Terminal Compromise - Winn Schwartau (fiction book recommendations TXT) 📗

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.