The Warehouse

by Rob Hart

  It only ever stayed green for a couple of seconds, and every second it did felt like an achievement. Like she’d done something good. It was that flash of color, yellow to green, yellow the color of weakness, green the color of power. Money, nature, life. That color in this context was both completely worthless and all she wanted. The running made the time move, which made lunch come up quick. When it did she found herself, mercifully, near a break room, where she ducked inside and got some water and pulled the protein bar from her back pocket, then sat at a free table.

  As she chewed on the bar—PowerBuff salted caramel, her favorite, which a bodega on the promenade stocked—her watch buzzed.

  We are currently facing a period of increased demand. Would you be interested in volunteering to extend your shift?

  She looked at the message. Thought about it. Then held up her wrist and pressed the crown.

  “Miguel Velandres.”

  The watch carried her back onto the warehouse floor. Ten minutes later she caught sight of Miguel, holding a package of pens. She jogged to catch up and fell in step alongside him.

  “Hey,” she said.

  He turned, lingering for a second, trying to remember her name. Then his eyes lit up. “Zinnia. Everything okay?”

  “Yeah. Just a quick follow-up.”

  “Sure.”

  “The watch asked me to work overtime.”

  “Oh, yeah. Definitely do that.”

  “Do they pay us extra?”

  Miguel laughed, placed the pens in a bin on a conveyor belt, gave them a nudge to send them away. “It’s strictly volunteer. But it keeps you in good standing. Counts toward your employee rating.”

  “I thought it was an option.”

  “It is an option,” he said, giving a brief glance at his CloudBand and setting off, on the hunt for his next item. “It’s an option you want to take.” He looked around, made sure there was no one close by, and waved at her, as if he wanted her to lean in. “Builds you a buffer on your rating. The more you refuse, it goes the other way.”

  Zinnia’s watch buzzed again.

  We are currently facing a period of increased demand. Would you be interested in volunteering to extend your shift?

  She paused, but Miguel kept going.

  “Don’t rock the boat, mi amiga,” he said.

  He turned a corner and disappeared. Zinnia raised the watch to her lips. Wanted to say, Fuck off, I’m tired. Instead she said, “Sure.” The watch showed an exaggerated smiley face.

  Her lunch break over, she was back on shift, and she lost herself in a whirlwind of books and health care products and pet food and batteries, less interested in the green-bar game, and more interested in getting the hell out of there for the day.

  At the end of her extra shift, which only lasted an additional half hour, and then the forty minutes it took to get through the pat-down, she found herself utterly spent, but as if she’d just completed a good workout. She concentrated on that feeling.

  Calories burned and muscles worked, rather than dignity surrendered.

  As she passed through the promenade, just before she entered the archway that opened onto the lobby of her dorm, she threw a glance through the glass doors that led to a concrete hallway and a series of public bathrooms at the end.

  Halfway down, fifty feet or so, dug into the wall, was a CloudPoint.

  She’d walked through to wash her hands on the way to her shift. It wasn’t a high-traffic bathroom since it was close to the elevators. It seemed people used their floor bathrooms before leaving for work, or preferred the refuge of the same on the way home. Walking past it now, the hallway was empty.

  She reached the elevator, swiped her way in. Another woman got on. Young, boxy, in a wheelchair, hair cut in a brown bob. Yellow polo. The strap of her CloudBand featured a repeating series of cartoon cats. She had a pile of boxes on her lap. She smiled at Zinnia and gave a polite “Hello,” then looked at the lit-up number on the panel and didn’t bother to swipe her own watch—she was going to the same floor.

  Zinnia’s social-engineering theory was holding up. Which was why the CloudPoint in the hallway was a solid option. She would have preferred to use one farther away from her apartment, even in another building if she could manage it, but it had to be close. Only way she’d get there and back without the CloudBand. The longer she was out of her room without it, the greater her exposure.

  The doors opened and Zinnia shot her hand out to hold them open, let the woman slide her wheelchair out. The woman said, “Thanks,” and rolled down the hallway. Zinnia followed. She stopped at her door and heard the light thump of boxes falling. To her left, the woman in the wheelchair had dropped what she was carrying in the course of opening her own door. Zinnia let the door close and walked down the hallway. “Need help?”

  The woman glanced up. “That’d be great, thank you.”

  Zinnia picked up the boxes and held them while the woman swiped into the apartment and pulled open the door. She expected to see a living space that was more handicapped accessible, but it was the same as her own. Same narrow pathway, and as the woman rolled her wheelchair in, it barely fit. Zinnia followed behind and put the boxes on the counter, next to the cook plate.

  The woman rolled toward the futon, where she had enough room to spin the wheelchair around. She moved quickly, with grace. She was used to it. “I really appreciate it.”

  “No problem, just…” Zinnia looked around. The apartment was small enough for her to manage so it didn’t really bother her, but looking at it now, it felt suffocating. “I hope it’s not uncouth to bring this up, but they can’t offer you something a little more…appropriate?”

  The woman shrugged. “I don’t need a lot of space. I could get a bigger apartment but I’d rather save the money. I’m Cynthia, by the way….”

  She stuck out her hand. Zinnia shook it. It was strong, her palms thick and callused.

  “New to the floor?” she asked. “I haven’t seen you before.”

  “First week.”

  “Well,” she said, huffing and giving a conspiratorial smile. “Welcome to the neighborhood.”

  “Thanks,” Zinnia said. “Anything else I can give you a hand with?”

  Cynthia smiled again. A painful little smile. It took Zinnia a second to figure out what it meant. It was a Don’t pity me smile, and Zinnia wanted to apologize for it but realized that would just make it worse, so she let the silence linger until the woman said, “No thanks, I’m good.”

  “Right then. Well, have a nice night.”

  Zinnia reached the door and the woman said, “Wait.”

  She turned.

  “This place can be a lot, especially when you’re new. If you need anything, feel free to knock on my door.”

  “Thank you,” Zinnia said.

  She left, returned to her apartment. Stepped inside and marveled at what that poor woman was dealing with. Then realized what an asshole she was for thinking of that woman as poor.

  She had some time to kill before drinks with Paxton so she picked up the multi-tool and climbed on the bed, pulled out some of the pushpins holding the tapestries across the ceiling. The corner dropped down, revealing a six-inch-long line she’d been gouging out. She didn’t like working in long bursts—it made the room too dusty and she was worried about the noise. At least it was easy. The ceiling was cheap, thin drywall and it cut like a steak. She pushed the knife in and out, gritting her teeth and bunching her shoulders at the sound. White dust rained on the bedspread.

  Another day or two and she’d be through. Hopefully there’d be enough room for her to move around up there. Hopefully she wouldn’t trip some kind of alarm. Hopefully she wouldn’t get stuck.

  After she knocked out a few more inches, she folded up the knife, replaced the tapestry, and bu
nched up the bedspread. She dumped the accumulated dust in the sink and ran the faucet, then went into her bag for the electric trimmer. Opened the battery compartment, slid out the battery, and pulled out her tweezers. Reached in and rooted around, breaking the light glue she had used to fasten the gopher, a USB nub the size of her fingernail.

  The most dangerous part of hacking anything was the amount of time you had to sit there doing the work. A big lift job like this could take hours, maybe even days. But a second was enough to get caught.

  That was where the gopher came in—a handy, ruinously expensive little device that would sample an organization’s internal computer code, but do all the heavy lifting of decrypting and processing later, without being connected to the system.

  She could plug it into a terminal—any terminal connected to a company’s intranet—and within a few seconds it would carve off a sample of internal code. Then she would place the gopher in her laptop, where it could quietly brute-force its way through as many CPU cycles as it needed, doing all the heavy work from the bottom of a drawer.

  It would take some time, and require a little help here and there, but once it was done, it would create a wicked piece of malware she could plug back into the system. It would waltz right in and find what she needed in a matter of moments.

  Maps, schematics, energy data, security reports.

  The process wasn’t fast. She’d used it a few times and it often took weeks to process. Given the density of Cloud’s security she wouldn’t be surprised if it took a month or more.

  But again: the long way around tended to be safer.

  The biggest obstacle, really, was a hardware issue. The blue-and-white cloud logo on the top of the CloudPoint, at eye level, was just vaguely translucent. She was sure there was a camera behind it. Even with Cloud’s lax stance on cameras, they wouldn’t not have cameras in the ATMs.

  But she had a plan.

  As she approached, she would duck down to tie her shoe, or maybe have a bag full of groceries and drop them. It would be an awkward movement—she’d have to get low well before she got in range of the camera, because it was probably a fish-eye lens. Then, boom, into the access panel, gopher in, gopher out, close the panel, up and away.

  She pulled a plastic pen from her toiletry kit, yanked the point of the pen and the ink reservoir out with her teeth. Then she took a penknife from her bag and got to carving a swoop in the plastic that would catch the lock and make it a simple matter of jamming it in and turning it hard.

  Her favorite part of being a corporate spy was the complete lack of investment by the world at large in new lock technology.

  With that done, she took the transmitter and pen and laid them on the counter next to each other. Took out a small glasses case and placed them inside. She’d carry them with her, just in case she stumbled across an opportunity better than the current plan.

  She checked her watch, found it was almost time to meet Paxton. They’d agreed on a bar in Live-Play. The place that looked like a British-style pub, which he seemed excited about. She was a vodka girl, and therefore less picky about location. Vodka being the most efficient delivery system of alcohol.

  She stripped down. Realized she was covered in funk from work. Dried sweat and pity. She considered taking a brief shower, or even pulling on a clean pair of underwear, but she wasn’t planning on fucking him tonight, and even if it ended up that way, she doubted he would protest. Most men were more concerned with the state of play than with the condition of the field. As she pulled on a clean shirt her watch buzzed.

  Just a reminder, you still need to review your pension paperwork!

  Damn it. She had meant to do this already. Signing up for the pension was part of the plan. Not a hugely important part, but she figured it would make her less of a sore thumb, if she was making moves like she planned to be around for the long haul.

  Then:

  You can do this from any CloudPoint, or from the television in your room.

  She picked up the remote control. Turned on the television, which immediately began blaring a commercial for PowerBuff bars, in which a skinny guy ate one and swelled up to comic-book-muscle proportions.

  PowerBuff bars. Get buff!

  “Well,” she said to the empty room. “That’s vaguely unsettling.”

  She picked up the remote, flipped it up so it turned into a keyboard, hit a button that said Browser, and the television launched into the CloudPoint landing page.

  At the top it said: Welcome, Zinnia!

  “Fuck you,” Zinnia replied.

  PAXTON

  Paxton arched his shoulders and the stool wobbled. It wasn’t a normal wobble. More like an ass-over-elbow wobble. He hopped off and exchanged it for the stool next to him. Same black-leather-cushioned top and rough-hewn wood legs. He rocked it back and forth and it didn’t budge. He climbed on top and took another sip of his beer. Three-quarters done now.

  The bartender wandered over. Green shirt, hair slicked back, a nose that’d been broken a few times. His CloudBand strap was thick and leather, wider than the face of the watch. “You want another?” he asked.

  No sense in getting drunk before she even showed. “Not yet. Waiting for someone.”

  The bartender gave a little smile. Paxton couldn’t tell if it was an Okay, sure or a Good for you smile. It was a smile. He glanced down at his black T-shirt and jeans. Felt good to be out of the blue. People didn’t look at him with eyes full of caution. He was just another guy.

  “Sorry.”

  Paxton turned, saw Zinnia hustling into the bar. Black sweater, purple leggings, hair bunched up and pulled into a bun at the top of her head. He nodded toward the wobbly seat.

  “Don’t take that one,” he said. “Broken.”

  Zinnia climbed onto the stool on the other side of him. As she settled, he moved his stool a few inches away from her, not wanting to make her feel crowded.

  She looked around. “This is pretty nice.”

  Paxton thought so, too. Shiny gold pint spouts, lacquered wood. Definitely not built by someone who had ever been in a proper British pub—Paxton had spent some time in the UK on business—but the person who put this place together had at least had the concept explained to them.

  The bartender came over, wiping down a pint glass, and nodded toward Zinnia.

  “Vodka, ice,” she said. “Well is fine.”

  The bartender nodded, assembled the drink.

  “You don’t mess around,” Paxton said.

  “No I do not,” she said, accepting the glass, not looking at him. She sounded exhausted. Which made sense, being a red, running around all day. Zinnia leaned forward to swipe her CloudBand against the payment disc set into the bar, which was more in front of Paxton than it was in front of her.

  “Let me add you to my tab,” he said, throwing his arm forward, his hand brushing against hers in the process.

  “You don’t have to…”

  “I want to,” he said, tapping his CloudBand against the circle, the light turning green. She smiled, hoisted her glass. He picked up his, clinked it.

  “Cheers,” she said.

  “Cheers.”

  She took a healthy sip while he drained his beer, put the pint on the edge of the bar so the bartender could see and bring him another. Silence hung in the air a second too long, and then it grew bigger, sucking in the gravity of the room, and Paxton gave up on trying to say something clever and asked, “How are you adjusting?”

  Zinnia threw up a little eyebrow. Like, That the best you got? “So far so good. It’s harder than I thought it would be. They really run you into the ground.”

  Paxton accepted a fresh beer, took a sip. “How does it work, exactly?”

  Zinnia ran through a clipped explanation: the watch, how it moved them around, bringing items to bins. The
whole process like a dance. Paxton pictured Zinnia as a cog in a giant machine, spinning around, a small part keeping the whole thing going.

  “Were you hoping for red?” he asked.

  “Hell no,” Zinnia said, taking another sip of the vodka. “I wanted to be on tech. That’s my background.”

  “Thought you said you were a teacher.”

  That eyebrow again. The kind of eyebrow that could draw blood. “I did. But I put myself through college doing electronics repair. My housing alone was covered fixing cracked screens. Kids getting drunk and smashing their phones.”

  Paxton laughed. “Well, I’d trade you if I could.”

  “Really?” she asked. “You don’t like being a rent-a-cop?”

  Paxton felt the booze soaking into his synapses, neurons unfurling. It felt good to be drinking and talking, because it’d been a while since he’d done either.

  “It was never a good fit for me,” he said. “I’m not an authoritative kind of person.”

  “Well, hey, there are worse things….”

  She seemed to be drifting. He didn’t want to lose her so soon. “So, tell me about yourself. I know you’re a teacher. I know you can fix a broken phone. Where are you from?”

  “Here, there,” she said, staring off at the back of the bar. At herself in the mirror, reflected through a rainbow of glittering liquor bottles. “I moved around a lot as a kid. I don’t really feel like I’m from anywhere.”

  She took a small pull of vodka. Paxton’s shoulders sagged. As far as first dates went this was turning into a bit of a bomb. But then she smiled. “I’m sorry, that’s a little dreary, isn’t it?”

  “No, not at all,” Paxton said, then he laughed. “Well, I mean, yeah, it is.”

  She laughed in return, smacked him on the arm. It was light, with the back of her hand, and it only seemed to happen because her hand was already up, on the way to grabbing the glass of vodka, but still, he took it as a good sign.