by D. B. Goodin
“I will drop it by the house,” Dane said.
“Are you sure? I can probably take it with my all-wheel drive vehicle in the morning.”
“That’s cool, Dad. I was planning on seeing Jenn, anyway. The Watson house is on the way.”
“Are you sure you want to drive to Haven in this weather?”
“I’m good. I want to make sure that Nigel gets this. He’s a good person and has suffered a lot.”
Mr. Henry put a hand on his son’s shoulder. “You’re a good kid.”
Nigel checked his news feed which read.
December 27
MORP Vulnerability Discovered.
The MORP Foundation has released a critical vulnerability patch. If not applied, it would allow an attacker to take over a MORP relay. The vulnerability patch modifies the safe software patch list. The previous list could allow MORP relay agents to potentially download malicious patches. Unpatched MORP relay agents are susceptible to backdoor and bot attacks. The MORP Foundation urges all relay operators to verify that the following hash value of 9b368c557cd982ef4cc32dca0808521d for the morp.bin file structure.
Ellen turned on the radio on the car ride from Better Buy Computers. She needed to get her mind off recent events. As if what happened to Nigel wasn’t traumatic enough, members of a large corporation were at her doorstep asking Nigel for help. It was all too much—like something out of a movie. She let the classical music from her favorite AM radio station calm her. About halfway home, her feeling of calm evaporated.
“Hello, this is a special alert. Eastward International Airport has suffered a catastrophic systems failure. Power has been intermittent, and backup generators have failed. Planes are being diverted to nearby airports. We will keep you apprised of any updates, but stay tuned for more information. This is Monte Phillips reporting for WKBN AM Radio.”
Apparently, the storm had arrived, and it was fierce. Driving conditions were bound to worsen.
The classical music resumed playing.
Is that Chopin?
Ellen remained in deep thought as fresh snow started falling.
A loud clacking noise sounded from her phone, which was sitting on the passenger’s side seat, and Ellen’s car started to slide as she jumped. Her instincts took over: she turned into the slide and regained control of the vehicle. Better be careful, she told herself. As she looked over at her phone’s lock screen, an emergency message appeared that read: Side roads impassable, use the interstate whenever possible.
Ellen pulled onto the interstate. Seconds later, her cell phone rang. It was John Appleton, but she picked up anyway.
“Hello, John. I’m almost home.”
“You need to get here as soon as you can.”
“I’m about ten minutes out.”
“It’s bad. You need to avoid the interstate.”
“Too late for that, John. I’m two exits from home. Plus, I just got an alert to avoid the side roads. What’s so important?”
The snow was getting heavier.
“You got wha—?”
Ellen looked up and instinctively slammed her brakes to avoid the sudden wall of cars that seemed to have stopped at once. She lost control of the car, and, still going at least twenty miles per hour, slid into the back of another car. She was thrown toward the steering wheel, the collision having caused the airbag to deploy. Her head felt like a punching bag as it bounced between the airbag and the back of her seat. Is the roof leaking? she thought deliriously. She touched the top of her head, and then looked at her hand. Is that blood? Then she passed out.
Chapter 3
Gregor had made himself at home at Jeremiah’s compound. It was big enough to fit several large screens. He could see them all from his position in the center of the room.
“The code is implanted and ready for the next phase,” Gregor said.
“I’m impressed that you could deploy thirty thousand bots in less than a day.”
“What can I say? People like those little elves dancing on the screen. Little do they know they are installing my own version of Santa’s helpers.”
Jeremiah smiled and raised a glass.
“Here’s to phase one. May it distract the little people long enough to allow us to complete our great work.”
Gregor raised his glass in return with one hand and unceremoniously pressed the enter key with the other.
“They’re unleashed,” Gregor announced.
Jeremiah turned to his wall of monitors. In addition to the many security dashboards, metrics, and alerts, several television broadcasts were playing.
Gregor brought up a dashboard containing a world map. “The bullseyes represent our bot hubs. All the little points in-between are exploited user endpoints. Let us drink, be merry, and watch in real time. Hic—” Gregor said as he got up, then he stumbled for a moment and fell back into the chair.
“How many of those have you consumed?” Jeremiah said, pointing to his vodka and tonic.
“This?” Gregor pointed to his drink. “One . . . dva . . . maybe tri,” Gregor slurred.
“English, please.”
“Normally, that is extra . . . but for you, comrade, I will make an excep—”
Gregor slid out of his chair and fell on his ass.
Jeremiah laughed.
“What’s so funny?” a woman’s voice asked.
“Ahh, I didn’t hear you come in, my dear,” Jeremiah replied.
Gregor perked up at the sound of the woman’s voice. “Well, who are you?” Gregor asked as he tried getting up. He saw an attractive woman, with long black hair in her late twenties.
“I’m Melissa. I’m . . . home for winter break.”
“Daughter?” Gregor asked Jeremiah.
“Let me properly introduce my beautiful little girl. This is Melissa, who is . . . studying abroad,” Jeremiah said.
Jeremiah moved his head toward the door. Melissa caught the cue and started moving to the exit.
“Gregor, if you will excuse us, I would like to catch up with my daughter.”
“Sure thing, boss.”
Gregor was attempting to pour himself another glass of something golden but only managed to fill a third of the glass before spilling the rest on the table.
Melissa followed her father down the hall that eventually branched off to his office. He brought up surveillance footage of the operations center that Gregor was manning, as well as several other feeds.
“What news, dear?”
“The hook is baited. Neither the Collective nor Black Iris will know what hit them.”
Jeremiah smiled.
“That’s my girl!”
“It’s good to be home. That island was starting to get on my nerves.”
“Our work is just beginning.”
“What will you do with him? Is he in your employ now?”
Melissa pointed at the screen, at a drunken Gregor.
“He will suffer the same fate as the Collective and Black Iris. The world doesn’t need any more criminals.”
“I hate parties,” Melissa said, shuttering from a bad memory.
“I know you do, but without the party you attended almost eight years ago, you wouldn’t have your daughter, April.”
“I’m not so sure that would be such a bad thing,” Melissa said.
Jeremiah gave a cold stare. “You can’t be serious.”
Jeremiah hugged Melissa and gave her a light kiss on the forehead.
“Don’t worry, dear. We will get the man who hurt you,” Jeremiah said.
Jeremiah looked at his daughter. She was silent and appeared to be deep in thought.
Elmer Stephens is a freelance photographer who enjoys taking photos around his neighborhood, especially of subjects he had no business photographing. I like the park. Plenty of subjects to capture with my lens, Elmer thought.
“What are you doing?” a woman nearby asked. “You may not take pictures of the children.”
“I’m in a public place and can take photos of
whomever I please,” Elmer said.
Elmer resumed his photo-taking. He aimed his camera at two kids interacting innocently with each other. Perfect for my client! He was about to take the shot when the view through his lens blanked out.
“Hey, what the hell,” he yelled as the woman grabbed his camera. “Get your hands off my personal property at once!”
Something about the expression in Elmer’s eye seemed to spook her. She surrendered the camera. Elmer inspected the camera for damage.
The bitch smudged the lens.
“Why are you taking pictures, anyway?” the woman asked.
“Well . . . I’m a photographer who makes his living by taking stock photos. Many businesses pay handsomely for photos of kids, adults, and animals depicted in a variety of settings. I take photos here because it saves me the cost of hiring models.”
“Well, it’s just creepy. I don’t think the parents of these kids would appreciate what you’re doing.”
A large, burly guard interrupted the exchange between Elmer and the woman.
“Is there a problem over here?” the guard said.
Elmer stole a glance at the guard’s badge. From his physical appearance, he appeared to be apprehending more donuts than bad guys. Elmer noticed some grime on the guard’s badge—Probably from a donut, Elmer thought—but he could still make out his name.
“No, Officer Johnson,” Elmer said.
“Yes, there is a problem,” the woman said. “This man is taking pictures of the children.”
“As I told the lady, I work as a freelance photographer and take pictures of people for my livelihood. You ever hear of stock photos? She doesn’t have any right to stop me or touch my equipment,” Elmer demanded.
Officer Johnson considered this predicament for a long moment.
“He’s right, ma’am,” he finally replied. “He has the legal right to take pictures of anyone in public.”
“Thanks for protecting my constitutional rights, officer,” Elmer said.
Elmer gave the woman a contentious smile and winked. The woman withdrew from the area, saying something unintelligible as she left.
Following the altercation, Elmer thought it would be wise to move to another area—perhaps the wharf. Lots of pretties there, for sure, Elmer thought.
Seymour Willis sat at his computer in the kitchen of his studio apartment. He poured himself a fresh cup of coffee while he reviewed the forum for fresh talent for his most important client. “I need to find someone for the Sultan, soon. His boat leaves the mainland in a week,” Seymour said to the cat that walked across his desk. These late nights exhausted Seymour, but he had orders to fill. One of his appreciative clients had introduced him to the Sultan, who had specific requirements for another addition to his harem. He had requested a young Caucasian girl, no older than eighteen, intelligent, and feisty. I don’t know why he is so specific. Hopefully the Photoist will come through for me, Seymour thought.
“Come to daddy, Rudolph.” His cat jumped into his lap at the sound of his master’s voice. Seymour opened his private messages folder on the private forum. “Ahh, a message from the Photoist,” Seymour said. Rudolph purred in his lap. The message read:
Taker,
I have another batch of pretties for your consideration.
Just enjoy!
—The Photoist
Attached to the message were six compressed files with .zip extensions. Seymour saved each one to its own special folder under the Taker’s top-level directory structure. He opened the first archive. There were several files in the folder. He opened the picture, which featured a girl in her late-teens. She had black hair, black lipstick, black fingernails, and several tattoos, including a large one of a serpent on her neck. He opened the accompanying audio file. Her voice sounded shrill and too young to match the picture. Seymour closed all the files and placed them into his reject folder. He didn’t erase any of the content he received from the Photoist; he saved them all to serve as alternates. He opened four additional profiles before taking a small break. He needed more coffee on this chilly winter’s day.
About an hour later, he opened the remaining folder. His breath caught in his throat when he saw the picture. It was a girl who appeared to be sixteen or seventeen. She had blond hair with pink streaks and a small ring piercing in her left nostril. Perfect! Seymour opened the recording. She sounded confident, sassy, and smart. Since the girl met most of his requirements, Seymour opened the final file in the folder: a text document with vital information. The Photoist had been very thorough. Seymour smiled; this was the best news he’d received all month.
“Time to make all the arrangements,” Seymour said as he cackled.
Rudolph hissed and ran away from Seymour.
Somewhere across the Black Sea
Pilot Gerald Scott flew the helicopter into an endless void of black clouds, rain, snow, and lightning. Winter currently had a firm grasp on this section of the Black Sea. Just think of all the exotic drinks you will be able to buy your pals at the End of Seas Tavern, Gerald reminded himself.
He had a hard time keeping the helicopter steady in the air as strong gusts of wind added to the already challenging weather. According to his on board radar, the facility was close. The flight stick started shaking uncontrollably, so he grabbed onto it with both hands. This will be a rough landing.
“There it is. Hang on, sir,” Gerald said to his passenger.
During the descent, the helipad was barely visible, but Gerald was able to land the helicopter with only minimal damage; part of the landing gear was bent, but his skill allowed him to land the craft without killing anyone.
I’ve landed in worse situations. At least bullets aren’t being fired . . . yet!
“We’ve arrived,” Gerald said, his voice shaky now.
“I appreciate making it to my destination alive. You have truly lived up to your reputation,” the man said. Gerald briefly looked over at his passenger: a tall, Middle Eastern–looking man with a neatly trimmed beard. He handed Gerald a large and heavy rectangular bundle.
“Payment for your services.”
“Thank you, sir.”
“You need not call me sir.”
“What should I call you, then?”
“The Sultan.”
Gerald nodded. The Sultan put on an overcoat, and then stepped outside the helicopter and into the storm.
Byron Kowalski was told to await a very special customer. He hated working here, but due to transgressions in a previous life, he was sent here to repay a debt. Byron thought of the woman who stole his heart, he longed to be with her again. Someday, my love.
He looked out the office window at the onslaught of the storm—one of several that had been pelting the region with rain, hail, and snow. His boss, Devin, put special protocols in place when important visitors visited the helicopter platform; unfortunately for Byron, however, Devin was visiting Istanbul.
The door to the main office opened, and a tall bearded man stepped inside. As the man hung his overcoat on a nearby rack, Byron thought he looked like a Wall Street banker: very much out of place on this rig. Better not screw this up. It’s the Sultan, he thought.
“Greetings, sir,” Byron said.
Byron didn’t know how to react with such important clients, so he stood up and straightened himself.
“At ease,” the Sultan said.
The Sultan produced a large metal flash drive with a keypad. He stood there for a long moment. After several seconds, Byron remembered the authentication procedure required when logging any data to the deep storage archive. After rummaging in the desk, he found what he was looking for: a large metal box with several connectors.
The Sultan handed the device to Byron.
“Just a moment, sir. The authentication process may take a minute,” Byron said.
“Take your time,” the Sultan replied.
Byron nodded.
The Sultan was only a few years older than Byron, but he looked and acted much o
lder.
Byron turned on the device, and several LED lights illuminated. There weren’t screens of any kind—just a series of numbers and LEDs.
“Code?” Byron asked.
“Five-three-eight-five-zero-eight,” the Sultan said.
“Thumb prints? It’s part of the biometric process,” Byron said.
Byron wiped a scanning area beside the keypad.
“Of course.” The Sultan placed his right thumb on the scanning area.
Byron entered the code on the pad, and then inserted the USB device into the open slot on the box. The LED lights on the device illuminated red. He tapped in a series of numbers on the device. After a few minutes, all the LED lights turned green.
“I have made your deposit,” Byron said.
“This data needs to enter deep storage immediately,” the Sultan said.
“Confirmed. Data entered the secure storage archive. No online access is available.”
The Sultan nodded and turned to leave—but the exit was blocked by a tall, well-dressed, middle-aged man.
“Excuse me, sir,” the Sultan said.
“My apologies. I didn’t want to interrupt your exchange, so I stayed back to maintain your privacy,” the man said as he stepped aside.
The Sultan nodded as he grabbed his coat and took his leave.
“How can I help you, sir?” Byron said to the newcomer.
The tall man paused, and then gave Byron a long, appraising look. He hung his coat and stepped up to the counter to meet Byron.
“You can help the same way you always have, Byron. I need information.”
Byron stuttered as he spoke. “What . . . information?” Byron said as he looked around the room.
“You can start by telling me who that was.”
“I’m not allowed to discuss other clients—”
“Stop. You would do well to remember who you are really reporting to,” the man said.
Byron didn’t look at the man.