The Error of the Resident Virus - part 1
It was warm and comfortable outside – the temperature, regularly maintained by a fan, was quite fit for living, electron flow was running OK, and high in the sky there were twinkling and playing huge figures of system time. Frisky programs were glad to be free, and that’s why none, of course, noticed they had got a new neighbor…
The resident virus K-817 was created skillfully and tastefully. In comparison with the previous 816 versions, the highly intellectual microorganism had a curious feature in its molecular structure – an AI. This model has completed a survival test on Soviet computer systems and has showed its total fitness for usage on more delicate IBM-machines. This proud piece of metal and white plastics with a garish inscription “Intel Pentium” could have been considered dead.
K-817 sneered scornfully. He knew indeed how K-816 had ruined himself! To some extent he consisted of his predecessor’s remains. Of those, which have been saved.
A pseudo-tear rolled from the resident’s pseudo-eye and fell to the pseudo-soil. Four bad-sectors appeared immediately on the disk and a careless program lost its head part, hid in the dense shadow of the Command.Com monolith and didn’t give tongue anymore.
The figures in the sky twinkled and stopped at 5 p.m. Programs revived greatly. An excited whisper was heard everywhere: “The interruption has come! The interruption has come!” Everyone without exception was glancing at the command processor’s enormous bulk of glass and concrete. K-817 became interested in it – it was his first time in this version of DOS.
“Perhaps, I’d write memoirs about it,” he thought, examining the stooping backs of work utilities. “My opening of MS-DOS 6.2. Or closing!”
The virus laughed grimly, but fell silent, seeing that a police scan-detector, swinging his truncheon and flashing with his badge, was going towards him.
“Hey, buddy,” the blunt end of the steel truncheon touched the resident’s chest. “I haven’t seen you here before. Let’s see your AUTOEXEC.BAT id.”
“Right away, sir!” replied K-817 humbly, taking out an atomizer and leveling the bell at the policeman. “I’m just a harmless resident virus.”
In the eyes of a computer memory order’s zealous votary there flashed a patriotic light, but immediately died out under the all-penetrating flow of the living ectoplasmic zeroes. This weapon had been recently developed in a super secret lab, and the chiefs charged the first spare resident with its tests. The one happened to be K-817, though he himself preferred to use his dear old diskcrasher, that was lighter and almost imperceptible. But the orders were not to be discussed, and the resident had to use this very thing.
The virus looked at his gun. Success of his mission would be a success of this model. “Perhaps, they would give my name to this model”, he thought not without pride. “The “K-817” saves the life of K-817. One fiftieth fraction of a second later, and the policeman would have torn me to pieces.”
The Virus shivered at this thought, hid the atomizer under his coat and looked around. None paid any attention to this grim result of the absurd incident – everyone was busy contemplating the command processor. It was giving out orders. Transfer, ports’ opening/closing, change state and other work ware commands were scurrying on the black glass.
Busy programs dispersed and went to their working places, and the free ones crowded and began discussing the usual injustice of COMMAND.COM.
In that crowd the experienced eye of the resident virus quickly spotted the mighty chest of Commander Norton, all covered with orders and medals of unknown origin.
“Mister Norton! Mister Norton!” virus began to force his way through a thick layer of unemployed programs, swinging a sheet of paper over his head. “A discharge-ticket for you!”
“A discharge-ticket is a good thing!” spoke Commander Norton happily in a deep voice. “It’s high time to visit an inn. You’ll be the third”.
With that he fished fat Lexicon out of the crowd.
“But, I’m…” he began to plead.
“Move on,” muttered Norton kindly, heavily pushing Lexicon towards a tempting sign of the “At the end of memory” bar. The resident screwed up his eyes, examined the fat man from top to toe and quickly followed them.
With a mighty kick Norton threw the door open and yelled at the top of his voice:
“Aha! Didn’t expect, did ya?”
“He must have got a discharge-ticket again”, whispered a disk doctor to his neighbor – but he didn’t give a damn, he had got tight to the uppermost registers and was now laying face downward in a plate of fresh cluster salad.
“Barman! Beer for my friends!” Commander was still shouting. “Or, by the name of my father, I’ll destroy this hole!”
“Easy, Commander,” K-817 pushed him a chair and sat down himself. “Stop that noise, everything’s OK!”
“How’s OK?” Norton’s voice became sad. “How’s OK, if they could fire me soon.”
“Why so?” the resident inquired, unnoticingly mixing soporific into his partners’ mugs.
“You don’t know anything. Elections are at hand – comrade WINDOWS pretends to a major. And he and his people don’t favor me greatly.”
“And I should stay at the hospital to be able to work for him,” said Lexicon.
“Well, guys! You’ve got serious problems,” the virus sympathized with them, looking into the eyes of his new friends, who were getting drunk before his eyes. He didn’t tell them, that they would not see the change of government…
to be continued...