Kill Switch

by William Hertling

  “Let me freshen up.”

  She used the head, washed her face, and tightened her ponytail to provide some discipline to her hair. She was out in ninety seconds. Old habits die hard. A sea shower would have only added a minute, but there was no point since she only had her sweaty running clothes to wear.

  Robin entered the apartment’s second bedroom and sat in front of a long desk. Gone were the days of banks of specialized communication gear. Now everything was handled by what appeared to be off-the-shelf computers: a few laptops and attached monitors. The zapper, a heavy steel box in the corner, could accept the laptops and everything else electronic, and crush and shock them into oblivion in under twenty seconds. The dull burgundy drapes spanning every wall and gathered into a bunch around the ceiling fixture gave the room an ominous hue. Whoever decided on burgundy for the Faraday curtains was an idiot.

  Cooper took a seat next to her in front of the webcam. “Ready?”

  She took another sip of water and nodded.

  He leaned forward and clicked to establish the connection, then left the room. Her case manager, though intimately familiar with her work, wasn’t cleared to know whom she was talking to. The webcam light turned on, but the screen stayed dark. On the far end, someone would be comparing visual identities against the video stream, ensuring she was the one they expected. For all she knew, they could be remotely scanning the entire room, building, or block.

  The dark screen transformed in a flash to a live feed of three separate offices.

  Enso, the ostensible head of the Bureau of Research and Intelligence, or BRI, appeared in the middle, flanked by the Deputy Director of the NSA and the Signals Intelligence Director. The latter, SigInt Director Feldson, was known as Griz to most of his peers.

  Robin took a slow breath. Rarely did anyone explicitly discuss BRI, but the three of them appearing onscreen was as close as it ever got to a tacit admission of BRI’s existence and placement within the greater intelligence community.

  “Robin, thank you for joining us. I hope you are well.” Enso, as ever, polite when it wasn’t necessary. He only did this with women who reported to him. With men, it was brisk, clinical detachment. “Your last report struck serious concerns here around Tapestry’s encryption plans, yet it was vague on specifics.”

  “I believe they are on a path toward end-to-end client-side encryption,” Robin said. “I haven’t seen a specific roadmap that shows this, but there’s been a push to move encryption into the clients and browsers.”

  “To skirt FISA compliance?” The deputy director looked toward the SIGINT director, who nodded.

  “Tapestry is composed of hundreds of service providers communicating over a common protocol,” SIGINT said. “Dozens of providers touch the data. We can hit everyone with a FISA court order.”

  Robin shook her head. “Griz, there’s a team working on client-side containers.” She hesitated, realizing she had no idea if he’d object to the use of his nickname. She’d never used it to his face before. But everyone at the far end of the teleconference waited for her to go on, with no sign of a faux pas.

  “Web services are commonly deployed using container technology,” Robin said. “Containers are lightweight virtual computers that mitigate the complexity of managing the server by isolating code, libraries, and configuration to the container, which can then be deployed to different hardware.”

  Her stint as an operations manager for Naval Network Warfare Command gave her a comfortable familiarity with technology. She sensed she was at the comprehension limit for these bureaucrats. She had to simplify the explanation.

  “Client-side containers are a way to run virtual computers within the user’s browser. Let’s say you want to buy a book. In the old days, you’d go to the bookstore. If we want to know what you bought, we’d watch you shop in person. These days, you order books online and download the book. When we want to know what you bought, we either monitor the data transmission or we order the retailer to provide us the details of the purchase. Follow me so far?”

  Nods.

  “A client-side container is like a bookstore truck that drives into your garage, filled with all the books you could want. When the garage door is closed the truck will open up. You go into the truck, which is inside your garage, and do your book shopping. At the end of your purchase, a record of a payment is transmitted, but from the outside, we have no way of knowing what you purchased. We can’t even order the bookstore to tell us, because they don’t know either. The software code that ensures the end-user paid for the book all runs within the truck, which is inside the garage. Nobody outside of the garage knows exactly what was purchased.”

  The men exchanged nervous glances.

  Griz shook his head. “The theory is known, of course, but we didn’t anticipate that anyone would operationalize it, certainly not this soon. How long until they deploy?”

  “The proof of concept is not finished, but development is on track. My estimate is anywhere from a few months to a year before it is ready for production.”

  The deputy director cleared his throat. “They’re doing this specifically to skirt FISA?”

  Robin shook her head. “They have perfectly valid and above board explanations to move logic to the client. It reduces server load, decreases latency, and increases fault tolerance. It avoids centralized dependencies, which is part of Angie’s core mission.” She shrugged carefully, intending to convey her uncertainty about Angie’s motivations, not her ambivalence around the mission. Better not to let them know that sometimes she thought Angie was more patriotic than the government. “Whether they are explicit about it or not, this change will neutralize our ability to gather intelligence.”

  “In your opinion?”

  “Angie’s smart. She knows exactly what she’s doing.”

  The NSA deputy director reviewed notes in front of him. “Let’s pull up the FISA court order. There’s no point in waiting.”

  The deputy director and SIGINT signed off, and then it was just Robin and Enso.

  “Once the court order is in effect,” Enso said, “Tapestry will be under intense official scrutiny. Until then, we have more latitude. You need to step up your game.”

  Robin suppressed her initial response. Everything about Tapestry seemed to be personal with Enso. He was rushing decisions because he wanted to crush Angie. The case files had the history of what had happened the first time around. But calling him out would get her nowhere.

  “What do you want me to do?” she asked.

  “What we always do. Establish leverage. Push harder on Angie. Find something we can use against her.”

  “She’s squeaky clean in the office, and you know that. Everything at Tapestry is above board.”

  Enso sighed. “Figure out other angles to keep them off balance. Dig deeper with Igloo. She’s been there since the start, and she’s almost certainly got to be connected to Angie’s hacking.”

  Robin shook her head. “We’ve never seen a single sign of that. If anything, they’ve grown apart. Igloo’s never got a promotion, she’s never with Angie. She has carte blanche on the chatbots, but that’s about all she has in terms of power. I think you’re barking up the wrong tree. She’s been asked to work on onion routing, but Angie’s got a bunch of people around the company working on these special projects.”

  Enso ground his teeth as he usually did when he was frustrated. “Look into who else Angie has working on special projects and keep building relationships. I’ve got a team of analysts working on employees we can potentially exploit. Worst case scenario, we’ll compromise Angie’s husband.”

  Enso disconnected, and Robin stared at the blank screen.

  How many people, officially and unofficially, were assigned to Tapestry now? It was mind-boggling that so much effort could be placed into toppling one company.

  She’d done some questionable things at BRI. That was the nature of a dark agency, to do that which couldn’t be done through official methods. But always
it was in the pursuit of a legitimate purpose. Uncovering terrorists. Discovering foreign powers who had woven their tendrils into American companies. Neutralizing dangerous technology.

  In Tapestry’s case, the threat was a lot more abstract. Encryption. Privacy. Data ownership. Yeah, she’d willingly admit that robust privacy made digital surveillance much more difficult. In particular, trawling the mass of data for criminal activity became vastly more difficult.

  But there was nothing in the Constitution guaranteeing the government an easy job. If anything, the bulk of law, multiple amendments and statutory law combined, provided for the privacy of individuals.

  She’d do her job well, to the best of her ability. That’s what she was trained to do, and what she felt was ethically right. But she’d be glad when this assignment was over.

  Time to get back to work.

  Chapter 7

  “It’s not worth it,” Essie said, from inside the closet. “I should cancel.” A skirt flew onto the floor amid the ongoing shuffling of hangers.

  Igloo leaned against the closet door, watching as Essie attacked the clothing. Essie better not cancel. Igloo had her second date with Charlotte tonight. Ugh. She felt selfish thinking that.

  “You had one bad date on Tuesday.”

  “She smelled like old socks.”

  “Okay, well tonight is someone different.”

  “They’ll be just as bad.”

  Igloo glanced at the growing piles of clothing on the floor. Essie’s expectations were usually for the worst. At the same time, she was still looking for clothes, so she was planning on going. Igloo tried to relax. As long as Essie went out, Igloo would be able to see Charlotte tonight.

  They’d fought when Igloo asked to go to Deviance with Charlotte. Essie had been upset that Igloo had already made plans with Charlotte before even telling Essie. Apparently, Igloo was supposed to check with Essie before even talking to anyone else about playing. It didn’t seem very efficient, and it sure as hell didn’t conform to the D/s dynamic they’d been operating under. Still, Essie had acquiesced, and found herself another date for tonight.

  Essie pulled out a black lace dress. “Ah, I knew it was here.”

  She brought the dress out into the room and went back to putting on makeup.

  Igloo perched on the bed to watch. She’d had a passing interest in makeup as a teen, but rarely used more than the basics. Still, she enjoyed Essie’s elaborate preparations.

  Essie heated eyeliner with a lighter. “Did I mention that they were a he?”

  “What?” Igloo almost fell off the bed.

  “Yeah, his name’s Michael.”

  “You’re going out with a man?” Her gut clenched. “Like a trans-man, or…”

  “A cis male.” Essie leaned into the mirror as she applied eyeliner. It seemed like she was deliberately avoiding Igloo’s gaze.

  Igloo felt sick. She hadn’t even realized Essie liked men.

  Essie looked at Igloo in the mirror. “It’s no biggie. I’ve dated guys before, you’ve dated guys before.”

  Igloo took long, slow breaths, trying to calm her lizard brain. Essie had no fear of men, not like Igloo did. “It’s just…you never mentioned…”

  “Female, male, it’s not a big deal. He’s an artist, and I’ve always dug artists.”

  “What kind of art?” Igloo’s voice sounded small, even to her.

  “Mostly metal sculpture, I think. He sent me a few photos of his pieces. Here, look.”

  Essie held out her phone and swiped through photos of large metal structures on lawns.

  Some remote portion of Igloo’s mind admired that each sculpture illustrated a scientific principle, but the nuances were lost in a sea of unease that constricted her chest and throat.

  “You haven’t even met, and you’re swapping photos?”

  “His photo feed is public. I’m checking him out ahead of time.”

  “That’s good, I guess.” Igloo heart still thumped. A fucking guy? “He’s kinky?”

  “Yeah.”

  “What sort of kinks is he into?” Igloo found herself holding her breath.

  “I don’t know. I suppose we’ll talk about it during the date.”

  Her phone buzzed. Holy shit, 7P.M. She was meeting Charlotte in an hour. She’d been looking forward to this all week, but now all she felt was a jealous rage at Essie’s date. Why was poly so damn hard? Was it too much to ask to be able to enjoy a few moments without struggling?

  Essie had taken her car, leaving Igloo without one. She wasn’t going to ride her bike in pleather pants with a twenty-pound toy bag. She called a rideshare, giving the automated vehicle the address of a dance hall a few blocks from Club Privata to avoid a digital trail. One of these days she’d finally give in and buy a car.

  After the car dropped her off, she walked over to the club. She paid, entered, and looked around for Charlotte. She waved to a rigger she knew and headed upstairs. From the balcony, she looked down at the scenes on the first floor. A man wielded floggers Florentine-style on a woman tied to a St. Andrew’s cross.

  Next to them, a male submissive was restrained on the second cross, limbs spread-eagle. A female top wielding a whip lashed his back with a side-to-side swing. Interesting. She didn’t often see whip play, let alone by a female top, but then most places didn’t have the space for it.

  With a flash, she realized the woman was Charlotte. Holy shit! She had no idea Charlotte was a switch.

  She rushed back downstairs and waited near the play area.

  Charlotte eventually finished her scene, unclipped her partner from the cross, and spent a few minutes with him until he finished dressing. She wrapped the whip twice around her waist and secured it with a bit of leather thong. She clipped her wrist restraints to her skirt. Igloo admired the spartan but functional kit.

  When Charlotte left the play area, she saw Igloo and smiled. “Hug?”

  Igloo nodded. “Sure.”

  The warm hug lasted longer than necessary, but Igloo didn’t mind at all. Charlotte smelled good again, some essential oil. Igloo couldn’t help burying her face in Charlotte’s hair. She didn’t want the hug to end.

  “I didn’t know you switched.” Igloo shouted over the music. “I’ve only ever seen you bottom.”

  “We’ve only seen each other at rope events.” Charlotte pointed to the whip wrapped around her. “Want to bottom for me?”

  Igloo would love to, but if she was submissive at all, she’d have a difficult time getting back into a dominant mindset. “Tempting, but maybe later. Let’s get a hardpoint before they’re all taken.”

  They went upstairs and took a hardpoint above a big bed surrounded by spectators. Igloo was hyper-conscious that last month she’d been in this exact spot with Essie. It felt like a betrayal to be here with Charlotte. The usual crowd of semi-familiar faces was here, and Igloo wondered if they noticed she was with someone different. The guilt formed a pit in her stomach. No, Igloo wasn’t going to think about that. She was here to enjoy herself.

  She pulled out her rope and toys and told Charlotte to get undressed. When Charlotte was naked, they went through negotiations again, faster than last time. Then she arrived at the sex question.

  “How sexual do you want things to be?” The last time she’d asked, she was the one who ruled out sex on a first encounter. Now she hoped Charlotte would say yes.

  Charlotte glanced meaningfully at her whip and restraints before looking Igloo in the eye. “I don’t go all the way until I’ve had a chance on top. So be as sensual as you want, but no sex until you’ve bottomed for me.”

  Igloo felt herself grow horny. A battle for dominance between two switches. Her pulse thudded, and her hands were nervous on the rope. She couldn’t let herself get subby while she was topping.

  Time for a change of pace. She grabbed Charlotte’s hair and pulled her head back. She trailed her teeth along the side of Charlotte’s neck.

  “You’ll get your turn. But now it’s mine.”r />
  She tied Charlotte’s hands, roughly with the rope, full of desire. She grabbed another hank and wove a Leto harness on Charlotte’s hips, brushing her fingers along the sensitive skin of her inner thigh. She did two quick chaos ties to contain her legs, then attached the upline to the hip harness and heaved. Charlotte rose into an inversion.

  The position accentuated the arcs on either side of her abdomen, and Igloo couldn’t help admiring Charlotte’s curves.

  “How’s that, my pretty?” Igloo said, her voice pitched low, smooth. She caressed Charlotte, letting her fingers slide lightly along the inside of her thighs, the outside of her torso.

  Charlotte’s eyes were closed, on the heavy side, lips pursed with concentration. Igloo pressed her fingertip into one nipple to the pressure point behind, and Charlotte wiggled away like a fish dangling from a hook.

  “Still moving huh? You’re not tied enough then.”

  She hunted for a short line and attached Charlotte’s bound wrists to the ring, arching her into a backbend. She wrapped another rope twice around Charlotte’s mouth, forming a rope gag, then pulled that, very gently, toward the ring and tied it off.

  She leaned down and looked into Charlotte’s eyes. Immobile, gagged, her eyes were glazed, clearly preoccupied with processing inputs, continuing to breathe. In such a situation, there was no higher order brain function.

  Igloo opted to let Charlotte cook, changing little, staring into her eyes, rubbing hands over her body, maintaining contact between their skin. After a while, she asked “You want to come down soon?”

  Charlotte grunted acquiescence. If she wanted to stay up longer, she’d have more brain power, and she’d be able to ask for it.

  But first, a little something to finish her off. Igloo grabbed clover clamps. Intense to start, clover clamps grew even more painful each passing second. Charlotte’s eyes opened wide at the sight of them, and she managed a “no.”

  Igloo made a judgment call. They’d discussed safe words, agreed nipple clamps were okay. “No” was just a reaction. If Charlotte really didn’t want to do it, she’d use her safe word.