Tim scrolled through the company’s backups, and said a silent “thank you” to the fellow IT tech who’d set up every user’s data to back up every night. He ranked each user by the amount of gigs they’d stored, then hacked his way into the backed up folders of the users who generated the most info. Sales. Marketing. Financials. He wasn’t sure what else would be useful, so he began downloading all the personal stuff. It would take a while, but it’d be better to sort through it once he was no longer connected. And then he dug a bit deeper.
Email—jackpot. Not just the email of a single user. The entire company’s email. It lived on their server, all of it, every message that hadn’t been erased—and even those might be resurrected from prior backups. Tim combed through folders until he found the email directory, which was protected by another layer of security beyond what “Joe” could access. (Finally. Tim was starting to wonder if he’d managed to put “Joe” in charge of the whole damn company.) He set a script to cracking the email directory passwords. There wasn’t much more the netbook could handle, but still, it seemed like he was wasting precious time if he just sat there and watched his macro try out passwords while the other information continued to download.
The script that was digging for locked files pulled up its report. Tim paused the email download and started grabbing the sensitive stuff, setting its landing folder to begin hacking into any locked files.
Maybe whatever it was they were looking for wasn’t on Canaan Products’ mainframe at all. Maybe corporate had nothing to do with it. Maybe it lived on the personal phones and PDAs of whoever was involved. Tim just wouldn’t know until he rolled up his sleeves and started digging. And the waiting—for the downloads to finish, for the macros to do their work—was making him crazy.
He supposed that running the text editor wouldn’t be too taxing on the netbook. It shouldn’t slow anything down. It was about as simple as a program could get.
He pulled down his last Voice of Reason update—dismissed the warning that told him he was downloading something from a new cloud, because yes, he knew—and re-read the last thing he’d written.
Bowery riot makes Broadway impassable from Bleecker to 4th. Phone lines down. Canaan Products recruitment fair in the Pamoda Building—coincidence?
Whatever was going on, it was no longer confined to the lower east side. Congestion and chaos had spread through uptown. Maybe farther, for all Tim knew. And then there was the traffic control that bordered on Marshall Law—what was that all about? He couldn’t post that. Too accusatory. But he could type:
Still no phone service? For shame, New York. Maybe the repair crews could get through if you cleared out the sawhorses and rolled up the spike strips.
Assuming there IS anything wrong with the phone lines.
Tim didn’t usually resort to using such a catty tone—but the sight of New York’s Finest showing civilians the business end of their batons had left an indelible stain on his brain. Too bad he didn’t have a photo of what he’d seen. A picture really was worth a thousand words, even in the age of Photoshop. Maybe Javier would be willing to be in charge of photos, at least while Tim was driving.
The thought of being in the trenches with Javier—shoulder to shoulder—distracted Tim momentarily from the scrolling macros working on the password hack. Now that he had a face to put with Javier’s name—heck, not only a face, but a body. And a kissing style. And the memory of him grabbing Nelson’s hair and forcing him to deep throat Tim’s cock. Now the thought of working with a partner (or two) seemed less like a pipe dream, and more like a real, actual possibility.
Not like Tim’s ex. He’d always said something about it being a “waste of time” if he ever found Tim working on the Voice of Reason. But his tone seemed edgy when he did—like the “waste of time” remark was just the story he was telling himself. Did he buy that story? Because even Tim, who was supposedly not particularly gifted at reading people, if Phil could be believed, suspected he was actually a little bit scared of the possible consequences of publishing the site.
Tim re-read his latest Voice of Reason entry and wondered if maybe he should make it read more neutral, but then he heard footsteps, and voices outside the trailer door—cigar time was over—and he hit upload.
The netbook screen went red, and a half dozen alert windows cascaded open.
In the adjacent office, an urgent electronic tone blared out like a bomb getting ready to detonate, just as the front door opened and Randy, Javier and Nelson filed into the trailer. Nelson and Randy looked toward the office. Javier, though, looked at Tim.
WARNING: YOU’VE GOT COMPANY
Tim swallowed, but his mouth had gone dry. He’d set that popup alarm with packet-sniffers on guard to make sure no one was monitoring the activity on his account. Shit. And here he was on a poorly-encrypted network, hacking into Canaan Products. And simultaneously updating Voice of Reason. Nothing like linking together every single subversive or illegal thing he was doing and serving it up to the FBI on a platter. Evidently the thrill of getting spectacularly laid had made his brain bypass the lobe where he kept his common sense—because, seriously, what the fuck had he been thinking?
Marianne emerged from the office and said, “Uh…Tim?”
Shut down. Shut down. Tim stabbed the netbook keys, and suddenly they were way too small, or his fingers were way too big, or…or….
His netbook started to bleat in time with the computer in the other room, both of them sirening like they were singing a duet.
“What happened?” Randy asked Marianne.
“I don’t know—I was just checking to see if the Voice of Reason had any news yet, and then….”
Javier was at Tim’s side, one arm around his waist. “Escape key?” he said quietly.
“No. Alt-F4.”
Javier calmly closed all the shrilling alerts, then stopped the file transfer. Tim felt as if he might pass out—until Javier ran his pinkie finger down the side of Tim’s hand, and Tim remembered how to breathe. “It’s fine,” Javier said. He shut down the netbook, unplugged it and tucked it under his arm. How anyone could possibly be that cool-headed, Tim had no idea.
“You were checking the Voice of Reason,” Nelson repeated thoughtfully.
“Nelson,” Javier said—not an order, not a blatant, direct order, anyway. But his tone said, leave it.
“Yeah,” Randy said, “she’s gonna marry that guy someday.”
“Voice of Reason,” Nelson repeated. He was looking at Tim—right at Tim. And grinning. “V-o-R,” he spelled.
Randy added, “If he ever moves out of his mommy’s basement.”
Marianne made an exasperated groan. “I think I messed up the computer.”
Nelson slipped around her and into the adjacent office so quickly, he practically broke into a run.
“How did he figure…?” Tim said.
“Never mind.” Javier went after Nelson. He moved quickly—much more quickly than Tim, who suddenly felt like he was all oversized feet and bafflement.
There were only five of them there inside that trailer, Randy and Marianne; Nelson, Javier and Tim. But getting through the door to the office to see what was going on suddenly felt as tricky as driving through the riot outside the job fair.
Nelson was wiggling the mouse by the time Tim squeezed past Randy. “The screen’s all locked down and everything’s beeping,” he said playfully. “How’d that happen? My desktop never does this.”
Javier reached around him and jabbed some keys, and the alarm stopped chirping, leaving the room suddenly quiet. Except for breathing—hard, panicked breathing—which, Tim suddenly realized, was his.
Nelson glanced up from the monitor and caught Tim’s eye, and smiled that cocky, flirtatious smile of his, and said, “Don’t worry, Tim-Man. No harm, no foul.”
What the hell was that supposed to mean?
***
Yanking someone’s chain was one thing—but poor Tim looked like he was just about ready to keel over. A
nd since Nelson did actually think Tim was a good guy (if slightly awkward), he decided to take pity on him. “C’mon, Marianne,” he said with a flourish of the first aid kit. “Time for another pedi.” He grabbed Randy on the way out of the office, and said, “Moral support.” Which would leave those two alone in the office to figure out what was going on with the website, Javier and Tim.
Or, should he say, Voice of Reason?
He wasn’t one hundred percent sure…but it only made sense. The piece of paper in his pocket—the one Javier had wanted to shred that featured a nice, juicy chat between “J” and “VoR,” the fact that they’d known each other only online before they’d met in person…and, of course, the way VoR was such a kinktastic bottom-boy in that chat, and Tim had shot like the Fourth of July when Nelson fingered him.
Probably best not to dwell on that. Marianne might get the idea Nelson had a bi-curious foot fetish if he popped a chubby while he was cleaning her up.
Even though he’d wrapped the wounds loosely before, the gauze was stuck to the abrasions with dried lymph. Nelson swabbed the stuck areas with antibiotic cream and let the lotion soften up the human glue before he peeled off the dressing, and even so, he could tell it hurt. “Have your parents heard anything more than we have?” he asked Marianne—both because he actually wondered, and because he was hoping to distract her from the blisters and abrasions.
“Some problem with a base station, according to the news.”
“Is that possible?” Randy asked. “I thought cell phones went through satellites.”
“Yeah, for the transmission,” Nelson said. “But they need the base stations to connect the signals to the frequencies.”
Marianne said, “And then they claimed the cellular service being down overloaded the land lines and caused the outages.”
“They claimed,” Randy repeated. “You sound exactly like the Voice of Reason.”
Not exactly. Nelson quelled a grin.
“You’re not really going to make me wear duct tape shoes,” Marianne said, “are you?”
“Not until we figure out where we’re going.”
Randy sat down hard on one of the sofas and said, “A day off and no way to enjoy it. I wish we had a TV.”
Marianne added wistfully, “Or at least a deck of cards.”
Luckily, when Bobby was a restless eight-year-old, the weather was too crappy to go outside, and the only employed person in the apartment brought home minimum wage, Nelson had devised at least twenty ways to keep the kid amused for hours with nothing but a pencil and a piece of paper. He raided the credenza and came up with half a ream of copy paper, some blank legal pads, and a handful of pens with the DLR Construction logo on the barrel. “Hangman,” he said. “Tick tack toe. Twenty questions. And if you get really desperate, then draw yourself that deck of cards.”
Marianne and Randy stared at their yellow legal pads for a moment, and eventually Marianne said, “I haven’t played hangman in years. I’m not even sure I remember how it goes.”
“Think of a word,” Randy said. He pulled a chair out from the conference table for her, and she sat down and began drawing blank lines on her legal pad. He sat beside her and said, “Right, now put the gallows here. I start guessing letters, and when I get one wrong, you draw the head….”
Head? Nelson quelled another grin. His jaw was still aching.
Chapter 20
“Check the computer,” Javier told Tim.
Tim sat down in front of the desktop, stared at it for a moment, then said, “It’s in Spanish. All the menus. Everything. I’ve never…uh…I took French in high school. Is there a preference I can change, or something?”
Javier stared at the office door as if he might see through it and out into the conference room—and there, analyze Marianne and see if she was acting suspicious. But no. If she were something other than a fellow Canaan Products hopeful, she possessed quite a bit of acting talent, enough to make it this far without any of them noticing that she was a company girl. She wouldn’t give herself away now by looking shifty-eyed and reading over their shoulders. She’d be acting…well, like a typical person. Opinionated without being too terribly radical. Helpful, and yet helpless. And, of course, very petite and innocuous-looking.
Javier pinched the bridge of his nose and wondered what it would be like to trust someone readily again, without stockpiling for a blackmail contingency. Had life ever been so simple? Maybe another life.
“Javier?”
“There is no magic button. If the menus are Spanish, it means the operating system is Spanish.”
“Oh. I should have known that,” Tim said. “It seems like a pretty basic—”
“Have you ever lived outside the United States?”
“N-no.”
“Well, then.” Javier leaned over Tim’s back and took the mouse from his unprotesting hand. “It’s not so different. The browser’s icon looks the same.” He opened the browser.
“Historia. Right. I guess I could’ve figured it out. I just didn’t expect….”
Javier hardly heard him. He was staring at the back of his neck, where his hair parted to reveal the paleness of his skin. It was so tempting to bury his face in Tim’s hair, to rake his teeth over that vulnerable spot. Surprisingly tempting, considering they’d gotten that initial awkwardness out of the way the night before, and the urges should have been slaked, at least for the moment. But, no. That would have been too easy.
“Oh,” Tim said. “All the page names are in English, too. This isn’t so bad. According to the history, she checked her email, did a search on ‘Manhattan Riot’ and ‘Canaan Products’…and then, ‘Canaan Products sucks donkey balls.’”
“And then she visited the Voice of Reason.”
“Yeah.”
Javier looked at the time listed for each item. It did seem innocent enough. “Could she have been doing anything other than checking to see if you’d updated?”
“Nothing, not from a browser. She would need to be playing in the command line.” He scrolled through the short history again. “I think it was just my own safeguards that set it off. That’s all.”
“Better safe than sorry,” Nelson said.
Nelson?
Tim’s head snapped up as if he’d been found guilty of something, but Javier just gave Nelson a cool stare. Nelson slouched in the doorframe with an ease born out of a lifetime of carefully affected nonchalance. He pried his shoulder away from the wall, closed the door behind him, and scuffed his way over to the desk. “So after last night’s big initiation, are you guys gonna let me into the inner circle, or what? ’Cos whatever cloak-and-dagger game you’re playing at, this whole Voice of Reason deal…I’m not gonna lie. I’ve got a total boner for it.”
Of course he did. Javier considered how best to buy them a bit of time, to give Tim some time to weigh the pros and cons of bringing another stranger into his confidence….
“Yeah,” Tim said defiantly. “It’s my site.”
Well. So much for verifying Nelson’s character references.
“I kinda figured,” Nelson said as he fit himself against Tim’s opposite shoulder—and no, the “boner” wasn’t literal, although knowing him, it wouldn’t take more than a wayward breeze to stir one up. “But what’s the point? You make money off it?”
Tim shook his head.
“You’re not taking any credit for it, either,” Nelson observed. “So it must be something else.” He reached around Tim, clasped his hand over Javier’s on the mouse, navigated to the Voice of Reason homepage, and read aloud, “Canaan Products recruitment fair in the Pamoda Building—coincidence? Pointing fingers at not only the region’s biggest manna producer, but the company with the most politicians in its pockets—someone might think you’re a Leftist.”
“I’m not a—”
“Leftists, however, are sloppy. They poison batches of manna. They chain themselves to semi-trucks and throw unprocessed alfalfa slime at senators. You? You publish your anonymous
website.” Nelson drew his finger up the back of Javier’s hand, and Javier’s arm broke out in gooseflesh. “You go through a lot of trouble to get your info from primary sources rather than regurgitating rumor and hearsay. And then, when all hell breaks loose, you show up with your truck and make sure your buddy on the inside doesn’t get trampled in a riot.”
“I…guess.”
With his hand still clasped atop Javier’s, Nelson pressed his mouth into the very spot on the back of Tim’s neck that Javier had been fantasizing about, and said right against his skin, “What do you get out of it, then? Not cash. Not fame. Not prestige.”
Tim’s voice sounded thick when he replied, “It’s the right thing to do.”
Nelson smiled into the back of Tim’s neck. “Someone might pay good money to make sure all that dirt you’re digging up stays buried.”
“It’s not about that. The point isn’t to keep things covered up. It’s to make sure people know—”
“I love how impractical you are. I’m the very same way.” Nelson turned his head so that his cheek was still nestled in Tim’s hair, and he caught Javier’s gaze, squeezed his hand and said, “What about you?”
“A paragon of impracticality.” Javier said it so dryly, it could have been taken for sarcasm. Best to keep Nelson guessing. Tim might hand his whole heart on a platter to someone he’d spent a single night with, but Javier knew better than to trust someone for sentimental reasons.
If Nelson sensed as much, he didn’t seem particularly concerned. He shifted and peered over Tim’s shoulder at the site. “So what now? Do you really think it wasn’t a coincidence that the rioting started at Canaan? ’Cos it seems a lot bigger than that now. And then there’s the cell service blackout.”
Tim looked to Javier, who was nowhere near as eager to share any more of his secrets than was absolutely necessary. “It started at Canaan,” Javier confirmed.
Nelson stroked his hand again, more suggestively now, teasing between his fingers, but Javier didn’t elaborate.
The Starving Years Page 17