Digital Arrow

By Michael Lee

A gifted scientist is on a time clock trying to stop the destruction of the United States and potential world domination. Meanwhile, the NYSE is having a bad day. A virus is spreading through the building and can't be stopped. A ransom note says they have three days before it shuts down trading for good. A classified government project in Washington D.C. is training soldiers to protect the internet from outside invasion, but is that their actual mission? An unwitting Asian electronics firm thinks it is developing new gaming platforms with a partner, but hackers are using the money to try and steal classified material and sell it to the highest bidder.
It's Friday night. David settles into his viewing chair to binge watch some of his favorite sci-fi, when suddenly everything blinks out to complete darkness. He finds himself abducted in the most bizarre way. He must use all his skills to escape the abduction and evade the "watchers" to find his daughter, who is missing. He will match wits with some of the most intelligent people on the planet if he wants to succeed.
Tick-tock, tick-tock! There is no time for mistakes.

• Language: English
• Publisher: Michael Lee
• Release date: Apr 8, 2020
• ISBN: 9781087850351

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D1g1tal Arr0w

M1chael Lee

Michael Lee Books

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Copyright © 2017

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ISBN (Paperback) 9781087872605

ISBN (Hard Cover) 9781087872599

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To Jacqueline, my love, who encouraged me to pick up and finish the story then waited as I disappeared to my quiet place to write it. I love you.

To my ‘early adopters’, who were hooked with only a couple chapters, my sincere thanks. You pulled me through with your support:

Amanda Smith (aka the Rock Star)

Barbara Hannel

Bridget Barber

Eric Knight

Glenn Luster

Joy Smith

Karol Hopkins

Kelly Gehrels

Matthew Roberson

Mike McCrady

Raquel Maloney

Rick Condra

Scott Manor

Teri Corbet

To my brother on the other side of the world, author Reese Naidu, whose writing enthralled me and gave me a better understanding of my own.

And, finally, this first novel is dedicated to my mom, who loved to tell me stories, and my grandma who loved to hear them. May they rest in peace.

NYSE

(Wall Street)

Reports are still coming in with the result unknown. The NASDAQ operations team is in its fifth hour of an all hands-on deck meeting. Blips, hiccups, and other strange occurrences invade any computing device inside The New York Stock Exchange. This is day three.

Network administrators scour networks and firewalls but continue to scratch their heads for answers. Desktop technicians are scanning bits and bytes for virus or malware symptoms. They, too, are coming up empty-handed and clueless.

Jack Parish sits at the head of a conference table, a symbol as powerful to this group as the Queen of England. Jack is many things, but he is no computer person. In fact, if it must be done on a computer, Jack will most likely have an assistant do it. He is nearing eighty, and this digital age has surpassed his command of technology. He is beginning to lose his desire to keep up and manage the day to day operations of systems he doesn’t understand, and quite frankly, doesn’t want to. Retirement is looking better and better.

Nevertheless, he easily commands the respect of the room. Parish has been the CIO, and head of the operations team, since Johnson was President. He holds the record for the most nominations for employee of the in a single year by the team. He is also the most tenured person on it by twenty years.

In his mind, however, ticker tape machines are much more reliable than this new age of machines. Slower, perhaps, but they work better and longer without any failures while in operation. To him, the last two days of issues seem like a prelude to Armageddon.

What the hell is going on in this building? he crassly demands of the committee. Somebody report something tangible so we can fix it! Despite his age and obvious generation gap, Jack has a logical mind that does not quit.

There is nothing tangible to report, Jack offers Peter.

Peter Mausch is second only to Parish, but Mausch is also thirty years younger and has grown up in the Digital Age. He has seen the evolution of this digital monster and knows every inch of its scales and claws by heart.

How can there be nothing tangible, Mausch? Your guys keep record of every door that opens from the World Wide Web, every transaction that occurs within this facility, and can tell how long it took for a man to go bankrupt betting on stocks over several decades. So, how is this any different?

For some unknown reason, Jack never uses a person's first name. He catalogs your name, your family, where you live, and sometimes who you bring to the Christmas party in his mind, but your last name is how you are known by the Wall Street icon.

Peter wants to respond with a stinging retort, but knows Jack is being truthful in his ignorance. He also knows a direct confrontation never works with Jack. It’s like trying to ram a rhinoceros with a car. You might stun him a little, but he will come back for blood. Peter takes a breath before his careful reply, knowing how long Jack has been in this field.

True, we have historical data. We also have web forums where almost anything under the sun is discussed and referenced.

He pauses to realize that all eyes are on him now.

"Currently most all computer screens are flashing for a second, freezing for 3 or 4 seconds, then everything returns to normal. We have transactions lost one day that magically appear exactly where they are supposed to be the following day.

These daily occurrences are so numerous that it can't be random, but there’s no pattern. Therefore, we’re chasing our tails. These things are happening on brand new machines, installed and configured after the ghosts started appearing on our networks. It should be physically impossible."

Ghosts?, Jack asks.

Peter smiles inwardly so as not to offend Jack.

That’s what our techs are calling them. These ‘ghosts’ make no sense and we are not the only ones being affected by these anomalies. I have had reports from London, Euronext, Japan, and most of the major exchanges around the world who are discussing the same strange things happening in their networks as well.

Jack's eyes widen at the realization that money may have been lost. It’s their job to keep that from happening. If money is lost due to an overwhelming number of transactions that go missing, there will be true hell to pay. He mentally braces for the response, then asks the question.

Have there been any unresolved transactions or reporting issues?

No, Peter said, That’s the weird part. They just appear to be nuisances, but they may happen at any time during the business day. Given the right account and the right amounts, the potential for errors and other dangers are there but they resolve perfectly when it's done.

The other seven committee members sit around the table watching the discussion, unwilling to participate. Nods between them show their consent to Peter's explanations, or maybe to make him think they understand his tech speak. Anyway, they all end up looking expectantly at Peter, hoping for some good news to sum up the report, and maybe even in plain English.

Waiting for questions that won't come, Peter is silent. As the awkwardness sets in, an aide comes into the meeting room. For an instant, the raucous sound of the trading area fills the room. All around the table sigh, hearing sounds of life in the operation. The aide ignores it, preferring the sudden quiet over the cacophony when the door shuts fully. The fact that the market continues to operate softens the tension in the room considerably, but not for long.

Smiles show misled faith that the markets are still trading without mishap. It’s then that the aide produces an envelope and lays it on the table. Everyone looks at the document, not wanting to be the first to pick it up; as if it might contain anthrax... or worse, pink slips! The aide then leaves with as much speed as his entrance, with an obvious look of fear that screams please don't kill the messenger!

Peter, unfazed by the drama, picks the document up first. He rips the top off and glances through it. He falls back into his chair in utter desperation, rereading it over and over. The others are watching him intently, eyes wide knowing this is not great news, but the meeting room is as quiet as a library in winter. They must all be holding their breath.

Jack, knowing another command won't produce an answer to the question of what just appeared, gets up and walks over behind Peter. He looks at the document over Peter's shoulder, and his surprised look makes everyone uneasy. Like a father helping a child, he reaches over Peter’s shoulder and gently takes the document. Jack looks at the front, then the back, and shakes his head in disgust. Finally, with a grand gesture, he holds it up like a trophy and tears it into little pieces to the gasps in the room. Shaking his finger around the room, he gives them his opinion.

I will not be told how to run this operation by a bunch of sniveling little brats who think they can dictate to me from their caves and their keyboards!, he says, and storms out.

The committee members all sit stunned, silent, still... not really knowing how to react. Peter regains control of his faculties and sits back up to the table. The committee looks at him in silence. He arranges the words in his head to be as accurate as possible, succinct, and try not to send these people to a nervous breakdown.

That was a communication from a hacker group calling themselves simply, The Order. They have given us three days to dismantle the NYSE or they will, in their words, shut it down for us.

Murmuring immediately begins, and in no time works its way into frenzied whispering until Peter holds up his hand. Wanting to hear how they should proceed, what is being done to fight, or negotiate, the room once again falls silent.

This kind of threat has been made before. We already have a defense in place to counteract this kind, well any kind really, of severe internet threat. We’re prepared to repel this attack, too. I strongly recommend that this information not be shared outside the room, although I believe it should be taken seriously. Please come see me if you have any additional concerns.

With that Peter gets up and walks out of the room.

Blackout

(Blackout)

Thank God it’s Friday, I think as I finish cleaning up after dinner. Just a plate and some silverware, since I am the only one in the house now. I just finished a monthly report that required lots of research and data pulled from thirty different files. Took me three days to get that done. Happily, it’s time for some ‘me time’. I think about calling my daughter, Amanda, then look at my watch… too late, and it’s Friday. She’s probably finishing up at the lab.

Sitting in my chair in the living room, I cue up the DVR.

Drinks...check! Snacks...check!

I let out a sigh.

Time to relax, then.

I like to binge watch several Sci-Fi series to see if I missed any of the episodes. Tonight, I am lucky to find several episodes back to back that qualify. I will probably recognize the episode in the first two or three minutes, but I don’t care. It’s Sci-Fi!

I hit play on the remote to start the first episode, then....

It’s like a blackout happens at the same moment my finger pressed the key, except more intense. Every source of light and sound stops. At first, I wonder if the power grid blew. Nope, it's more than that. No light, no sound, no glow from outside to light up the room.

As I try to connect with the reality around me, things are getting weirder. I am missing those normal background sounds found in the suburbs. No sound from nearby roads, no crickets, creaks from the house, or even the residual power draining from the television. No air conditioner, not even my own breathing... nothing.

I wiggle my toes, but don't feel the floor. I try to grab my face with my hands but cannot feel the touch from either. Panic begins to overtake me, but a little voice keeps telling me to stay alert. Panic won't accomplish anything.

Crisis management can be found in many different training regimens. My time to conquer this was years ago while being certified for SCUBA diving with my family. Full gear on, head just below the surface in the shallow end of a pool, this is where I made that leap of mind over matter in a crisis. I had been warned by experienced friends that my brain would rebel against breathing underwater. I was not prepared for how right they were. Every part of my being wanted to stand up out of the water, spit out the regulator, and suck in the salty humid air of the resort.

I was very close to flight mode, but my wife had already succumbed to that overwhelming fear. I could see her legs as she stood near me, surrounded by instructors trying to calm her down. At that moment I knew the only way my family would complete the course was if they saw me do it.

I took a deep breath from the regulator, relaxed, and cheered my wife on as she sat in the pool a second time. She saw me sitting there, we gave each other the OK sign, and the challenge was on. In a short time, we were ready for adventure!

In that experience I had a clear view of the environment around me; the pool bottom, and the legs of nearby swimmers. My current state is a whole new challenge. Sensory deprivation torture is the closest attempt at an explanation for my lack of sensation, but it doesn’t account for the feeling of missing my extremities.

I had been in a chair, so at the very least I would expect to feel a sensation of sitting, tugging to prevent my hand from moving… something! I am quite certain, having the ability to reason, that I must be still alive. I am just in the dark with apparently no feeling in my body... or body in my body!

The first responder in me then points out others in my neighborhood might also be experiencing the same thing, and most likely not reacting well to it. I focus on the fact that, eventually, I might have to help them. I mentally chuckle since I really have no idea what to do.

You must help yourself first, dork, I tell myself to rationalize the moment and try to calm my active imagination. Then, turning more serious, Start with the basics. What do I know?

Still complete darkness...check. I try moving my hands, but I can't see or feel my body with them...check.

Am I sitting, standing, falling, or laying down?

Now that’s a question… hmmm.

I have read about tortures in spy novels, when panic mode begins to set in. My adrenaline is beginning to make me hyper, and without an outlet I know it will quickly send me into a panic. I fight to control the sensation in my head, since the rest of my reality (and apparently my body, too) has disappeared without me.

Dad!

The voice is crystal clear with no echo one would expect at that volume. It stops my train of thought, not to mention scaring the crap out of me. I really hope it didn’t actually do that.

Another entry for the mental checklist. I know the sound was NOT created by me, but I have already established the inability to hear other things. I recognize the voice, however. It is the voice of my daughter, Amanda, and it sounds like she is standing next to me.

Honestly, she seems to be slightly above and to the left of me but very close. It’s strange I can hear her voice so clearly, sitting in my living room outside of D.C., when I know all too well that she just started a new job in Boston. That puts her hours away from me, even by plane.

She is also not known for unannounced surprises; so how did she get... well... here? Then a peculiar thought hits me. If I am not home, where exactly is here? My whole being is focused on that single word she spoke. It seems to echo over and over from a second source in this black, paralyzing fog.

I try to speak back, but all I hear is silence. Oh yeah! If I can’t touch my face, I probably can’t speak from it either. That’s frustrating, because how am I supposed to communicate if I now can’t feel or speak? I’m getting worked up. It’s hard to maintain control without some tangible focus. At that moment, the voice continues.

Dad. I know you can hear me. Tell me you are OK!

Tell her I was OK? How the heck am I supposed to do that? She is in Boston, and I am in a big, black void!

I force myself to recall the last time Amanda visited just to focus away from the hysteria. I remember how she looked before she left for Boston; the two of us in the living room with her looking out the picture window.

What a spectacular sight. My beautiful daughter standing by the window, her nearly six-foot frame as fluid as a cat walking across the room. She has been blessed with great form and balance all her life. I grunt inwardly. Definitely didn't take after me.

I have to smile. When Amanda walks into a room she commands the floor. Some might think her a bit aggressive as she walks towards them from a distance, but the blonde ringlets, soft blue eyes, and her confidence and smile dissolve most conquering attitudes. She knows how to be social, but it's not a gift.

Startling me, my image of Amanda suddenly begins moving on its own, as if my memory is now animated. She looks at me and says,

Good, you can see me! Now talk to me here.

What? Now I am hallucinating as well! The words I just heard are emanating from a memory of the last time I saw her, but it's as if my memory has come to life or reanimated itself. I try to rationalize it.

Ok, someone is trying to talk to me... because I didn’t put those lines in my memory, and I’m not crazy... that I know, anyway. If this is real, at least someone is communicating with me. Process of elimination.

I then suddenly realize I am in the picture, too. My perspective seems to shift so I am looking between the two of us. I see the image of myself and think how odd I can have such a clear mental picture. I seem to be a ghost of a third person in the room. Shocked and surprised at the clearer view of my sedentary image, I decide I look somewhat like a six-foot two flamingo...just not pink!

Tall, thin, with this big pooch from the middle that tapers to the top. I am about to laugh when Amanda continues trying to help me speak using a little more empathy,

That's better. Now think the words into the image of yourself.

Really? Well, if she’s talking to ‘me’ through my memory of her, then why can’t ‘I’ respond in kind? I wonder....

I focus on the image I see of myself and then the words started coming all at once. I think briefly of a ventriloquist dummy, then focus on the information. It never occurred to me that we think much more information than we say.

The picture me tries to keep up, then stops. He (I) then turns to look at the ghost me with that look of frustration one gives to a child who won't shut up. I stop for a moment, then find humor in the situation.

Oh, this is grand! I am being chastised for talking too fast....by me!!

Ok, fine. I’ll slow down, I think, and my clone continues the perfect echo of my voice. I take a mental breath and refocus my thoughts on a short phrase.

Amanda, what are you doing, and what the hell is all this?

Oh my God! Daddy!!, she cries as she throws her arms around me. Well, actually she puts them around the image of me. I just sit there like a good ghost and watch, dumbfounded.

At first, it's a bit uncomfortable to see your daughter call another man daddy, even one who looks exactly like you, and hug him in your presence. It’s a bit more complicated that I know this image is me, but my brain in really turning circles trying to comprehend it. I decide the best approach is to get to the problem at hand.

Wait a minute? What happened? Why can’t I see you....er, with my eyes?

There is a long moment of silence where she seems to pause and look at my image carefully, like a cat looks at its owner when it wants something. I am about to get impatient and ask again, when she comes out of it.

Oh, Daddy, I’m so sorry. Were you scared?

I still flinch mentally at hearing her so clearly. Naturally, my image does, too. It’s like controlling a marionette with my mind, just very lifelike and doesn’t take much effort. Watching the clone, I almost chuckle again. Instead I focus on an answer.

No, at this moment I am just very confused, but let’s start figuring it out. Where am I?

Operations

(Digital Arrow)

Cohen is in a rush. There are too many things to do and not enough time to do them, but he likes his habits. He parks in his usual parking garage near the King Street Metro station in Alexandria. Not having to drive in DC is a no brainer for Cohen. Parking is a premium, with few spaces. With mass transit it's easy to walk anywhere. Being from the country, walking is his way of working problems out in his mind anyway.

Today the immediate problem, besides his being uncharacteristically late, is he is starving. In his routine he likes to take some time to enjoy his meal, but today is already not cooperating with his sense of time. Also, today he must report his current progress on his project to top management, and he is nervous when things are not on track. His manager has, well, a short fuse.

He ducks into a little diner on Kings Rd, about three blocks from the station. The Uptowner is usually fast enough for him to get breakfast and coffee to eat on the train. Naturally, today, there is a line.

Cohen gives his order, then sees the customer two ahead of him getting the same thing. While the snappily dressed clerk is getting coffee near the back, Cohen approaches with an idea.

This may sound crazy, but I’ll give you a hundred-dollar bill for that, pointing to the sandwich and coffee, so I don’t miss my train.

Cohen casually puts his hand on his hip, pulling back his coat and showing his government badge. The guy sees the badge, looks him dead in the eye for a second longer than Cohen cares for, then busts out in a laugh that resounds around the shop. Quickly recovering because Cohen is not laughing, too, his voice lowers back to normal.

Man, I can’t do that, or I’d be closed tomorrow! Yours is already on the grill. Look, I promise I’ll hurry but you’ll just have to wait. This one is already paid for.

He walks off, snapping a lid on the coffee as he walks. Cohen is momentarily stunned. Nobody has ever laughed at him, or for that matter stared at him that long, without a fight. He briefly thinks of a more physical reaction but decides it's better not to cause a scene. He has already attracted attention with the laughter, so he utters a fake laugh as if it really was a joke, but inside he is mentally calculating how he could break the clerk’s neck in less than ten seconds.

Smiling, with a good follow up, he says,

No problem. Doesn’t hurt to ask.

Three minutes later, food and coffee in hand, Cohen makes the train anyway. He decides the interaction with the guy really didn’t matter to him.

Others can have the glory, he thinks as he steps into an empty car and finds a window seat. He has no time for trivialities. He has plans of his own, and right now he holds the key piece to that reality. He relaxes for a moment, enjoying his rush hour breakfast, as the train makes its way into downtown D.C.

Stopping in his office to prepare for the day, Cohen grabs his notebook and is back in the hallway, looking like he is in charge. Black suit with a red and gold power tie is just what is needed to gain points for the meeting. His tall frame, trim but muscular, and natural posture are enough to get him in anywhere without question. The black, red, and gold screams get out of my way in case there is any doubt.

Cohen approaches a double door in the middle of a wide, ornate hallway. It's inlaid with Italian tile that echoes the clicking of the plastic taps on his heels as he walks. It is lined with paintings and tapestries that rival most palaces.

This is very different from the normal government offices he’s worked in before. The people who work here are oddly happy for government employees, too. It’s a new think-tank environment where the work is mostly cooperative. There are areas to read books and magazines in quiet, rooms with activities from ping pong to billiards, and even an onsite gym and spa.

Of course, they are happy. If they had a bed by their desks they would never go home, he mutters.

He frowns at the thought of happy people at work. It’s not that he thinks they should be angry or sad. In his experience, more incidents tend to happen in secured facilities when too many let down their guard. It happens even more when they are satisfied, than when they are worried or tense enough to be alert. To Cohen it’s a simple fact.

He smiles to himself and thinks, Well, that’s about to change!

Cohen holds the notebook in his left hand, bound in executive leather, with the hint of an expensive Montblanc pen sticking out of the end. The notebook contains an electronic organizer, for which he has no use, and a pad of paper that is worth more to him than all the tablets in the building. Cohen is old school and proud of it.

He recalls the voice of his mentor, Colonel Holland, with whom he was an aide for fifteen years.

Cohen, things should be written down on paper, so they are not lost when the batteries run out. Others should be memorized and passed mouth to ear because they should never be written for all to see. When told something to remember, write it down as soon as you can. When told a secret, keep it safe within your head. Never let either the paper or the memory fail you.

Cohen only takes notes when necessary and, given his tight schedule today, this might be one of those times. Good presentations open the doors of opportunity, lead to incredible sales, and can get a GED turned MBA into wherever he wants to go. He is certain of that last part, because he has done it. Being here now is the proof.

His receding black hair is showing his age, but he doesn’t mind. Age has not diminished the rest of his abilities, of which he is extremely proud. His hand-tailored suit fits his fifty-three-year-old body as well as it would someone twenty years younger. His three day a week habit of workouts keeps him in top condition. The once a week judo keeps him limber, and he moves so decisive and quick that many people can't keep up with him at a walk.

Two very muscular Marines in immaculate uniforms stand at attention on either side of the doors as he approaches. A glance from Cohen to the nearest sends him quickly into motion to open it. The other stays at attention and keeps his post. Cohen walks through the door. No words are spoken. No salutes are given. He has access. He is no longer military, but it still shows.

Did you attach them to the software properly from this end?, he immediately barks at a higher volume to the Army Captain in the middle of the room. Cohen is still grasping the technical side of the project, but he knows enough to ask the right questions. Entering the room talking is his way of surprise and maintaining control.

Yes, sir, Mr. Cohen, comes the snappy response of the young Captain in charge of the project. He almost snaps to attention and salutes at the bearing and tone of the man heading from the door to the center of the room, then for a split-second wonder why he feels the need. He doesn’t know Cohen's past, as he is new to the project, but if the man is not a Marine, he should be. Regardless, Jason is going to perform his role to the best of his ability, as is expected, since Mr. Cohen gave him his first real command.

All present and accounted for. Unfortunately, we're not able to fully train all of them before bringing them online, so we're having to assist those having difficulties on a case by case basis. It may be some time before they are fully operational, sir.

That last sir is not out of respect for Cohen's demeanor and Cohen knows it. Jason does it's because he was born and raised in the South. He naturally does that with everyone. Some of the career enlisted flinch when he does it to them unintentionally, but they hold their tongues at the sight of the Captain’s bars on his shoulders. Then they grin at his boyish charm. Jason instinctively knows they are silently judging his inexperience. That is why he is still baffled about his early promotion to this post; following in the footsteps of a seasoned veteran. Someone must have seen something in Jason that he has yet to see in himself. Regardless, he thinks to himself, I won’t look a gift horse in the mouth, as momma would say. It means that one should be humble and keep moving forward. That is the plan.

Cohen is not impressed, with either the Captain’s southern charm or his answer. He looks around at the stations, sees all the technicians are busy, and calmly walks close to the officer and lowers his voice.

Jason, you have been given orders to get this facility fully operational in the next seventy-two hours. Unless you want to face that committee yourself and explain these obstacles, I would strongly suggest you improve your efforts to keep this from becoming a setback and avoid any… repercussions.

Cohen adds emphasis to that last word hoping Jason will understand, but he does not. Jason looks at him and Cohen just shrugs his shoulders. The kid does not get it, but he knows the Captain will do his best to get things back on track. He was recommended as a rising star, and it was in his potential that Cohen chose the young soldier, but he wonders if Jason really has the aspiration for what is about to happen. Cohen decides to give him a little push to test the theory.

I, for one, am not sure what ‘repercussions’ in a ‘secure facility’ actually mean.

That catches Jason off guard. The assumption spreads over his face in a millisecond, to the delight of Cohen. The young Captain is now visibly shaken, but just as quickly regains control of himself. He scans the area to see if anyone heard the exchange and, finding no obvious lurkers, returns his gaze to Cohen. As well as a politician might find a witty comeback, Jason retorts with calmness and humility in his voice.

I am following your orders to the letter, sir. If anyone knows how this is supposed to work you do, Mr. Cohen, but I’m in a little over my head. I know it was above my pay grade to know the entire operation before, but I feel now that I bear the responsibility of the operation, I should qualify to be read in more fully. I'm not arguing, sir, just clarifying.

Cohen smiles at his new ‘insubordinate’ and softens, proud of the moxie he just displayed. Maybe he does have the stomach for this job, and the next, after all. Yes, the Captain is right. He is in a higher level of responsibility now. When his former commander was reassigned, Jason was promoted to Captain, all in the span of a month. He is still impressionable but has taken well to the relationship with Cohen. He is a keeper for an assistant; showing he can interact with tact to his commanders as well.

Jason, you know I can't do that without authorization, but you are right. I will ask for it in the meeting today and get back with you this afternoon. For now, be the iron fist and get these anomalies ironed out, ok?

Jason stands at attention, gives a quick salute with the hint of a satisfied smile. He doesn't care if the man was military or not. He sees Cohen has his best interests, and this is going to be a good partnership.

Yes sir!

Cohen rolls his eyes at the gesture, gives one last look at the control room filled with hundreds of monitors on desks and walls alike, and takes notes on his pad in a language only he can understand. He can see a few of the screens have edges of bright blue, indicating the subject is online and operational. Others have green, orange, or red. From what he knows green is learning mode. Orange means they are in transition to green. These can become issues if they don't turn to green soon.

Mostly minor issues happen between orange, green, and blue. Red is critical. It’s these screens the technicians are

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