Tom Clancy's Net Force 6-10 (148 page)
But best of all was the extreme resolution. VR was fairly realistic—at least
his
scenarios were—but this was like when his folks had gotten their first High-Definition TV set. He remembered how amazed he’d been to suddenly see how
sharp
TV looked—the sweat on the announcer’s head, the seams in scenery—things had reached an entirely new level of reality.
his
scenarios were—but this was like when his folks had gotten their first High-Definition TV set. He remembered how amazed he’d been to suddenly see how
sharp
TV looked—the sweat on the announcer’s head, the seams in scenery—things had reached an entirely new level of reality.
This is great.
He called up the documentation and checked his suppositions. Sure enough—there was a new Texas Instruments gyro chip that read head movement, and the tiny holes in the lens corners tracked his eye movements, then bounced three low-power laser beams off the mirrors—made by Nikon to the highest standards, if you could believe the rap—into his eye, painting directly on his retina. Things looked real, because as far as his eye was concerned, they
were
real.
were
real.
Very clever work here.
Time to play.
He called up a favorite test scenario, a glade in Japan looking toward Mt. Fuji, cherry blossoms falling around him.
It looked . . .
It looked like
crap
!
crap
!
Jay walked over to the cherry tree and peered at it. Had the glasses malfunctioned?
No. There was the texture he’d programmed—it had looked great on his flexscreen glasses because their resolution was so low.
Holy cow.
The resolution on these glasses was so sharp that he could see the edges of the pixels. It was like stepping into a comic book from the real world.
Hmmm, I’ve got some work to do.
It wouldn’t do to have anyone else seeing
his
VR with these glasses, that was for sure. He’d have to amp up the textures, improve the bump-mapping, and double or triple the data throughout for this scene. No way he was going to be caught looking amateurish.
his
VR with these glasses, that was for sure. He’d have to amp up the textures, improve the bump-mapping, and double or triple the data throughout for this scene. No way he was going to be caught looking amateurish.
No wonder these things needed optical. It was like giving somebody who had 20/60 vision a pair of glasses that corrected for near-sightedness. They could see all right before the glasses, but afterward would be ever so much better.
Which gave him an idea.
He called up a firewall he’d been trying to break, looking to find the cracks where he could drive a code-breaking spike.
On his older VR visual gear he hadn’t been able to see any difference in the smooth, black obelisklike wall. But with the Raptor’s resolution, he could suddenly see a pattern of cracks where data structures joined together and made up the firewall. Yeah, sure, it was part metaphor and part construction, but he’d take it.
Just glancing at the wall with these new glasses, and he could see exactly where to crack that wall. He was sure of it.
Now,
that
was cool.
that
was cool.
Net Force was going to be outfitted with these within a few days—hours—if Jay had his way. As soon as they hit the commercial market, there was gonna be a boatload of VR reconstruction as other makers suddenly saw their constructs in a bright new light, but until then, wearing these babies would make you at least a prince in the land of the blind, if not the king.
Until these things became common, the bleeding edge of technology was gonna be something with which Jay Gridley could slice the bad guys.
He couldn’t
wait
to show this to somebody.
wait
to show this to somebody.
“Jay?”
The voice brought him back to the moment. He looked up and saw his assistant standing there. He blinked at her. “Huh?”
“I have Mr. Chang here to see you.”
“Oh. Oh, yeah. Sure. Send him in.”
A moment later, she was back, leading a short and definitely Chinese-looking man in a gray suit.
“Mr. Gridley. My honor to meet you.”
Jay waved that off. “Mr. Chang.” He stood. The two shook hands.
“Cal Tech, right?”
“Class of ’03,” Chang said.
“Come on in. Take a look at this.” He waved at his computer. “You’re not gonna
believe
these visuals!”
believe
these visuals!”
13
Net Force HQ
After they introduced themselves and sat back down, and before Thorn could say anything else, Charles Seurat nodded at the corner behind and to the right of Thorn’s desk. “You fence?”
Thorn had his gear bags in the corner of his office, and the only way Seurat could have known what was in them was to recognize the logo on the épée bag. Most non-fencers would not have a clue what the name meant. And because he obviously
did
recognize it, then that meant Seurat, too, was a fencer or a serious watcher.
did
recognize it, then that meant Seurat, too, was a fencer or a serious watcher.
“A little,” Thorn said with a small smile. “Don’t look for me in the next Olympics.”
“Nor me,” Seurat said. “Would that I had brought my blades. We could have worked out.”
That was a pretty obvious hint,
Thorn thought. It was not what he would have expected, even if he had known that Seurat was a fencer as well. Even avid fencers didn’t normally throw down the gauntlet within moments of meeting another fencer—and certainly not under circumstances like this.
Thorn thought. It was not what he would have expected, even if he had known that Seurat was a fencer as well. Even avid fencers didn’t normally throw down the gauntlet within moments of meeting another fencer—and certainly not under circumstances like this.
On the other hand, he had known that Charles Seurat was anything but ordinary—something, Thorn acknowledged, that could be said for himself as well. And the Frenchman did have the right idea. After all, what better way to measure a man’s mettle than at the point of one’s sword?
“I have extra,” Thorn said with another small smile. “Just down the hall. It wouldn’t hurt to stretch a little after sitting at this desk all day.”
Seurat returned the smile. “Lead on,” he said.
The two men went to the gym, which was empty at the moment. Thorn opened his locker, wherein he had an extra set of practice gear—blades, including foil, épée, and saber, along with gloves and a mask, and a variety of jackets. He kept hoping that some of the other Net Force personnel would decide to try their hand at fencing, and so had a small array of gear to fit a variety of sizes.
“Excellent! I see you use first-rate gear.”
“What is your pleasure, Charles?”
“Foil, I think. I’m a bit sluggish and out of practice.”
“Foil it is. Help yourself.”
Thorn smiled again, but privately, when he noticed that the Frenchman chose a blade with a German Visconte grip rather than the traditional—and expected—French grip.
This just might be fun,
he thought.
This just might be fun,
he thought.
The two men changed clothes and donned fencing gear. They each went through a series of stretches and warm-ups. Thorn noticed that Seurat moved very well for a man who claimed to be sluggish and out of practice.
Warmed up and looser, they took their places on the piste, or fencing strip, Thorn had taped out on the floor and regarded each other.
It had been a long time since Thorn had fenced foil, and even longer since he’d fenced it for real. It was the weapon he’d first learned, back in high school, and as such it was his first love, but he’d pretty much abandoned it after he’d discovered the épée and the saber. And lately, of course, thanks to the promptings of Colonel Kent, he’d been focusing almost exclusively on
iaido.
iaido.
Old habits die hard, however, and he was pleasantly surprised at how comfortable the blade felt in his grip.
He sketched a quick salute, saw Seurat mirror the move, and they both slipped on their masks and came to guard.
“Ready?” Thorn asked. As the host, it fell to him to start the opening touch. He used English, however, since it would feel more than a little awkward using the traditional French
“Etes-vous prêt?”
with a Frenchman.
“Etes-vous prêt?”
with a Frenchman.
He could see the small smile that formed on Seurat’s lips, and knew that he understood.
“Ready,” he said.
Thorn smiled, too. “Begin.”
The word had barely left his lips and the Frenchman was in motion. Two quick steps, a liquid smooth—and lightning-fast—lunge, and Seurat’s blade was slipping around Thorn’s guard.
Except that Thorn wasn’t there. At Seurat’s first step, he had begun sliding backward, letting the Frenchman close distance, but not, perhaps, quite as quickly as Seurat had hoped.
When the attack came, Thorn was just far enough away to bring his hand back along Seurat’s blade, press against it in opposition, and then, swiveling his left shoulder back to draw his belly out of line in case he’d failed in his attempted opposition, send his own point streaking toward Charles’s heart.
Seurat countered with a parry four, Thorn pressed back with his bell guard, trying to maintain the opposition, and a moment later the Frenchman recovered backward out of his lunge, retreating out of distance and coming back to guard.
No touch. Neither point had met the opponent, on target or off.
Both fencers smiled and saluted each other.
“Nice attack,” Thorn said. “Very quick.”
“And an excellent move on your part,” Charles said. “I anticipated the opposition counterattack, of course, but I hadn’t expected that particular evasion from an épéeist.”
Thorn smiled again. So Charles had done his home-work, had he?
“Yes, well, I wasn’t always an épéeist,” he said.
Seurat nodded and tossed Thorn another quick salute.
“Prêt?”
he asked.
“Prêt?”
he asked.
Thorn answered the salute.
“Oui, je suis prêt,”
he replied.
“Oui, je suis prêt,”
he replied.
“Allez!”
And they were off once again, a ballet of blades and body, dancing the ancient dance of victory and of death.
Thorn grinned, feeling the adrenaline rush through him once more, the exhilaration of competition, the incomparable thrill of testing oneself against another. Through the mask, he saw an answering smile on Charles’s face.
Yes, the Frenchman had had a very good idea indeed.
Jay was ready—as ready as he was going to be, anyway—for the meeting with Seurat. The one with Chang, that had been fine. The little guy from China was sharp and very appreciative, and they’d be getting together again in RW or VR to establish some Chinese connections. Chang was quiet, down-to-earth, had some moves, and deferred to Jay’s expertise, which he was smart enough to see, no problem.
But CyberNation’s rep coming in? Jay didn’t have much faith he’d be so easy. First, he was with the organization that had given Net Force a royal pain in the posterior. Second, he was French, and there was a reason that “snotty Frenchman” had become a cliché.
Jay didn’t want to do it, but he had told Thorn he would try to behave in a civilized fashion, and he’d give it a shot. That CyberNation had been responsible for nearly killing John Howard, and had done a bunch of other dangerous and illegal stuff, didn’t make it easy. This was going to be like sitting down with a
terrorist,
as far as Jay was concerned.
terrorist,
as far as Jay was concerned.
Sure, CyberNation had claimed no responsibility for the two incidents—“rogue elements out of our control,” and so on. But, hey, the Secretary always disavowed all knowledge of the
Mission Impossible
team, too, didn’t he?
Mission Impossible
team, too, didn’t he?
No need to disavow anything that was
successful,
was there?
successful,
was there?
The door opened and in walked Seurat. Jay recognized him from some of the background VR he’d run. Tall, aristocratic-looking, with dark hair, well-cut and short. Nice suit. He looked flushed, and Jay understood why—word had come past Jay’s door that Seurat and Thorn had gone to the gym and danced with those whippy blades the boss liked to play with, and wasn’t that just swell? Fencing buddies.
Really nice suit, though. Give them that. The French sure know how to dress.
The CyberNation leader eyed Jay like a man might look at a trained chimpanzee, his expression a sort of a wonder-if-it-can-understand-me look.
Oh, boy.
Could be that Mr. Seurat had what some of Jay’s buddies at MIT had called Euro-Q. Back in his school days there had been a good number of best-of-the-brightest imports from Europe, who had thought that because they were in the land of the tasteless American, that it meant they were naturally smarter as well.
But Jay also remembered one of his old college buddies, a guy named Bernard from Tennessee. Bernard had been invited to play chess by an Englishman named Sykes. Bernard, who spoke slowly with a thick Southern twang, had looked mildly bemused.
“Well, ah’m afraid I barely know the rules of that game, sir,” his friend had said. “But ah’ll give it a try, if’n you want.”
Sykes had, according to the story, looked positively gleeful. He’d been ready for a fine round of pummel-the-Colonial, but instead had been
destroyed
by Bernard, who in fact was a ranked chess player and had competed nationally. The lesson hadn’t been lost on Jay: Never judge a book by its cover.
destroyed
by Bernard, who in fact was a ranked chess player and had competed nationally. The lesson hadn’t been lost on Jay: Never judge a book by its cover.
Maybe he’s not just an arrogant, well-dressed jerk.
“Allo? You must be Monsieur Greedlee?”
Because he didn’t want to be at the meeting, Jay was primed to be irritated, and this was enough to start the ball rolling. “Mr. Seurat,” he said, taking care to pronounce the second syllable “rat” instead of “rah.”
Other books
A Glancing Light (A Chris Norgren Mystery) by Aaron Elkins
Miracle at the Plate by Matt Christopher
Acquiring Hearts by S. Donahue
Vampire in Geek's Clothing (Psy-Vamp Book 6) by Cassandra Lawson
The Second Wave by Leska Beikircher
Deadline by Sandra Brown
Linked by Hope Welsh
The Boy Who Came Back from Heaven: A Remarkable Account of Miracles, Angels, and Life Beyond This World by Kevin Malarkey; Alex Malarkey
Night Of The Blackbird by Heather Graham
Categoría 7 by Bill Evans y Marianna Jameson