Since the author also requests remuneration, we would ask these

W >> Winn Schwartau >> Since the author also requests remuneration, we would ask these

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"Mr. Foster, you say, 'we'. Who is 'we'?" Homosoto pointedly
asked Miles.

"The analysts, the people who did the real work. There were
hundreds of us on the front lines. The guys who sweated weekends
and nights to make our country safe from the Communists. The
managers just never got with the program."

"Mr. Foster, how many of the other analysts, in your opinion, are
good?"

Miles stepped back in his mind to think about this. "Oh, I guess
I knew a half dozen guys, and one girl, who were pretty good.
She was probably the best, other than me," he bragged. "Some
chicken."

"Excuse me? Chicken?"

"Oh, sorry." Miles looked up in thought. "Ah, chicks, fox, look-
er, sweet meat, gash, you know?"

"Do you mean she's very pretty?"

Miles suppressed an audible chuckle. "Yeah, that's right. Real
pretty, but real smart, too. Odd combination, isn't it?" he
smiled a wicked smile.

Homosoto ignored the crudeness. "What are your politics, Mr.
Foster?"

"Huh? My politics? What the hell has that got to do with any-
thing?" Miles demanded.

"Just answer the question, please, Mr. Foster?" Homosoto quietly
ordered.

Miles was getting incensed. "Republican, Democrat? What do you
mean? I vote who the fuck I want to vote for. Other than that,
I don't play."

"Don't play?" Homosoto briefly pondered the idiom. "Ah, so.
Don't play. Don't get involved. Is that so?"

"Right. They're all fucked. I vote for the stupidest assholes
running for office. Any office. With any luck he'll win and
really screw things up." Homosoto hit one of Miles hot buttons.
Politics. He listened attentively to Miles as he carried on.

"That's about the only way to fix anything. First fuck it up.
Real bad. Create a crisis. Since the Government ignores whoever
or whatever isn't squeaking that's the only way to get any atten-
tion. Make noise. Once you create a crisis, Jeez, just look at
Granada and Panama and Iraq to justify Star Wars, you get a lot
of people on for the ride. Just look at the national energy
debate. Great idea, 30 years and $5 trillion late. Then,
'ooooh!', they say. 'We got a big problem. We better fix it.'
Then they all want to be heroes and every podunk politico shoots
off his mouth about the latest threat to humanity. "

"That's your politics?"

"Sure. If you want to get something fixed, first fuck it up so
bad that everyone notices and then they'll be crawling up your
ass trying to help you fix it."

"Very novel, Mr. Foster. Very novel and very cynical." Homosoto
looked mildly amused.

"Not meant to be. Just true."

"It seems to me that you hold no particular allegiance. Would
that be a fair observation?" Homosoto pressed the same line of
questioning.

"To me. That's my allegiance. And not much of anything else."
Miles sounded defensive.

"Then, Mr. Foster, what does it take to make you a job offer. I
am sure money isn't everything to a man like you." Homosoto
leaned back. All 10 of his fingers met in mirror image fashion
and performed push ups on each other.

Foster returned Homosoto's dare with a devastating stare-down
that looked beyond Homosoto's face. It looked right into his
mind. Foster used the knuckles from both hands for supports as
he leaned on the table between them. He began speaking deliber-
ately and coherently.

"My greatest pleasure? A challenge. A great challenge. Yes, the
money is nice, don't get me wrong, but the thrill is the chal-
lenge. I spent years with people ignoring my advice, refusing to
listen to me. And I was right so many times when they were
wrong. Then they would start blaming everyone else and another
committee is set up to find out what went wrong. Ecch! I would
love to teach them a lesson."

"How unfortunate for them that they failed to recognize your
abilities and let your skills serve them. Yes, indeed, how
unfortunate." Homosoto said somberly.

"So," Miles said arrogantly as he retreated back to his seat,
"you seem to be asking a lot of questions, and getting a lot of
answers. It is your dime, so I owe you something. But, Mr.
Homosoto, I would like to know what you're looking for."

Homosoto stood up erect. "You, Mr. Foster. You. You are what I
have been looking for. And, if you do your job right, I am
making the assumption you will accept, you will become wealthier
than you ever hoped. Ever dreamed. Mr. Foster, your reputation
precedes you." He sincerely extended his hand to Foster. "I do
believe we can do business." Homosoto was beaming at Miles Fos-
ter.

"OK, ok, so if I accept, what do I do?" said Miles as he again
shook Homosoto's weak hand.

"You, Mr. Foster, are going to lead an invasion of the United
States of America."

****************************************************************

Chapter 6

3 Years Ago
Sunnyvale, California.

Pierre Troubleaux was staggered beyond reason. His life was just
threatened and he didn't know what to do about it. What the hell
was this disk anyway? Military secrets? Industrial espionage?
Then why put it on the dGraph disks and programs? Did I just
agree? What did I say? I don't remember what I said. Maybe I
said maybe.

Panic yielded to confusion. What is so wrong? This was just
some old Japanese guy who was making some veiled Oriental threat.
No, it was another one of those cultural differences. Like
calisthenics before work at those Japanese companies that satu-
rate the West Coast. Sure it sounded like a threat, but this is
OSO Industries we are talking about. That would be like the head
of Sony using extortion to sell Walkmen. Impossible. All the
same, it was scary and he had no idea what was on the disk. He
called Max.

"Max! What are you doing?" What he meant, and Max understood,
was 'I need you. Get your ass up here now.'

"On my way Amigo."

The next few minutes waiting for Max proved to be mentally ex-
hausting. He thought of hundreds of balancing arguments for both
sides of the coin. Be concerned, this guy is nuts and meant it,
or I misunderstood something, or it got lost in the translation.
He prayed for the latter.

"Yo, what gives?" Max walked into Pierre's office without knock-
ing.

"Tell me what's on this!" Pierre thrust the disk up at Max's
large physique.

Max held the disk to his forehead and gazed skyward. "A good
start. Yes, a good start." Max grinned.

Pierre groaned, knowing full well that the Kreskin routine had
to be completed before anything serious was discussed. Max
brought the disk to his mouth and blew on it so the disk holder
bulged in the middle. Max pulled out the disk and pretended to
read it. "What do you call 1000 lawyers at the bottom of the
ocean." Pierre chuckled a half a chuck. He wasn't in the mood,
but then he had no love for lawyers.

"Max! Please."

"Hey, just trying new material...."

" . . .that's 5 years old." Pierre interrupted.

"All right already. Gimme a break. OK, let's have a look." They
went behind Pierre's desk and inserted the disk in his IBM AT.
Max asked the computer for a listing of the diskette's contents.
The screen scrolled and stopped.

C:\a:
A:\dir

FILE84.EXE 01/01/80 704
FILE85.EXE 01/01/80 2013
FILE86.EXE 01/01/80 1900
FILE87.EXE 01/01/80 567
FILE88.EXE 01/01/80 2981
FILE89.EXE 01/01/80 4324
FILE90.EXE 01/01/80 1280
FILE91.EXE 01/01/80 1395
FILE92.EXE 01/01/80 2374
FILE93.EXE 01/01/80 3912

93 Files 1457 Bytes Remaining
A:\

"Just a bunch of small programs. What are they?" Max's lack of
concern was understandable, but it annoyed Pierre all the same.

"I don't know, that's what I'm asking you. What are they? What
kind of programs?"

"Jeez, Pierre, I don't know. Games maybe? Small utilities? Have
you used them yet?"

"No, not yet, someone just gave them to me. That's all." Pier-
re's nervousness betrayed him.

"Well let's try one, see what it does." Max typed in FILE93.
That would run the program.

A few seconds later the disk stopped and the computer returned to
its natural state, that of the C:\. "That one didn't work.
Let's try 92. H'mmmm. That's curious, it doesn't do anything
either. Looks like a bunch of crap to me. What are they sup-
posed to do?" Max shrugged his shoulders.

Max kept trying a few more of the numbered programs. "I don't
know, really. Maybe it's just a joke."

"Some joke, I don't get it. Where's the punch line? Damn,
nothing." Max punched a few more keys. "Let me have this. I wanna
take me a look a closer look," Max said as he pulled the diskette
from the machine.

"Where are you going with that?"

"To my lab. I'll disassemble it and see what's what. Probably
some garbage shareware. I'll call you later."

At 4PM Max came flying through Pierre's office door again. Pierre
was doing his magic . . .talking to the press on the phone.

"Where did you get this?" bellowed Max as he strutted across the
plush carpet holding the diskette in his hand.

Pierre waved him silent and onto the couch. He put up one finger
to indicate just a minute. Pierre cut the reporter short on an
obviously contrived weak excuse. He promised to call back real
soon. He meant that part. He would call back.

"Pierre, where did you get this?" Max asked again.

"Nowhere. What's on it?" he demanded.

"Viruses. Lots of 'em."

"You mean it's sick? Like contagious?" Pierre was being genuine.

"No you Frog idiot. Computer viruses."

"What is a computer virus? A machine can't get sick."

"How wrong you are ol' buddy. You're in for a lesson now. Sit
down." Pierre obliged. This was Max's turf.

"Here goes. If I lose you, just holler, ok, Amigo?" Pierre had
grown to hate being called Amigo, but he had never asked Max to
stop. Besides, now wasn't the appropriate time to enlighten Max
as to the ins and outs of nick name niceties. Pierre nodded
silent agreement.

"Computers basically use two type of information. One type of
information is called data. That's numbers, words, names on a
list, a letter, accounting records whatever. The second type are
called programs, we tweaks call them executables. Executables
are almost alive. The instructions contained in the executables
operate on the data. Everything else is a variation on a
theme."

"Yeah, so the computer needs a program to make it work. Everyone
knows that. What about these?"

"I'm getting there. Hold on. There are several types of executa-
bles, some are COM files, SYS and BAT files act like executables
and so do some OVR and OVL files. In IBM type computers that's
about it. Apples and MACs and others have similar situations,
but these programs are for IBM's. Now imagine a program, an
executable which is designed to copy itself onto another
program."

"Yeah, so. That's how dGraph works. We essentially seam our-
selves into the application."

"Exactly, but dGraph is benign. These," he holds up the disk-
ette, "these are contaminated. They are viruses. I only looked
at a couple of them, disassembly takes a while. Pierre, if only
one of these programs were on your computer, 3 years from now,
the entire contents of your hard disk would be destroyed in
seconds!" Pierre was stunned. It had never occurred to him
that a program could be harmful.

"That's 3 years from now? So what? I probably won't have the
same programs on my computer then anyway. There's always some-
thing new."

"It doesn't matter. The viruses I looked at here copy themselves
onto other programs and hide themselves. They do nothing, noth-
ing at all except copy themselves onto other programs. In a few
days every program on your computer, I mean every one would be
infected, would be sick. Every one would have the same flu if
you wish. And then, 3 years from now, any computer that was
infected would destroy itself. And, the virus itself would be
destroyed as well. Kind of like Jap kamikazes from World War
II. They know exactly when they will die and hope to take a lot
of others with them. In this case the virus commits suicide in 3
years. Any data or program within spitting distance, so to speak,
goes too."

"So why doesn't someone go looking for viruses and come up with
antidotes?"

"It's not that simple. A well written virus will disguise it-
self. The ones you gave me, at least the ones I disassembled
not only hide themselves, but they are dormant until activation;
in this case on a specific date." Max continued the never ending
education of Pierre. "Besides, it's been proven that there is no
way to have a universal piece of software to detect viruses.
Can't be done."

"Whew . . .who comes up with this stuff?" Pierre was trying to
grasp the importance of what he was hearing.

"Used to be a UNIX type of practical joking; try writing a pro-
gram that would annoy fellow programmers. Pretty harmless fool-
ing around. No real damage, just embarrassment that called for a
similar revenge. It was a game of one upmanship within universi-
ty computer science labs. I saw a little of it while I worked
at the school computer labs, but again it was harmless shenani-
gans. These though. Wow. Deadly. Where the hell did you get
them?"

Pierre was in a quandary. Tell or don't tell. Do I or don't I?
He trusted Max implicitly, but what about the threat. Naw, I can
tell Max. Anything.

"Homosoto."

"What?" asked Max incredulously.

"Homosoto. He gave it to me." Pierre was solemn.

"Why? What for?"

"He said that I was to put it on the dGraph disks that we sell."

"He's crazy. That's absolutely nuts. Do you know what would
happen?" Max paced the floor as he spoke angrily. "We sell
thousands of dGraph's every month. Tens of thousands. And half
of the computer companies ship dGraph with their machines. In 3
years time we may have over a couple of million copies of dGraph
in the field. And who knows how many millions more programs
would be infected, too. Tens of millions of infected
programs . . .my God! Do you know how many machines would be
destroyed . . . well maybe not all destroyed but it's about the
same thing. The effects would be devastating." Max stopped to
absorb what he was saying.

"How bad could it be? Once they're discovered, can't your vi-
ruses be destroyed?" Pierre was curious about the newly discov-
ered power.

"Well, yes and no. A virus that is dormant for that long years
is also called a Time Bomb and a Trojan Horse. There would be no
reason to suspect that a legitimate software company would be
shipping a product that would damage computers. The thought is
absurd . . .it's madness. But brilliant madness. Even if a few
of the viruses accidentally go off prematurely, the virus de-
stroys itself in the process. Poof! No smoking gun. No evi-
dence. Nobody would have clue until V-Day."

"V-Day?"

"Virus Day."

"Max, what's in this for Homosoto? What's the angle?"

"Shit, I can't think of one. If it ever got out that our pro-
grams were infected it would be the end of DGI. All over. On
the other hand, if no one finds out before V-Day, all the PC's in
the country, or Jesus, even the world, self destruct at once.
It's then only a matter of time before DGI is caught in the act.
And then, Amigo, it's really over. For you, me and DGI. What
exactly did Homosoto say?"

Pierre was teetering between terror and disbelief. How had he
gotten into this position? His mind wandered back over the last
few years since he and Max had come up with the Engine. Life has
been real good. Sure, I don't get much music in anymore, and I
have kinda been seduced by the fast lane, but so what? So, I
take a little more credit than credit's due, but Max doesn't
mind. He really doesn't.

The threat. Was it real? Maybe. He tried to convince himself
that his mind was playing tricks on itself. But the intellectual
exercises he performed at lightening speed, cranial neuro-syn-
apses switching for all they were worth, did not permit Pierre
the luxury of a respite of calm.

"He said he wanted me to put this on dGraph programs. Sometime
in the future. That's about it." There was no reason to speak
of the threats. No, no reason at all. His vision became sudden-
ly clear. He was being boxed into a corner.

"Well . . .?" Max's eyes widened as he expected a response from
Pierre.

"Well what?"

"Well, what are you going to tell him? Or, more like where are
you going to tell him to go? This is crazy. Fucking crazy, man."

"Max, let me handle it. " Some quietude returned to Pierre. A
determination and resolve came from the confusion. "Yeah, I'll
take care of it."

"Mr. Homosoto, we need to speak." Pierre showed none of the
international politic that usually was second nature. He called
Homosoto at the San Jose Marriott later that afternoon.

"Of course, Mr. Troubleaux. I will see you shortly." Homosoto
hung up.

Was that a Japanese yes for a yes, or a yes for a no? Pierre
wasn't sure, but he was sure that he knew how to handle Homoso-
to. Homosoto didn't have the common courtesy to say he would not
be coming until the following morning.

In the plushness of Pierre's executive suite, Homosoto sat with
the same shit eating grin he had left with the day before.
Pierre hated that worse than being called amigo.

"Mr. Troubleaux, you asked to speak to me. I assume this con-
cerns a matter of honor between two men." Homosoto spoke in a
monotone as he sat stiffly.

"You're damned right it does." Pierre picked up the diskette from
his desk. "This disk, this disk . . .it's absolutely incredible.
You know what's here, you know what kind of damage it can cause
and you have the gall, the nerve to come in here and ask me,
no, worse yet, tell me to distribute these along with dGraph?
You're out of your mind, Mister." Pierre was in a rage. "If you
think we're a bunch of pawns, to do your dirty little deeds, you
have another thing coming."

Unfazed, Homosoto rose slowly and started for the door.

"Where do you think you're going? Hey, I asked you where you're
going? I'm not finished with you yet. Hey, fuck the deal. I
don't want the goddamned money. We'll stay private and wait for
someone honest to come along." Pierre was speaking just as
loudly with hand, arm and finger gestures. While not all of the
gestures were obscene, there was no doubt about their meaning.

Homosoto spoke gently amidst Pierre's ranting. "I will give you
some time to think about it." With that, he left and shut the
door in Pierre's bright red face.

Three days later DGI stock would be officially unleashed upon
the public. Actually institutional buyers had already committed
to vast amounts of it, leaving precious little for the small
investor before driving the price up. That morning Pierre was
looking for Max. They had a few last minute details to iron out
for the upcoming press conferences. They had to prepare two
types of statements. One if the stock purchase went as expected,
sold out almost instantly at or above the offering price, and
another to explain the financial bloodbath if the stock didn't
sell. Unlikely, but their media advisors forced them to learn
both positions, just in case.

His phone rang. "Pierre, Mike Fields here." Fields was DGI's
financial media consultant. He worked for the underwriters and
had a strong vested interest in the outcome. He didn't sound like
a happy camper.

"Yes, Mike. All ready for tomorrow? I'm so excited I could
burst," Pierre pretended.

"Yes, so am I, but we have a problem."

Pierre immediately thought of Homosoto. "What kind of problem,
Mike?" Pierre asked suspiciously.

"Uh, Max, Pierre, it's Max."

"What about Max?"

"Pierre, Max is dead. He died in a car crash last night. I just
found out a few minutes ago. I gather you didn't know?"

Of all the possible pieces of bad news that Mike Fields could
have brought him, this was the farthest from his mind. Max dead?
Not possible. Why, he was with him till after 10 last night.

"Max, dead? No way. What happened? I don't believe it. This is
some kind of joke, right?"

"Pierre, I'm afraid I'm all too serious, unless CHiPs is in on
it. They found a car, pretty well burned up, at the bottom of a
ravine on I280. Looks like he went through a barrier and down
the, well . . .I . . ."

"I get the idea, Mike. Who . . ?" Pierre stuttered.

"It was an accident, Pierre. One of those dumb stupid accidents.
He may have had a blow out, fallen asleep at the wheel,
oh . . .it could be a million things. Pierre, I am sorry. So
sorry. I know what you guys meant to each other. What you've
been through . . ."

"Mike, I have to go," Pierre whispered. The tears were welling
up in his eyes.

"Wait, Pierre," Mike said gingerly. "Of course we're gonna put
off the offering until . . ."

"No. Don't." Pierre said emphatically.

"Pierre, your best friend and partner just died and you want to
go through with this . . .at least wait a week . . .Wall Street
will be kind on this . . ."

"I'll call you later. No changes. None." Pierre hung up. He
hung his head on his desk, shattered with conflicting emotions.
He was nothing without Max. Sure, he gave great image. Knew how
to do the schtick. Suck up to the press, tell a few stories,
stretch a few truths, all in the name of marketing, of course.
But without Max, Max understood him. Damn you Max Jones. You
can't do this to me.

His grief vacillated from anger to despair until the phone rang.
He ignored the first 7 rings. Maybe they would go away. The
caller persisted.

"Yes," he breathed into the phone.

"Mr. Troubleaux," it was Homosoto. Just what he needed now.

"What?"

"I am most sorry about your esteemed friend, Max Jones. Our
sympathies are with you. Is there anything I can do to help
you in this time of personal grief." Classic Japanese manners
oozed over the phone wire.

"Yeah. Moral bankruptcy is a crime against nature, and you have
been demonstrating an extreme talent for vivid androgynous self
gratification." Pierre was rarely rude, but when he was, he aped
Royal British snobbery at their best.

"A physical impossibility, Mr. Troubleaux," Homosoto said dryly.
"I understand your feelings, and since it appears that I cannot
help you, perhaps we should conclude our business. Don't you
agree Mr. Troubleaux?" The condescension dripped from Homosoto's
words. The previous empathy was gone as quickly as if a light
had been extinguished.

"Mr. Homosoto, the offering will still go through, tomorrow as
scheduled. I assume that meets with your approval?" The French
can be so caustic. It makes them excellent taxi cab drivers.

"That is not the business to which I refer. I mean business
about honor. I am sure you remember our last conversation."

"Yes, I remember, and the answer is still no. No, no, no. I
won't do it."

"That is such a shame. I hope you will not regret your
decision." There it was again, Pierre thought. Another veiled
threat.

"Why should I?"

"Simply, and to the point as you Americans like it, because it
would be a terrible waste if the police obtained evidence you
murdered your partner for profit."

"Murdered? What in hell's name are you talking about?" Crystal
clear visions scorched across Pierre's mind; white hot fire
spread through his cranium. Was Homosoto right? Was Max mur-
dered? Searing heat etched patterns of pain in his brain.

"What I mean, Mr. Troubleaux, is that there is ample evidence,
enough to convince any jury beyond a reasonable doubt, that you
murdered your partner as part of a grander scheme to make your-
self even richer than you will become tomorrow. Do I make myself
clear?"

"You bastard. Bastard," Pierre hissed into the phone. Not only
does Homosoto kill Max, but he arranges to have Pierre look like
the guilty party. What choice did he have. At least now.
There's no proof, is there? The police reports are apparently not
ready. No autopsy. Body burned? What could Homosoto do?