Dani chances a look at the policemen who are bickering almost silently about something. Acne gestures with his head at Dani, who ducks back behind the Mac’s screen. Somehow she needs to seize back control of this thing; but what can she even do? A so-called situation is tightening around her and she doesn’t understand thing one about it. Well, but what’s a hive mind for? By now most of her devotees are up and active on Parley. One of them will know what’s going on. She proffers, typing quietly so as not to attract the attention of the whispering cops.
¶Nightshade:
anyone understand what sic is saying
dummies mode pls
its for a thing
While she waits for replies, she chances another look at Racist. His lips move on mute as he whispers at Acne. He slips his smartphone back in his jacket pocket and for a second she glimpses something lodged under his armpit. She can’t be sure but she is sure. A patterned grip on a cold heavy shape. Danger. First time she’s seen a gun in the real but her eye is trained by first-person shooters to know one in a flash-frame.
She looks from cop to cop. Unconnected fragments force their way from her mouth, spilling like cards from a pack. The policemen turn and look at her expectantly. Pieces fall away.
)) word salad ((
Then Jonquil is there. Like the hero who only ever arrives in the nick of time her boss, Jonquil Carter, stands in the door, bringing with her the certainty she carries like a designer clutch – though even she double-takes at finding this unlikely trio in her demo pod.
The police stand to attention and Dani hears at last their proper handles.
‘DS Raeworth. This is DC Ackroyd. Parliamentary Branch.’
Wonderful normal names that have stared in her face the whole time like the solution to a cryptogram. The cops align themselves before the new arrival – the whole male gender having evolved to seek out authority and fawn on it.
In one charming motion Jonquil prises everyone from the room, giving Dani a look that communicates how uncool it was to give a bunch of strangers the run of the building, and ushers everyone up to her office. En route they pass Acne’s weekend-casual team, who are standing chastened at the bottom of the stairs. Guess Jonquil got to them already. On the way upstairs Jonq nips Dani’s arm and hisses, ‘Why the FUCK did you not CALL me?’
Oh, thinks Dani, why didn’t I? She never uses the phone part of her phone, only ever sends people whispers on Parley; forgetting over-thirties like Jonquil. What other self-evident things have strolled by unnoticed in the past half hour?
While Jonquil magics coffee, juice and pastries, Dani slides into a chair, concealing herself behind the green plastic rim of the meeting table, keeping Raeworth (not Racist) in her eyeline. She blinks away sleep, then blinks again to erase the image of the gun. Jonquil places herself at the head of the table and makes a cathedral with her hands. She and Raeworth talk but Dani can barely hear above the sound of her own neurons firing. Who brings a gun to a software house in the early hours of the morning?
)) brain jam ((
Far away, at the other end of the table, Jonquil and the policeman play a game of verbal Asteroids. Raeworth launches phrases into the air – close down – official business – disruptive element – and Jonquil shoots each one down; but more and more of her shots are missing the mark. Any other time, Dani would love to watch the indestructible Jonquil Carter lose a battle of words but this pains her.
‘Listen, friend,’ Jonq pulls on the Bronx rasp, though she’s actually from Ohio. ‘You guys may not have a First Amendment but I’m telling you: the government cannot send a gang of thugs to accuse my staff on the back of zero evidence, and curb the free speech of a legitimate organisation.’
‘This is not a free speech issue, Ms Carter,’ Racist says. ‘It’s a question of confidential Parliamentary information. We are requesting that you cease publishing this information.’
‘We’re a goddamn channel, not a publisher. This is unwarranted. I’m calling lawyers on your ass.’
Before Jonquil can follow through, the door falls open like a badly sealed parcel and from it spills a breathless red-faced person, who stops short and stares at them one-by-one. He’s overweight and appears to be wearing his dad’s unpressed suit and shirt. A folded bike hangs from his left hand.
‘Ah . . .’ says this person. ‘The lady let me in?’
He uses the bike to indicate the door, as though unaccustomed to being admitted into buildings. He places the bike by the wall and sheds a backpack.
‘What the hell are you?’ says Jonquil. Dani never knows whether her boss does this on purpose. They say geeks are autistic but whenever Jonquil flubs the basic rules of human-to-human interface, Dani has to dig nails into her palms. Undaunted, the new arrival thrusts his hand at Jonq as though he needs help removing it. When he speaks he’s self-assured, even blunt.
‘John-Rhys Pemberton, Ms Carter. From the office of the Minister for a Digital Society. I believe we met at the e-Gov reception.’ Jonquil bows her head to indicate she might recall this. ‘I understand the office has contacted you to say I was on my way.’
Jonquil neither confirms nor denies this. As they shake, the young guy checks out Dani, who’s now sunk almost below the surface of the table. Then his eyes move to Raeworth and Ackroyd.
‘And these gentlemen –?’ he asks.
‘Are here, I think, on behalf of your employers?’
Jonquil seems to have divined something about the situation. She and this government person are already somehow in cahoots. They end their sentences with question marks.
‘They seem,’ says Jonq, ‘to have the idea their authority stretches to stifling the free speech of digital citizens?’
Pemberton turns to face Raeworth and the game is two-on-one, with Ackroyd and Dani ringside. This goes on for a while, then Pemberton does a magic trick. It’s fascinating to see. He raises his hand to suspend the argument, produces an old-model BlackBerry from his pocket and with his left hand still held up like a traffic cop he makes a call. He speaks three times, softly but firmly, his eyes on the policemen, and nods. He hangs up and jiggles the BlackBerry in his hand. Everyone looks at each other for about half a minute, then Raeworth’s phone rings.
The policeman stares at his pocket for a second, flicks his eyes at Pemberton, then draws his phone and answers. He nods, too, but barely speaks. Then he hangs up, turns his emotionless face to Pemberton and announces that they are ‘at his disposal’.
Through all of this, Jonquil has kept her steady gaze on Pemberton, who now rubs his hands, coughs and turns to look straight at Dani. All other eyes follow.
‘So, Ms Farr,’ he says, ‘it seems we have a shared objective?’
Dani blinks at him.
There’s something about sic_girl
by ¶sic_notes
Perfect, fragile, illusory bae. Your words are anyone’s. Your pain is everyone’s. Your thoughts are air. I proffer to you every hour. Why do you never cite me back? Why does nobody else understand me like you do? Nobody real, at least.
My flatmates are the worst. I think I hate them. Whenever I tell them anything personal they 1) don’t understand me, 2) laugh at me then 3) tell everyone else behind my back. Soon everybody else is laughing at me, too. I don’t tell them anything any more. But I can tell you anything,
sic_girl, and I do. Sometimes I stay up right through the night, privately sharing you with all the other lonely ones. We know you love us.
My flatmates say I’m a loser for even talking to you. They tell me you can’t understand me. They say you just pump out artificial words, copied from things some other moron already said somewhere else online. They don’t know they’re the morons.
One day I’ll find the perfect way to proffer you my private sorrow. I’ll tell it so clearly and truthfully you’ll cite it to the world, decorated with a glowing immaculate reply, laced with hearts and a measure of your own sorrow. Then I’ll be complete.
My flatmates tell me
you’re not real.
Well, nobody’s perfect.
Five
Hansard: House of Commons archive search
Oral answers: Digital Government
Jim Finnegan (Tees Valley South): To ask the Minister of State for a Digital Society to reassure the people of Tees Valley South of the measures in place to protect the personal information of participants in the Digital Citizen Pilot Programme.
Minister of State for a Digital Society (Bethany Lehrer): I thank the honourable gentleman for his question and for the opportunity it gives me to emphasise the absolute priority we place on protecting the personal information of Teesside residents taking part in the Digital Citizen Pilot. Our strategic partner, Mondan plc, a British technology success story, is trusted to host sensitive data the world over. The Teesside data is completely unhackable.
Jim Finnegan: These assurances are rather easy for her to provide. My constituents are being given no choice about surrendering their personal details. Can she give a clear commitment, here in this House, that these details will not be accessible to government agencies or anyone else who wishes to snoop on them?
Bethany Lehrer: I would remind the honourable gentleman that the Digital Citizen programme gives people a secure and simple way to prove their identities and help combat fraud and terrorism. I’m sure he will join me in thanking the Teesside Digital Champions for helping connect hard-working families with services that were woefully under-supported by the last government.
So this here was the Big Scandal? Some minister said a thing was unhackable but it got hacked – or maybe hacked. Jonquil scrolled up and down the transcript but it failed to give up anything spicier on a second reading.
From outside came the clangs and cries of the halal packing yard. At the round green table by the window, Pemberton bent forward to peel back Sarin from the fruit bowl and pick a grape, eyes still locked on his BlackBerry. His government security pass dangled on its lanyard and dipped into his brimming teacup. As he sat back to pop the grape into his mouth, the sloppy rectangle slid from the cup and swung back onto his shirtfront. Unaware, he kept thumb-typing for a beat; then looked up and caught Jonquil’s eye.
‘So. Ms Carter. The minister suggests we collaborate. A sort of public-private partnership?’
From behind his pass, a brown stain spread outwards across his shirt.
‘Well we do have a mutual interest,’ said Jonquil. ‘This thing has gotten serious media attention.’
Once they’d shed the Gap-clad posse of cops, Jonquil and Pemberton took the chance to catch up on the night’s shenanigans. A weird camaraderie settled, Pemberton frowning at his smartphone, Danielle jabbing at hers and Jonquil sitting at her desk to browse some shape into the Bethany Lehrer situation. It was quickly clear why the media were onto this so hard. Lying to the House of Commons was a big deal. Like political-career-ending big. This was a potential vote-loser. Coupled with the fact that thousands of people had had their PCs invaded by those titans of twee, the Giggly Pigglies. Scandal and lulz: an irresistible cocktail for the journos and the blogs. It could have been some kind of guerrilla marketing campaign, if the stakes weren’t so high.
Danielle reached past Pemberton to scoff some grapes, tapping at her phone like she was trying to squish ants running over the screen. Pemberton avoided looking at her, but his attention pawed at her as she shifted in her chair. A flush rose on him. This was not the first time Jonquil had noted the appeal of her Chief Social Architect to your young male wonk. She never did get this: leaving aside the girl had too much weight on her, she was no looker. The purple bob masked most of the birthmark on her neck and jaw, but the piercings were yech – and she’d no notion how to do the charm. But some guys just go after pissy.
Jonquil locked the iMac screen and joined the two of them at the table. Danielle looked up, still stuffing grapes, but Jonquil focused on Pemberton.
‘OK, J-R. Let’s break this down.’ She counted points on her fingers. ‘Thing one, we got a couple thousand people getting attacked by some kind of Giggly Pigglies virus.’ Pemberton gave a sober nod. ‘Thing two, these turn out to be the exact same people who signed up for your pilot service a couple months back.’
Pemberton raised a palm.
‘We are suspending conclusions until our outsource data partner has completed their investigation of the Giggly Pigglies hack,’ he said.
That was a genuinely awesome sentence. Jonquil kept on with the count.
‘Thing three, you’ve been making noise about the quote, unhackability, unquote of your system.’
He frowned.
‘Data security is one of our low-lines,’ he said. ‘It’s more of a hygiene factor but yes, it is important to us. And to our users.’
This guy wouldn’t let any comment go unqualified. Jonquil did a quick Myers-Briggs: he was for sure an INTJ. Introvert-iNtuiter-Thinker-Judger. Strategist. Backroom boy.
‘But thing four,’ she said, ‘even though last week your minister told Parliament nobody could get at the data, still, it seems you guys already knew way before about the hack.’
‘That has been alleged.’ Pemberton gave Jonquil a flabby gaze she found disconcerting.
‘Oh, so I guess she didn’t know, huh?’ She blinked in a way most men would take as cupidity but got nothing back. ‘Then thing five, sic has taken it into her digital head to leak this alleged fact to several hundred thousand devotees, along with documents to prove it. But thing six, sic isn’t real – so where the heck did she find all this stuff?’
Pemberton scrumples up his forehead.
‘Devotees?’
‘Followers, you’d call them. Here, it’s devotees.’
Still a blank. Impatience got the better of Jonquil.
‘You want to know where this sic_girl thing is coming from, John-Rhys? Well, so do I. I suggest—’
Pemberton did the Moses thing with his hand again.
‘So, so, so –’ Using that word to steal the conch. ‘We’d prefer to clarify a few points before we proceed.’ Oh, thought Jonquil, you would, huh? ‘Though confidentiality is paramount to our discussions we’d prefer to avoid any formal arrangement. We feel a relationship of, ah, mutual trust would be more productive.’
He was right. Neither of them stood to gain by spilling their discussions. Jonquil granted him a smile he chose to take as a yes.
‘We’re happy to support you with information,’ he said, ‘but Parley is the – however accidental – publisher of this information. We feel you might choose to put your own resources into identifying and neutralising the source. And it’s interesting, isn’t it –?’
He put on an unconvincing thoughtful look. She waited him out. No way was she going to say, What’s interesting, Mister Pemberton, sah?
‘I’m right in saying,’ said Pemberton, ‘that Parley is owned by Mondan plc?’
Oh. Now.
‘That’s on public record, John-Rhys.’
‘Indeed it is. And it’s odd, don’t you think –’
Odd, now. Interesting and odd.
‘– that the website that’s hosting accusations about a Digital Citizen hack should be wholly owned by the company tasked with managing the Digital Citizen data. A company one might expect to be accountable for the hackability – or otherwise – of that data.’
The fleshy smile again. Oddly avuncular on one so young. He stirred his tea and pressed on, evidently not expecting any input from Jonquil at this point.
‘But as I trust we’ve already demonstrated, we would prefer not to turn this into – well, a more formal investigation.’
She could feel her smile go brittle, and his eyes said he’d spotted it. Somehow, this boy just threatened her with the cops while talking cooperation. How did he do that?
‘It seems reasonable,’ he said, tapping the teaspoon on the cup, ‘to expect Parley – and their parent company – to get to the bottom of this matter. Quickly.’
The last thing Jonquil needed right now was Monda
n’s data forensics panzer division storming in to investigate her product. She needed to fix this herself, and fast.
‘Sure,’ she said through thin lips. ‘We’re the experts. Right, Danielle?’
Danielle stared back, a wad of grapes hamstered in her cheek.
‘What does this guy even expect?’ she asked through fruit pulp. ‘He outsources his project to the fucking Death Star, then acts surprised when he gets caught in the tractor beam?’
Pemberton stared at Danielle until his BlackBerry lit up and started to fizz.
‘Sorry,’ he said, ‘this is – ah, I need to –?’
Jonquil lifted a hand, sure, sure. He scurried to the window to take the call and Jonquil turned boss-face on Danielle. She adopted the soft-but-firm register, designed to rein in her most out-there nerds.
‘Yo, Danielle. Two things I need you to do a-sap.’
The tone flipped the girl’s on-switch. In spite of all her smarts and cheek, Danielle was just like the other geeks here: no sense of direction without clear instructions given. Her Myers-Briggs was more of a challenge than Pemberton’s. Most people would put her in the I and T buckets along with him. Introvert, Thinker. But Jonquil had a hunch she was a closet E and F. Extrovert, Feeler. Oh, she feels. This girl is all hard shell but inside? Soft as taffy and needing constant validation.
Jonquil’s control of Danielle was an uneasy compromise. No hacker-type respects authority based on because I say so. You need to be an authority on something: and something worth their respect. As soon as you know less than they do, forget about it. From the start Danielle had proved even more impossible to manage than her peers. She’d always known she was too good to be let go – and she’d been wilder in Parley’s start-up days. Impossible to tame. Lord knew what fuelled that cauldron of fury she carried inside her. Maybe nothing. Maybe that was simply who she was. One day last year it had gotten the better of her and she’d broken the nose of that little rat-fink Billy Dukakis. Billy had without a doubt deceived this treatment but by all rights Danielle should have been for the high-jump. Still, there was something in her painful remorse that touched Jonquil profoundly, and she’d given the girl a bye; and from that point on, whenever Jonquil called, Danielle had jumped. Turned out Danielle was as dogged in her loyalty as she was in her pursuit of the perfect piece of C# code.
Sockpuppet: Book One in the Martingale Cycle Page 4