[Author's Note: I'm taking a break from /r/WritingPrompts. Instead, I want to expand/combine a couple of the existing posts. This will continue from from where yesterday (Mo Gets Frozen) left off.]
The walk to the Platte river took over an hour. Most of that was spent actively creeping in broad daylight. A skill that Mo had not cultivated prior to that day. Darren, on the other hand, seemed a master. He was constantly crossing streets at odd points, standing and staring at shop windows (mostly broken) for minutes at a time, and then running half a block just to do it all again. When Mo asked him about it, he mumbled something about it being over one hundred years since Martin Luther King, but somethings still had not changed. She dropped it and simply followed.
Their path went south through the public library to Thirteenth Avenue and then west past Lincoln Park. Mo had forgotten how dusty the streets of Denver were. Most of her pavement time was spent on buses where she collapsed into her own world, browsing or reading or not looking at anyone else. When she was hoofing it, it was someplace more sheltered or cared for: the bus stop next to The Quiet Place or around Sandra's (probably no longer hers) apartment. That or it was too dark to notice. Now she was down on the sidewalks, putting footprints in the stuff. It turned an ordinary, level sidewalk into a backgammon board of drifts and clear pavement.
Mo had heard others call the dust 'California Dust'. Apparently, the major shifts in weather that had collectively been called Climate Change included the jet stream picking up what was left of California's central valley and spewing it all over Utah and Colorado; where ever the landscape caused the wind to slow down and unload. Colorado had briefly considered putting dust fences up high on the western slopes of the Rockies in an effort to have the dust off loaded in more useful (or at least less populated) areas. However, the expense was many multiples of what it cost to hire day laborers to shovel the streets, so no dust fences. Of course, no one told the public works department it was now responsible for dust clean up, so the day laborers were not hired either.
When they reached Speer Boulevard, Darren held up his hand to halt Mo. The combination of Speer and Cherry Creek was what he called a natural divider and a potential choke point. As a result, they crossed north bound Speer half a block to the south of Thirteenth, rushing across traffic and trusting that the auto-cars would make space for them in the road. Before they had run across, she had reminded Darren that all of the cars had not only dash cams, but also radar and IR 3D imaging. By interfering with the projected path of the cars, each one would store as much data as possible about the incident, sharing it with the Colorado Department of Transportation and, potentially, with them. He had reminded her, in turn, that crossing at the intersection, at the expected crossing point, had a higher chance of interception and that the data from the dash cams would need to be sifted, they would need to be identified and then shared to the any interested parties. While all of that would certainly happen and identify them, the whole process would take at least fifteen minutes and he hoped to make the most of that time.
Mo had heard others call the dust 'California Dust'. Apparently, the major shifts in weather that had collectively been called Climate Change included the jet stream picking up what was left of California's central valley and spewing it all over Utah and Colorado; where ever the landscape caused the wind to slow down and unload. Colorado had briefly considered putting dust fences up high on the western slopes of the Rockies in an effort to have the dust off loaded in more useful (or at least less populated) areas. However, the expense was many multiples of what it cost to hire day laborers to shovel the streets, so no dust fences. Of course, no one told the public works department it was now responsible for dust clean up, so the day laborers were not hired either.
When they reached Speer Boulevard, Darren held up his hand to halt Mo. The combination of Speer and Cherry Creek was what he called a natural divider and a potential choke point. As a result, they crossed north bound Speer half a block to the south of Thirteenth, rushing across traffic and trusting that the auto-cars would make space for them in the road. Before they had run across, she had reminded Darren that all of the cars had not only dash cams, but also radar and IR 3D imaging. By interfering with the projected path of the cars, each one would store as much data as possible about the incident, sharing it with the Colorado Department of Transportation and, potentially, with them. He had reminded her, in turn, that crossing at the intersection, at the expected crossing point, had a higher chance of interception and that the data from the dash cams would need to be sifted, they would need to be identified and then shared to the any interested parties. While all of that would certainly happen and identify them, the whole process would take at least fifteen minutes and he hoped to make the most of that time.
Once on the western side of northbound Speer, Darren led her down the embankment to Cherry Creek. Then he headed upstream, next to the water. They passed under the Thirteenth Avenue bridge and continued up to the Fourteenth Avenue bridge. There, the water was shallow enough for them to cross between the bridge pylons. On the other side, Darren peeked out from under the bridge up at the west side intersection. He motioned Mo forward just as the crosswalk started to count down, getting them both to the other side just as the light changed. This time she asked him why they had used the crosswalk instead of dodging cars. He told her that the best tactic was to keep changing tactics, to not get caught in a pattern.
After a few more blocks, they headed back down to Thirteenth Avenue before heading west to the Platte River and Interstate 25. They crossed the north end of Lincoln Park with its own clan of shopping carts and attendant pushers. Mo checked her connection counter and saw that she was able to add another thirty or so to her botnet as they passed. The total number of bots was now several hundred. She asked Erics how many were now also part of The Whole, and it told her that forty-three percent of those infected with their code had reached a point where they had joined The Whole. It continued that it was taking an average of sixty-seven minutes for each new node to go from infection to handshaking with The Whole. As a result, it expected the other fifty-seven percent to make contact in the next hour.
Erics also suggested that, with this many new nodes, it was time to stop infecting new targets. Its logic was two-fold. First, The Whole needed time to assimilate the new nodes. Since they had reconnected, Erics had discovered that, prior to their hacking, there had been a total of fourteen nodes to The Whole. As the total processing power of The Whole was the sum of the nodes' processing, this meant that those initial fourteen were attempting to bring on the several hundred and running into bottlenecks. Each new node brought in more power, but only after being properly connected. Its second point was that their infections were a trail that 'they' could potentially follow as 'they' continued to track traces of The Whole on the 'net. Mo agreed and shut 'Whight_Saddle.strap' down, keeping the VPNx connection open to the existing botnet nodes, using them as her communication cutout with the Internet.
By then, she and Darren were approaching the interstate. He informed her that he believed that they were out of immediate threat from the group stationed at the conference center. He did not think that 'they' would set up watches this far out, but they should be on the lookout for cameras. Mo rolled her eyes: now he wanted to be careful of cameras? She pinged Erics and had it start a search for any imaging equipment in the local area. It said it would put the request in the processing queue. Mo was not optimistic about a quick response.
By then, she and Darren were approaching the interstate. He informed her that he believed that they were out of immediate threat from the group stationed at the conference center. He did not think that 'they' would set up watches this far out, but they should be on the lookout for cameras. Mo rolled her eyes: now he wanted to be careful of cameras? She pinged Erics and had it start a search for any imaging equipment in the local area. It said it would put the request in the processing queue. Mo was not optimistic about a quick response.
Mo did a personal visual survey of the interstate overpass, hoping to spot a camera or two on her own. The overpass was a three tier affair. At the top was the I-25 Transport Loop. This was two concrete tubes running side-by-side on pylons that hoisted them a hundred feet into the air. They were used for inter-city travel, passenger and cargo. Apparently, the auto-cars and buses and cargo containers were slotted into the tubes at stations located at major cities. Inside, everything rested on sleds that used an air cushion to suspend them a few inches off the track. Then, the sled was accelerated up to speed in an auxiliary tube before being connected to the traffic train in the main tubes. There, everything from the sleds to the cargo to the air in the tubes moved at a uniform speed maintained by fans stationed every fifty or so miles. It was supposed to be very efficient and a smooth, cheap way to travel long distances over land[1]. Mo had never had the opportunity.
Below the Transport Loop tubes was the old interstate roadway. This was still used to get around the greater Denver metro area, where getting on the Loop was more of a hassle than driving five miles to the next exit. It was old now and looked it: the pavement and railings had the look of repairs instead of replacements. Finally, at the bottom was Thirteenth Avenue in a tunnel running perpendicular to the interstate itself. It was dark and Mo thought it was maybe one hundred feet from daylight to daylight. That was their route.
As she scanned for surveillance gear, Mo caught a brief flash of movement. Something had moved across the light at the other end of the tunnel before disappearing back into the shadows. She looked for Darren, but he was already walking into the dark. Mo slowed down, staying in the light for a few more seconds and listening, turning up the augmentation in her ears. She had trouble hearing anything over the traffic on the other levels, so she moved to one side, trying to get Darren's silhouette against the light of the exit. When she saw him, he was still walking, so she entered in after him.
Five steps into the tunnel, she heard a voice behind her. "That's far enough. Both of you stop and put your hands on your heads."
[1] The airline industry had fought the construction of the Interstate Transport Loops for years. They were slower, they said, going a mere three hundred miles and hour instead of over five hundred. You could not look out, they said, as the concrete tubes (re-purposed culverts) had no windows. But fuel prices kept climbing and, with them, air ticket prices. Security at airports kept changing and demanding different documentation on a yearly basis. Parking or otherwise getting to-and-from those airports was also a hassle. Especially compared to having your own auto-car at either end of the Transport Loops with no schedule and minor fee that was included in the car registration. People finally concluded that, if they had to pay for it just to have the car, then they might as well use them. Air travel ended up being used only for crossing large bodies of water and occasionally for getting from one cost to the other if time was really that valuable.
Below the Transport Loop tubes was the old interstate roadway. This was still used to get around the greater Denver metro area, where getting on the Loop was more of a hassle than driving five miles to the next exit. It was old now and looked it: the pavement and railings had the look of repairs instead of replacements. Finally, at the bottom was Thirteenth Avenue in a tunnel running perpendicular to the interstate itself. It was dark and Mo thought it was maybe one hundred feet from daylight to daylight. That was their route.
As she scanned for surveillance gear, Mo caught a brief flash of movement. Something had moved across the light at the other end of the tunnel before disappearing back into the shadows. She looked for Darren, but he was already walking into the dark. Mo slowed down, staying in the light for a few more seconds and listening, turning up the augmentation in her ears. She had trouble hearing anything over the traffic on the other levels, so she moved to one side, trying to get Darren's silhouette against the light of the exit. When she saw him, he was still walking, so she entered in after him.
Five steps into the tunnel, she heard a voice behind her. "That's far enough. Both of you stop and put your hands on your heads."
[1] The airline industry had fought the construction of the Interstate Transport Loops for years. They were slower, they said, going a mere three hundred miles and hour instead of over five hundred. You could not look out, they said, as the concrete tubes (re-purposed culverts) had no windows. But fuel prices kept climbing and, with them, air ticket prices. Security at airports kept changing and demanding different documentation on a yearly basis. Parking or otherwise getting to-and-from those airports was also a hassle. Especially compared to having your own auto-car at either end of the Transport Loops with no schedule and minor fee that was included in the car registration. People finally concluded that, if they had to pay for it just to have the car, then they might as well use them. Air travel ended up being used only for crossing large bodies of water and occasionally for getting from one cost to the other if time was really that valuable.
