The Pedestal Read Free Page B

swipe the drive over my terminal reader and chew my lower lip as its contents splay across my screen. I sort the file list by modified date, as if that’s going to help. I don’t know what the heck I’m looking at. I open a few files and scan their contents in my code editor: it’s all nonsense. I recognize a virtual host configuration script here, an .htaccess file there, though I have only a vague idea of what they do. I know they hearken back to the days of the dotcomosaur, before its abrupt evolution into the nexus, but that’s it. I only recognize them at all because I took an immersive course on the history of programming in my college days. It was a mind-numbingly boring download that examined bits of old-world computer technology to prove that, while technology continues to advance, programming concepts remain fairly consistent. Apparently some of the programming itself managed to stick around as well.
    I close down the files in rapid succession. I’m about to dismiss the drive altogether when a file catches my interest. Well, really, it isn’t the file itself that has my interest—it’s the extension. At IDS, we work with proprietary file types, unique not only to our industry, but to our company. In other words, we make up our own extensions and assign them internally to different compilers as needed; and we do this to an absolute fault—no exceptions. So finding an .rtf file extension on the list raises an eyebrow.
    If you’re not a fellow nerd, let me explain: I’m looking at a run-of-the-mill rich-text file—one that by design is readable on just about any technological platform known to man, with or without the nexus. To preserve the integrity of our security, IDS prohibits the use of these, so finding one on Arthur’s drive throws me off—at least until I open it.
    At once the confusion is gone, and in its place is grave concern. My stomach cinches into a quivering fist as I survey a list of names—names I recognize from all walks of prominence.
    Scott Heber, Envirosec CFO: 100,000;
    Amanda Van Burr, NSA Operations: 60,000;
    Ronald Weistmeisser, FAA Operations: 70,000;
    Leah Carlisle, Miritech (more notably, the vice president of Unified freaking America, for crying out loud!): 110,000;
    Mannford Waters, Global Freight and Logistics: 60,000;
    Et cetera; the list goes on and on and on.
    In and of itself, this file is circumstantial, if not meaningless—at least, a court of law would say so. But around here, many of these names carry significant weight; not only are they general points of authority my company routinely encounters as we spec out new projects, these are the very names that grease the wheels of progress in this country.
    Envirosec is the single largest security firm in the world, tasked with maintaining the global integrity of NanoPrint technology and its legal implementation in commerce.
    The NSA is very much a governing force in the overall scheme of budding computer science, as it has been for hundreds of years—nothing happens without their permission.
    The FAA is responsible for vetting every single NanoPrint add-on to determine its compliance with wireless transmission guidelines.
    And so forth.
    If any one of these guys gets a bad taste in his mouth for your product, you can bet it’ll never see the light of day.
    I don’t want to read too much into this file, but I can’t think of a single benign explanation for its existence. My gut tells me this is bad news, not only for IDS, but for me. Unless I’m just being paranoid, somehow Arthur—and by extension, IDS—has landed smack dab in the middle of something sinister. Something I’m not supposed to know about.
    Before anyone can get an unauthorized eyeful over my shoulder, I swipe out of my workstation, gather a few things from my desk, and head for the door. Keith looks up from his desk as I pass by his office, a manicured eyebrow hiking toward his hairline—I know, it’s messed up; he tossed his biological heritage