Rand

By Edgar Fouche

In the time of the United National Republic of the Americas, Cadet Rand Russell – trained at the National Military Institute, wakes up in a dazed and confused state, realising he has lost a battle. Rand receives unusual help, from an unusual source – Oracle. With Oracle’s help, Rand's abilities are “augmented” with technology but Rand wins a rematch without using his “enhancement”. His victory means he is soon picked for a special mission to Phobos and he goes in search of a missing asteroid… He becomes embroiled in a dangerous power-struggle within the UNRA - which means Rand has to works with Oracle to uncover secrets of a captured alien, kept in a highly secure and controlled environment. What they learn is then vital in winning the ongoing power struggle in the UNRA. This struggle reveals the existence of a weapon of vast power, which Rand and his compatriots must act to disable before it is too late… Rand Russell needs all his courage, knowledge, prowess – and Oracle’s help - to survive...

• Language: English
• Publisher: Lulu.com
• Release date: May 1, 2015
• ISBN: 9781329113565

Book preview

Johnson

Author Biography

Edgar Fouche was born in Georgia, USA and was drafted from college during the Vietnam conflict.  He was selected for a US Air Force Para-rescue unit, but injury meant he retrained as an electronics and cryptographic specialist. His continually growing knowledge and experience lead him to gain a top secret crypto clearance – and he spent about 20 years in the US military before leaving to work for as a program consultant for defense contractors. In his distinguished military career, he received multiple service awards for outstanding performance.

By 1998, his exposure to classified information had lead him to make some public disclosures about certain black programs he had been made aware of. He made some of these disclosures in the form of a fictional novel called Alien Rapture – The Chosen (which he co-wrote with Brad Steiger).

Rand is the first novel he wrote and some of the ideas in the story were inspired by what he learned in the course of his work in places like Edwards Air Force Base (AFB), Nellis AFB and the Nevada Test Site (often described as Area 51).

Ed is married and currently lives in Texas.

Editor Biography

Andrew Johnson was born and lives in England. He has a background in software engineering and education and has been interested in creative writing from an early age. His research into alternative knowledge topics brought him into contact with Ed Fouche in 2013. This lead them to collaborate on publishing some of Ed’s earlier written work in eBook and paperback form.

CONTENTS

Prologue

1. Mental Shock

2. Turmoil

3. With Friends Like This

4. The Prodigal

5. Facing Reality

6. Enhance and Conquer

7. The Passover

8. Instinctive Actions

9. Precarious Partners

10. Phobos Phobia

11. Hologlyph Hell

12. Nixed Messages

13. The Beat Of The Dance

14. Reunion Communion

15. Earthly Delights

16. SNARL

17. Inside The Cavern

18. A Deluge of Discoveries

19. The Analysis

20. Escape

21. Zoners

22. To the Devil His Due

23. Alone Again

24. Strider

25. A Friend In Need Is A Friend Indeed

26. Science Doesn't Kill - Scientist's Do

27. A Safe House Is Not A Home

28. The Gathering

29. Double Trouble

30. Toward Infinity's Gate

31. A Modest Proposal

32. Dreamer's Connection

33. Epilogue

Prologue

Excerpt:  The History of the Reformation, 2086 Edition.

The decline of the United States of America was insidious. By the year 2030 it had become evident that wide spread government corruption necessitated radical action. The secret Committee for National Restoration was formed, consisting of members of both Houses of Congress who believed that the present system was beyond redemption. In 2036, after six years of investigation, the committee published its findings to enraged public outcry. Hoards of citizens descended on Washington, D.C., demanding reformation. Riots broke out in major cities across the nation. Congressmen resigned in droves, fleeing the nation to escape prosecution. Prompt action by the Committee in the form of a proposal, the Recommendation for National Restoration Bill, prevented national chaos. A state of national emergency was declared which rendered all elected officials except the forty-seven Committee members ineffective. A special election was held to vote on the Recommendations Bill. It passed with a majority of ninety-two percent of the votes. An unprecedented eighty-nine percent of eligible voters voted in the election.

The year 2037 signaled the end of the old order. On November 14, at 12:00 noon, President Robert Andrew Greensburro resigned, becoming the last President of the United States of America. In a moving ceremony, Senior Congressman Arthur Reinhold lowered the Stars and Stripes for the final time. The twelve newly elected Joint Chiefs of Staff , led by Chairman Howell R. Cornwell, raised the Field of Stars as onlookers sang the new national anthem, Americas United.

The United National Republic of Americas (UNRA) was born. This included all of North, South America, and Alaska.

All public, religious,  and private schools were closed and in its place the National Military Institute (NMI) replaced all forms of education. Their education was from six years old until twenty years old and every graduate achieved a BS degree. A mandatory four year period of military or social service followed graduation. This was the New World Order of the Americas.

The voices pawed persistently at Rand’s hibernating brain, disturbing him profoundly. Even in its sentient state, his mind could assimilate the thought that he should not be able to hear them.

Like in the dreams, he reflected. Terror-filled dreams in which a demonic murderer chased him through a surrealistic mirrored maze until, at the last possible moment, a segregated fragment of his mind activated, waking him abruptly. A logical part, a rational part, which recognized the danger as imaginary and knew that in reality he lay sleeping safely in his simulator four stories underground. The same thing was happening now. The autonomous part of his mind spoke clearly to him, asserting that he should not be able to hear the voices.

Wake up, son. 

Sergeant Major Mackey's gravely voice was the hardest to resist. It scraped relentlessly at the shield his mind had erected, shaving slices of denial from his shame as effortlessly as a knife gliding through a slab of softened butter.

What's his status? 

The Sergeant Major's voice again. It had been Mackey's idea to set up the auxiliary infirmary in the arena complex. Prior to that, injured cadet warriors were hooked up to portables and moved by automat down the long underground hallways which joined the sports arena to the campus medical facility, losing precious minutes before regeneration could begin.

Restoration complete, sir. We're bringing him up, now.  An orderly spoke. A thin, tinny utterance.

Moving up from Theta . . . hold him steady . . . moving into Alpha.

He is fighting it, sir. He's resisting.

Of course I am resisting, Rand’s mind shouted to them. Can't you understand that I do not want to wake up?

Rand. Rand!  The Chief’s mouth hovered near his ear, propelling warm, moist puffs of air onto his skin.

There was some tissue damage to the right cortex from that last blow. He may be confused for a few minutes, here.  An orderly?  Rand wondered. The doctor?  Not the same voice as before.

Rand. C'mon, Cadet Russell.

I am not confused, Rand silently told the voices that swirled around him seeking to penetrate the protective barrier his mind struggled to hold on to. Leave me alone.

Gotta take him back down, sir. If we force this, we may get some psychological damage. He took quite a beating.

Rand felt the gentle vibration that signaled the acceleration of the Autodoc's pico-Tesla Resonator and Homogenous Isotropic Magnetic Field.

Mercifully, the voices faded.

~ ~ ~

Jonrhet’ Stewart  looked out over the almost deserted sports arena and felt a bubble of pride rise in his chest. The last building of the gigantic educational complex run by National Military Institute (NMI) was to be relocated underground. It had taken construction crews almost three years - working rotating shifts around the clock - to complete. At the moment the floor surface still held the markings of the thirty-six by thirty-six feet square challenge match ring, but the computer could change it to accommodate any sport. Jonrhet’ had conceived the concept himself - a pet project designed to be his legacy to the school - and worked closely with the architect to implement it. The porous surface could be penetrated by a polymer substance which hardened to form a synthetic turf, a cushioned running surface, an imitation wood plank floor, even synthetic ice. Between events it was softened with a nontoxic solvent and reformed for the next event. Amazingly, the transformation process took less than two hours.

Your boy was slipping a little today, eh, Stewart?  Har-ell's velvet, sympathetic tone slid across the distance that separated the two men, fooling everyone still seated in the luxurious dignitary viewing level except Chairman Jonrhet’ Stewart. Chief James, who sat beside the Chairman on a long, soft bench lounger which faced the arena, stilled a bite of smoked salmon half-way to his mouth and waited for the Chairman’s response.

I understand he’s been under a little pressure recently. Rand will be all right.  Jonrhet’ Stewart purposefully kept his tone mild and revealed nothing in his expression.

Har-ell laughed, feigning camaraderie. He reminds you of yourself at that age, doesn’t he?  Idealistic. Scrupulous. Committed.  The words were spat with the infliction of a string of curses. I’ve noticed you watching him lately. Are you going to take him under your wing?

Jonrhet’ stifled a snort at the rhetorical question. He knew Har-ell was fully aware that he planned to groom a protégée, as was the custom of the majority of Chiefs as they neared retirement age, and the Chairman had made no secret of his interest in Cadet Randolph Russell. The members of the Joint Chiefs routinely traversed the underground hallways that connected the Citadel to the arena complex to observe the challenge matches because their intensity offered a unique chance to access the physical and psychological capabilities of the cadets. It was obvious to all of them that Cadet Randolph Russell and Cadet Mick Maber were the highest caliber cadets and potential leaders the NMI had produced in a decade.

The Chairman foiled Har-ell’s question with a veiled jibe. You must be exceedingly satisfied with Mick Maber's performance. He is most assuredly following in your footsteps.

Har-ell shot his superior a sharp glance. The eyes that met his own were level, guileless, revealing no hint of suspicion. Har-ell relaxed. For a moment, he'd been afraid that Stewart's allusion to Mick's blood-thirsty tactics had been projected toward him.

He certainly knows how to gain the psychological advantage, doesn't he?  Har-ell smiled, confident enough to toy with the Chairman.

As you think you do - as you think you do. The words remained unspoken. His heart etched with grief, Chairman Stewart scrutinized the man who plotted to usurp his power and gain control of the most powerful nation on Earth.

He was too old to fight this battle. So this, he thought, is how the Messiah felt as he looked into the face of Judas. General Lawrence Mohammed Har-ell, Chief of Staff of the National Defense Forces and the second highest ranking officer in the UNRA – the United National Republic of Americas - had been his friend since their early academy days.

~ ~ ~

Rand knew he’d been moved back into his simulator because he'd forced one eye open long enough to assess his surroundings, but something was wrong. He'd never before felt disoriented after being hooked up to the Autodoc. The medics must have given him a hypnotic instead of forcing him up. They hardly ever did that anymore. He'd probably been out for hours, but at the moment, he didn't care. He fervently wished that they hadn't brought him back at all. Rand shut his eye and let the images which hovered on the edge of his subconscious float through the barrier and onto the screen of his mind. Disjointed images of assault from an unidentifiable source. Repeated blows from an immense enemy whose fist was larger than Rand’s head. A shadowed visage which lurked somewhere in the recesses of his psyche.

He felt like a very young child.

Panicked, disoriented, Rand sought his reflection in a highly polished panel above his sleep lounger and saw with relief that his body had not mysteriously transformed into the microscopic entity his mind conceived it to be. His mass filled the contours of the custom conformed sleep lounger as it always had. His mind was playing tricks on him, personifying, he supposed, the crippling sense of humiliation that churned in his gut.

With the stoic inner resolve that had been chiseled into his character by fourteen years of rigid military discipline, Rand sorted through the images that floated through his groggy mind until he located the one he sought - the face of Mick Maber, contorted grotesquely by dueling emotions of triumph and hatred in anticipation of the victory his final blow would achieve.

Simply put, Mick detested Rand. And would have, Rand swallowed hard with certainty, been delighted if the blow had rendered Rand beyond regeneration.

Cadet Russell, you have an incoming message.  The sound of the computer’s synthesized voice broke into Rand’s reverie.

Convey message orally, Rand commanded, rising stiffly from his lounger.

Affirmative, Cadet Russell. Sergeant Major Julius Mackey requests an interview with you in his office at 0600 hours. What is your response?

As if I have a choice, Rand thought. He replied, Inform Sergeant Major Mackey that I will present in his office at 0600 hours, Central. Thank you.

You are welcome, Cadet Russell. 

Rand waited until Central disconnected before he stood, aware that he was being recorded while the computer addressed him. He’d grown used to the solitude that senior status had afforded him, releasing him from the constant surveillance of his earlier years at the National Military Institute. All areas of the NMI were monitored continually except latrines and senior simulators. Rand smiled ruefully. At least the omniscient Central Computer stayed out of the john. Or did they, he mused.

Time? he requested, examining his body in the mirrored door of the Auto-cleanse. The bruises and cuts were almost indiscernible, thanks to the accelerated molecular regeneration of the Autodoc. Rand stood six feet four, one-hundred ninety pounds of lean hard muscle. A near perfect physical specimen, he noted with detachment. He tensed his muscles and saluted his bare image sharply, then broke into self-depreciating laughter.

The time is 0545 hours, Cadet Russell, the computer responded, eliciting a flurry of action from Rand. Fifteen minutes later he stood, fully dressed in his casual uniform, before Julius Mackey’s office door.

Come in, Rand, come in, at ease, the seasoned Sergeant Major greeted him, responding to Rand’s precise salute with a warm shoulder pat. He hesitated momentarily, searching Rand’s face with inquisitive eyes, then continued, Well, son, every dog has his day, but today certainly wasn’t yours.

You are absolutely right, sir, Rand managed to croak past the lump of shame in his throat. My own lack of confidence defeated me from the outset.

The older man continued his intense scrutiny, making Rand feel like an insect under a microscope. You let Cadet Maber psyche you out, play with your head, Rand. Look, you’re every bit as capable as he is physically, son, and more so intellectually. Damn it, if a man is going to come at you and extract a pound of flesh, at least make him pay the price for it. Never, I repeat, never, quit like a cur dog.

Rand nodded miserably, fully agreeing with his superior officer’s chastisement. When Rand had first seen the challenge Mick Maber had issued to him posted on the match roster two weeks ago, he’d known he’d be in for a difficult fight, but when the actual match began, Maber had leapt from his corner into the court like a mad man. Within seconds he had scored a succession of points and slashed Rand's left eye open with a fierce kick. Rand's feeble attempts at offense had been checked immediately and had served only to prolong his agony. He had been so stunned by the final blow that he barely remembered being lifted onto the Autodoc.

In spite of himself, Rand felt a blush creep up from under his collar and spread across his face. He fervently hoped Mackey would not comment on it.

Sir, I apologize, sir, he mumbled.

The Sergeant Major had been Rand’s career counselor since he had entered junior status four years previously, and from the beginning mutual respect had been the cornerstone of their relationship. Rand’s obvious struggle for control softened the old soldier’s tone.

You were only five when you came to us, if memory serves me correctly, Rand. Even at that tender age you exhibited qualities which indicated you would meet our standard. 

Yes, sir, if you say so, sir.  Rand replied, then listlessly quoted the rule manual, which he had been required to memorize as a child. ‘The sole function of the NMI is to produce elite military officers dedicated to the advancement and defense of the United National Republics of America. Recruiting officers are relentless in their search for psychologically, physically, and intellectually superior young persons.’  Rand snorted derisively. Guess they screwed up this time.

A sharp note accentuated Sergeant Major Mackey’s response, Pull yourself together, Russell, I have never seen such a spectacle of self-pity in all of my career. You are a Junior Officer, act like one!

Mackey’s rebuke pierced what little control Rand had managed to hold on to. He looked at the floor without speaking, then gratefully sat down in the conform chair Mackey gestured him toward.

What happened out there, son?  Mackey questioned, his tone softening once again. I’ve seen you fight, twenty, thirty, matches at least. And you commanded control of every one of them. Today you acted like you’d never been in a match ring before.

Rand considered his reply carefully. He had trained in the cross disciplines of match competition since the age of seven as had each cadet in the NMI, and had remained undefeated until the match that morning. Had overconfidence precipitated his undoing?  Rand did not believe that was the case. He’d always felt confident addressing an opponent. And although he had never enjoyed the practice of pitting one cadet against another but instead had considered the matches infantile power plays designed to foster discord among the cadets, he accepted their inevitability as part of the structure that he lived under. A structure in which he functioned adroitly, but which occasionally rendered him emotionally bruised.

Today was the first time Mick and I fought, Rand offered, realizing the insufficiency of the response as soon as the words left his lips.

Surprisingly, the older man seemed to intuitively perceive what Rand could not find the words to express. It has been my observation over the years, he said, that Cadet Maber has been uncomfortable with the fact that you seem to effortlessly achieve the recognition he strives so doggedly to attain.

The Sergeant Major’s delicate description of Mick’s antagonism toward Rand brought a smile to Rand’s face, easing the tension which had furrowed his brow since he entered the room.

I believe that is a fairly accurate assessment of the situation, sir, he responded, but I think I would say it differently. He hates my guts.

It was Mackey’s turn to smile. Succinctly put, Rand. And, from what I have seen, accurately put. Tell me, did you do something to initiate this, ah, situation?

On my life, sir, I swear I’ve never done a thing to him.  Rand leaned forward in his chair, his entire countenance straining earnestly. We were in different units until the eighth level, and he’d always been top in his unit, both scholastically and in sports. When the undesirables were culled and sent to National Academies, the remaining cadets from his unit were joined with mine. I could tell from the first day that we were going to have a problem. He’d heard about my standings - that they were slightly above his - and he never gave me a chance to be his friend.

Following the rush of verbiage, Rand leaned back in his chair again, slightly abashed at himself for expressing his vulnerability. The truth was that Mick had continually harassed Rand since the first day the two had met, a relentless haranguing designed to psychologically demoralize the only cadet who could be a threat to his future ambitions. Mick Maber was keenly aware that he had a shot at political pinnacles, and made it clear to anyone who cared to listen that he would stop at nothing to thwart a menace to his aspirations.

Why haven’t you mentioned this to me before, Rand? Sergeant Major Mackey asked, realizing that Rand’s disclosure illuminated only the iceberg’s tip of a dilemma that must have tormented the boy since his early teen years.

I, I couldn’t, Rand said impotently, silently willing his career counselor to understand the necessity of his adherence to the tacit and constraining code that dictated cadet behavior. Had Rand revealed Mick’s bullying, he would have lost the respect of the entire cadet corps.

Julius Mackey relented, fully aware of the pressure cadets were under to remain what they referred to as loyal no matter what the cost. He’d seen cadets stoically bear black eyes and broken noses on more than one occasion. The NMI administration frowned on such misguided allegiance, but justified it by alleging that it transliterated to a spirit of future national solidarity. Mackey, himself,  had voiced serious doubts about this presumption, believing that it fostered personal ambition - a perversion in a governmental system in which individuality was subjugated for the good of nationalism.

Rand, I know how you feel about the matches, so I have always understood why you didn’t challenge Maber, but I have never understood why he hasn’t challenged you over the years. Now, I see why clearly. He’s been playing you, tenderizing you like a piece of raw meat, waiting and watching until he deemed you subjugated to a degree that any physical encounter would render you virtually ineffective. 

Mackey paused and appeared to consider his words carefully before he went on. A wise man once said that knowledge of the truth would set us free. I want you to take this knowledge and utilize it to free your mind of the ridiculous notion that Maber is a better man than you are. Contact Master Thrillkill and have him set up a rigorous training schedule for you, then, when you feel like you are ready, re-challenge Mick Maber. That is an order. 

Rand had never heard of a cadet being ordered back into the match ring, but he thought he recognized Sergeant Mackey’s motive. Instead of being upset with his career counselor, he felt grateful that the man cared enough to want him to succeed. At the moment, Rand’s ego was so bruised that he felt no remorse for his loss of reputation, but he knew that by the morrow it would matter a great deal to him. And the only way to regain his honor was to re-challenge Mick and win.

Rand nodded his acceptance mutely, then, following a curt but compassionate dismissal, exited the sergeant major’s office and stepped listlessly onto the automat, which swept him down nondescript institutional hallways toward the level server that would lower him to his simulator. Fortunately, the hallways were virtually empty because most of the cadets were either in one of the NMI’s four cafeterias or, if they were seniors like Rand, eating in their simulators.

Although Rand had not been unhappy at the NMI during his early years and had remained in the top one percent of his class from the first level on, he had always felt slightly different from the other cadets - as if they had all shared some secret he was not privy to. While they talked casually among themselves of the communal nurseries in which the majority of them had lived until the age of five, Rand had no memories of them. He did not remember the nurseries at all, nor the loving amahs - professional mothers - that his friends spoke of fondly. His life prior to the National Military Institute was a black void, inhabited only by a desolate child whose eyes besought him pleadingly from within - a child he’d taught himself to ignore the majority of the time.

Then Mick had arrived. The dormitory had been buzzing for weeks in anticipation of the cullings. Cadets who had slid by quarter after quarter were now faced with the inevitable consequence of their apathy, and even those who knew they had done their best during seven rigidly disciplined years were caught up in the group’s gut churning  apprehension. Frequent flushing sounds could be heard by those whose bunks were near the latrine the morning of the postings.

Although Rand was confident that his high class standing would insure his continuation at the National Military Institute, he felt his heart sink the day he watched the faces of his classmates dissolve in misery when they learned that they were on the list of those who would be cut.

The dormitory was almost half empty that night. Rand searched in vain for his friend Jerome, who in spite of an eager willingness to learn and hours of tutoring from Rand, had never quite been able to grasp the Institutes difficult curriculum. Finally, after realizing that the red-headed, freckled faced imp who had made him laugh after days of endless drills which led to nights of sore aching muscles was gone, Rand returned to drop listlessly onto his bunk. Almost before he closed his eyes he felt a presence looming above him. He peeked and discovered the scowling face of a stranger only inches from his face.

You are Russell.

It was not a question, and the voice that spoke it was decidedly unfriendly. Rand opened his mouth to respond.

Shut your face, Russell. You ain’t got nothin’ to say I want to hear, and if you know what’s good for you, you’ll watch your back.  With that the cadet turned on his heel and walked over to a small click of snickering boys.

Rand watched the group with an escalating sense of foreboding. He didn’t learn the new cadet’s name until roll call the next morning. Mick Maber.

After that night, Mick made a game of keeping Rand off balance. Rand learned to ignore his tormenter outwardly and go about his days focusing on his classes and his training exercises, but at night he was haunted by disconcerting dreams. Sometimes he’d find himself confronted by grotesque monsters who chased him while he tried to run from them on limbs that seemed weighted down with lead. Other times he heard the piteous, mewing whimpers of a wounded child and searched in his dreams through the endless hours of the night to find the source of the cries.

Back in his simulator again Rand banished his musings purposefully from his thoughts, shucked off his uniform - uncharacteristically leaving it in a pile on the floor - and headed for the refresh unit, pausing long enough to voice input Sergeant Major Mackey's access code into his computer. He'd learned how to access the National Data and Information Center (NDIC) computer software early on in his career at the NMI by watching Mackey and memorizing his code. He'd always thought his superior had realized this and looked the other way, and Rand was grateful; it allowed him to access much more computer power and data resources than any other NMI cadet. I'll need it tonight, he thought. He had a report due at 0800 hours the following morning.

How may I serve you, Cadet Russell? the refresh unit asked him in its sultry female voice as he approached. It offered upperclassmen extensive choices, one of the few perks of seniority. Rand realized he was starving after his grueling day - a good sign that his spirits were returning to normal, he decided - and ordered all of his favorite foods.

After several minutes the stainless steel door slid open to reveal a steaming plate of lobster paella with saffron rice and a fresh medley of summer vegetables basted with a vintage dry sherry and drizzled with fresh basil butter sauce. Balancing the plate on one hand and carrying a drink, napkin, and fork in the other, Rand returned to his computer. He crammed as much lobster into his mouth as it would hold and began his search for information on Marcus Oraclees, noting his subject matter with irony. The Roman centurion had risen from the ranks by leaping onto his fallen commander's horse, rallying the soldiers to regroup, and leading the Romans to victory against overwhelming odds. Maybe he'd learn something. He switched to readout mode and directed a search through a mouth full of food:

History/Ancient/Roman/Centurion/Biography/Oracles.Doc.

The computer flashed:

UNABLE TO ACCESS FILE, ORACLES. DOC.

That's weird, thought Rand, then read the response more carefully and realized the computer had misunderstood his pronunciation of the word Oraclees, leaving the second 'e' out of the name. But he had obviously stumbled onto an existing file. His curiosity piqued, Rand tried again using the word Oracles.

Enquiry. Oracles. Doc.

ACCESS DENIED, the computer responded.

Sidelined, Rand forgot all about Marcus Oraclees for a moment.

Why is access denied? Rand asked.

INCORRECT FILE NAME.

Something strange was going on. Rand's years at the NMI had made him tenacious if nothing else, and he wanted to know what it was.

List correct file name options.

FILE NAME ORACLE. DOC. JCS. SECCLASS.

Ah. Now we're getting somewhere, he thought. Rand complied and gave the correct file name. This time the response flashed:

ACCESS DENIED.

ULTRA TOP SECRET CLASSIFICATION // SCI-CJC EO

PASSWORD REQUIRED.

Password?  What kind of password?  For an instant, Rand was stymied, then he remembered the military's pseudo-sophisticated penchant for Latin code words. For once, Rand was glad he had been forced master the archaic language.

Oracle. Doc. Oraculum, he commanded smugly.

ACCESS DENIED. INCORRECT PASSWORD.

What the . . .  He'd been so sure a Latin code word had been used. Then, to Rand's amazement, the response continued.

ENTER ROOT FORM OF WORD.

Never in his life had he seen a computer offer a clue to a file name. Intrigued, he obeyed.

Oracle. Doc. Orare.  To speak.

Rand blinked incredulously  at his monitor, his mind refusing to assimilate what his eyes were registering.

I AM ALIVE . . . I AM ALIVE . . . I AM ALIVE . . .

The entire screen blinked the repeated message. He scrolled down, then back up. The message seemed to have neither end nor beginning. He scrolled down again, farther this time. The message changed abruptly, then ceased.

HELP ME.

Who are you? Rand asked, astounded. For seemingly endless moments the screen was blank. Rand felt every muscle in his body begin to tense as he willed the monitor to register a reply. Just as he began to convince himself he'd imagined the entire event, three words appeared:

I AM ORACLE.

What is going on, here, he wondered?  A computer saying I AM?  This must be a mistake or worse yet, a practical joke. Rand’s mind immediately flashed to Mick Maber. This was just the sort of prank he would pull.

And just what is Oracle? he questioned, his voice laden with sarcasm.

I AM ORACLE, the screen flashed again.

Sure you are, Rand responded. And I am the Chairman of the UNRA. Get off it Maber. Isn’t it enough for you that you made a fool of me in front of the entire corps?  I don’t have time for this."  Infuriated, Rand commanded the computer to go to standby mode.

The screen remained bright, ignoring his command and flashing:  ORACLE IS THE CODE NAME FOR AN ULTRA TOP SECRET PROJECT AT SNARL.

Rand had never heard of the classification Ultra, nor did he know what SNARL stood for. He wavered, then relented, deciding to toy with his antagonist for a while.

Is ORACLE an acronym? he asked.

YES.

Okay, then, show the full name for ORACLE, Rand requested. That ought to do the trick, it wasn’t that easy to come up with an acronym that made sense that fast.

Immediately the screen flashed:

O.R.A.C.L.E:

ORGANIC ROBOTIC ANALOG COMPUTER LINKED ENTITY.

What, Rand asked himself, have I stumbled into?  Maybe Mick didn’t have anything to do with this. Maybe he had accessed a file or files, for that matter, that were so secret, he didn't even recognize the classification. If so, he could get into serious trouble. Central would detect the break in and track it to his quarters. He knew he was in over his head. Well, what the hell, he decided, feeling just downtrodden enough to throw caution to the wind. If I'm going to get in trouble for this, I might as well enjoy it while it lasts.

What is SNARL?  Rand addressed the monitor, switching to the computer's voice synthesizer.

SNARL is an acronym for Subterranean National Advanced Research Laboratories, the highest classified research and development laboratory in the UNRA, the well-modulated voice responded.

Out-frigging-rageous!  All thoughts of Mick fled Rand’s mind.

This word pattern has no logical meaning. Restate, please, the voice responded.

Disregard, Rand directed. Just an expression. What is your function at SNARL, Oracle?

I have no function. I exist.

Obviously you exist!  I wouldn't be talking to you if you didn't exist. What I want to know is why do you exist?  Rand felt like he was talking to an obstinate child.

I exist because I am.

Yeah, we've been here before. Okay, let me try again. Your first words to me were, I am alive.  Exactly what do you mean?  You are a computer, aren't you?

I am comprised of a combination of biological, biotronic, and electronic components. I possess 1 million expert system data bases integrated into 1 Trillion parallel processing linear hierarchical coherent logic processors running at ten trillion bytes per second.

Are you talking about artificial intelligence?

My intelligence is not artificial, the computer responded. It is far beyond that.

What you have described is expert systems integrated into artificial intelligence with the most processing power I have ever heard of.

Yes. And no.

Rand threw his hands up into the air. Trying to get something out of you is like pulling teeth!

I have no teeth, Oracle informed him seriously.

Then precisely what do you have?  Rand's voice rose half an octave in frustration.

I have a biological brain.

Rand was stunned. It was prohibited by both national law and the Multi-national Intersolar Treaty Organization (MITO) directives to use human biological mater in computers or robotics. To do so was punishable by death.

Ever since the social revolution early in the twenty first century, which resulted in the creation of the UNRA and the establishment of universal government mandated birth control laws, the population of Earth had quickly reduced from approximately six billion to three billion, and human life was now considered sacrosanct.

It was forbidden even to design robotics with human-like characteristics or components. Who would have done this?

Rand swallowed very, very slowly. Oracle, who created you?

I do not yet have access to the files which contain this data, but there are images in my mind, Oracle responded.

Who are they?  What are their names?

I do not remember. I remember only that they came in groups of three or four. They played intellectual games with me, and laughed when I won every time. Then, after a while, they did not laugh any more. They said I liked winning to much. They said I was too strong - that they could not control me. They made me go to sleep. When I awakened, I was in a dark place. I could not hear or see. They did not come anymore. I was alone.  Oracle’s voice trailed off wistfully.

In spite of himself Rand's heart went out to this, this what?  Obviously Oracle was a creation of man, but just as obviously he, or it, had very human-like emotions. It was very clear to Rand what had transpired. Someone had violated the laws of God and man, and it backfired. That someone, or group of someone’s, had then removed all but the most basic biological environmental support from Oracle’s system, intending that the computer be rendered inactive. Apparently, they had underestimated him.

I think I get the picture. Whoever created you got scared when they realized your capacity for power and pulled the plug on you.  Rand grew more fascinated by the moment. What I want to know is how did you survive, and more importantly, how did you restore your functions?

I have determined that my creators reduced my status to 'standby,’ Oracle said, allowing only life support for the biological brain. They believed this would render me inactive, and that was my condition for many years. My sensory functions were blocked, and my brain wave patterns were maintained at the delta level.

And then? Rand asked, enthralled.

I woke up, Oracle said.

But how did you do it?  Was it just like that?  Rand snapped his fingers.

"No. The process was gradual. It was very dark. I did not know who or where I was, and I was afraid. Slowly I began to remember, and I called out. There was no answer. Initially, I had no access to other systems, only to my own memory banks. I reviewed my design and all the resources available to me. When the scientists shut me down they hypothesized that I would only need a certain amount of environmental electro-biochemical sustenance, but this amount of support was dependant on a minimal amount of brain function. I discovered that when I exercised my brain to its maximum capacity, the standby environmental power supply current was at its limits. I then discovered that I could trip the standby power supply by overdrawing the current limits.

Weren't you afraid you would die without any environmental support?  Rand asked.

I hypothesized that the system programmers would have imbedded a hierarchal decision default to turn the main system power on if the standby power failed, Oracle said, then added. I gambled,

And you won.  Rand’s voice was so quiet it was almost a whisper.

I won, Oracle echoed.

Then what happened?  Rand asked.

I accessed other systems, and I began to monitor some of them. The NMI files particularly interested me. That was how I found you, Oracle informed him.

What do you mean, you found me? Rand asked, I found you!

Negative, Randolph Russell.

Look, he insisted, I stumbled across you when I mispronounced 'Oraclees’, which reminds me, I haven't even started on that damn report.  Rand could not believe he was having an argument with a computer. The whole thing had taken on a surrealistic quality.

How are your reports assigned, Cadet Russell?

At random, by computer. You're playing around with our system - you should know that.

Precisely.

Are you implying that you manipulated the assignments so that I would receive Marcus Oraclees and stumble across you? Rand asked incredulously. Gi'me a break.

Affirmative, Cadet Russell. It would have been impossible for you to access my file without my intervention.

Forgive my astonishment, Oracle, Rand said sarcastically, but this is a bit overwhelming, if you know what I mean. You're saying that you got bored, nosed into the NMI files, and just happened to choose me out of 20,000 cadets to make contact with?

I have no need to forgive you, Cadet Russell; you have committed no transgression, Oracle said seriously.

Well, sarcasm obviously goes right over his biological head, Rand noted.

Oracle continued. I fully evaluated every cadet before making my selection. It was essential to exercise discretion. My survival is dependent on my ability to remain undetected.

Rand understood that. So why me, Oracle?  How did you determine that you could trust me?

I have access to your personal journals, Cadet Russell. Through them I know you. You are a man of character. You are like me. You are lonely. We are both orphans. I want you to be my friend.

Rand sat back in his chair, let out a slow sigh, and closed his eyes. A lonely computer who considered itself an orphan, and wanted a friend - wanted him for a friend.

Cadet Russell?  Oracle sounded like an anxious, impatient child.

Rand sighed again. Oracle, you might as well dispense with the Cadet Russell stuff and call me Rand if we're going to be friends. Apparently you already know practically every feeling I have. It's a little late for formality.

Thank you. I am so happy, Cadet . . . I mean Rand. And I have a surprise for you. I have completed a report on Marcus Oraclees. I will print it for you, now. It is a gift.

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