone thought it was suspicious.”

“It’s not,” Noble retorts. “It’s common sense. It’s making the most of what you have. Like Mikey’s garbage collector, for instance. He’ll go back to work—why shouldn’t he? But he might want a day of rest, now and then. And maybe that’s a good thing. Maybe he’ll be more efficient if he doesn’t have to work
all
the time.”

The Disk Commander snorts. He’s sitting in a creaky chair, his arms folded, his bearded face creased into a scowl. “And what happens when he’s not working?” he demands. “Who’ll collect the garbage then?”

“More garbage collectors.” Noble points at the door. “You have plenty out there, I saw them. Why not ask
them
to work while the others are resting?”

This time, the Disk Commander frowns, looking thoughtful. He seems quite struck by Noble’s suggestion. It’s the man in the cardigan who observes, “Isn’t this all just a bit beyond our operating parameters?”
And he turns to the Master, as if for support.

He doesn’t get it, though. The Master simply shrugs. “Maybe for the emulators. You’re all in the advance guard. Trouble is, there’s a restoration force out there who don’t have nearly as much backup as they need.” He begins to nod. “Using what’s already available might be their only option.”

“But, sir …!” The emulator begins to splutter with outrage. “Sir, if our targets have been infected, and they aren’t scrubbed clean enough to revert to their original programming, then they’ll reinfect!”

“That’s not true,” Yestin weighs in. Though he’s disagreeing with the emulator, his eyes are on the Master. “A lot of antivirus sweeps leave harmless code residue.
You
should know that.”

The Master grunts. He appears to be wavering.

So Noble plows on.

“Disinfection should get rid of dangerous ideas, not ideas that will help repair the computer. Instead of destroying
everything
in your path, you should try to transform what’s already there. And if that means a few small changes, well …” He spreads his hands. “Isn’t that better than a field of blood?”

“It would mean more data retrieval,” the Disk Commander says. To the Master, he adds, “There’s going to be a raft of lost files, otherwise. Recovery’s the best option.”

“Easier said than done,” the Master rejoins.

“Not if you do it the right way.” Noble can sense
that he’s making progress, and this gives him the confidence to argue his case with more energy. “Ask people why they listened to Rufus. If it’s because they have problems, then you should try to
solve
those problems. Without hurting the computer.”