Crimson Son
Page 10
RE: Looking 4 encryption type…
By: 3n1g|/|4 – Moderator
IP Logged: PRIVATE
WTF, prison?
RE: Looking 4 encryption type…
By: s1ug3rGIANT
IP Logged: 70.96.128.184
Yes.
RE: Looking 4 encryption type…
By: 3n1g|/|4 – Moderator
IP Logged: PRIVATE
Sure. What was your old username?
RE: Looking 4 encryption type…
By: s1ug3rGIANT
IP Logged: 64.90.57.205
CR1ms0n8a11z. Been ages enigma.
RE: Looking 4 encryption type…
By: 3n1g|/|4 – Moderator
IP Logged: PRIVATE
I went to pick you up for school and there was a hole in your fucking house. Prison – supposed to believe that?
RE: Looking 4 encryption type…
By: s1ug3rGIANT
IP Logged: 72.172.88.167
Yeah!!!! Look, not much time.
RE: Looking 4 encryption type…
By: 3n1g|/|4 – Moderator
IP Logged: PRIVATE
Blocks are different lengths. Not a hashing algorithm.
RE: Looking 4 encryption type…
By: s1ug3rGIANT
IP Logged: 66.155.9.238
maybe some unreleased NSA shit?
RE: Looking 4 encryption type…
By: 3n1g|/|4 – Moderator
IP Logged: PRIVATE
I ain’t gonna follow in his footsteps, genius. keep fishin’ fucker.
S1ug3rGIANT your account has been suspended. WELCOME TO DAVY JONES LOCKA’ N008!
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The page cannot be found.
The page you are looking for might have been removed, had its name changed or be temporarily unavailable.
Chapter 17
My drum solo goes from a slick pulse-pounding roll to the lame sound of my hands slapping the kitchen table. I check the headphone jack on my iPod and it’s dangling from Emily’s fingers. Her hair’s a little damp. She’s changed, so no more stretchy pants. Now it’s jeans and a navy t-shirt with green lines and letters on her… well, front and center. Could be a molecular structure.
“Caffeine,” she says, following my gaze with a raised eyebrow.
“Huh?”
“Caffeine. The symbol is caffeine. Simplified a bit, but close enough.” Emily turns toward the kitchen. “Want some? It’s the best thing for late nights at the lab staring at computer screens.”
“Sure,” I say, even though I’m not sure if I’m a coffee drinker.
“Sorry for walking out earlier, but you were starting to get that look.”
“What look?”
“The sucked-into-your-research-look. At the lab, you interrupt that at great peril.”
“Yeah, I guess. Just needed a few programs set up.”
“And I really needed a shower. I must have fallen asleep after that.”
“No problem,” I sigh, managing to hide the disappointment in my voice. But actually, there is a problem. I want more answers from her. Right now, though, I don’t want to be reminded of how big of a cluster-fuck all of this is. My best friend made me walk the plank. To cope, I’d given up staring at the encrypted data a few hours ago and started downloading songs for my now-antique iPod. So when I add, “You haven’t missed much,” I’m hardly lying.
“No luck, huh?” she asks, returning from the kitchen.
“Nada.”
She plops a can of soda next to the laptop and lightly backhands my shoulder. “Maybe you’re not the computer genius your dad says you are, huh? Scoot over. You gave me an idea earlier.”
I grunt with as much indifference as I can and shuffle to the side. Does he say that? That doesn’t sound like him. He barely knows a hard drive from a motherboard and never seemed to care that I do. The clatter of the keyboard is white noise behind my thoughts. I catch a whiff of lavender and wood smoke as a damp strand of hair lingers near my face. It pulls me back to the screen.
Login failed.
“Wait, stop!”
“Relax, let me try one more.”
Login failed.
“Ok, Dr. Biology, hands off the keyboard!” It’s hard to keep cool. One more failed attempt in that short of a time frame and we’re locked out. I thought she would’ve known that?
Emily straightens, speaking in a soft and far away tone. “Sorry. I thought maybe…”
I kill the background hacking program before the brute force hammering trips the third and final attempt. The animated icon of a black boot bashing on a door comes to rest. Yeah, pirate humor. Arrrrgh.
“Guessing at the password is exactly what I have this program doing. But more efficiently and, best of all, set up so we don’t get locked out.”
Oblivious to the reprimand, she responds with a demanding edge that’s entirely new. “How long will it take?”
“Honestly?”
“Of course.”
“I can’t do it.”
“What?” Her eyes flare.
I hadn’t quite figured out how to tell her about the forum post. But Emily’s parental tone has returned, with a little bit of crazy thrown in. I mumble, “I’ve got a friend working on it.” Of course, I’m pretty sure he didn’t believe a word I said.
“What do you mean ‘a friend?’”
“No, no. Hold on.”
“We went over the not trusting anyone.”
“Hey, this dude can hack anything. He’s the patron saint of hackers.”
“Who is this ‘dude’?”
“I’ve known him a while, well, longer than I’ve ever known anyone else.” A skeptical squint pinches her face and I say, “A lot longer than I’ve known you.”
“Fine,” she relents. “Who?”
“A guy I went to school with. He’s an expert and he’s got plenty of reasons not to run his mouth.”
“School? You mean high school?”
“No, I mean the Remote Academy for Ice Sculpting. Yes, high school.”
Emily touches her temple and bows her head with a sigh. “Spencer, we don’t need more kids involved.”
The chair scrapes and teeters, crashing to the ground as I stand. Slamming the laptop closed, I start to cram it and the cables into my backpack. My iPod, the sat phone, it all gets dumped in along with the remains of my life from the bunker.
There’s a thump on the ceiling from the apartment below.
“What’re you doing?”
“You’ve got the PhD, you figure it out.”
“Spencer Harrington, don’t you dare!” The mom imitation cuts deep this time. I grab my shoes off the living room floor and stomp into them, tucking the laces against my feet. She stares as I stalk toward the apartment door.
At the last second, Emily slips in front of me, her arms spread like she’s trying to contain the unseen force dragging me forward. “You can’t go! I told him I’d keep you safe and I told you I’d stop protecting you and… I…” she stammers. “Now he’s… we need him! And I don’t know what to do, but I can’t keep you and your friends safe!”
“I’m not asking you to! Goddamn, why is it everyone is out to save me! I’m nineteen!” I roar. A double thump replies from the apartment below, and I stomp madly on the spot.
Her arms drop. She sucks in air as she shakes her head. “Damnit. Damnit! I’m sorry. I know, you’re not a child, but you’ve got to calm down. Please, give me a second. One second.” As quick as it came, my flash of anger dissolves while she searches for what to say next. It’s easy to see she’s freaking out inside too.
“Okay,” she says. “I know a few guys at the university. Computer science, crypto, top in their field.” She’s chewing on a nail as she talks.
“No good.”
“Why not? If we’re bringing in outside help, might as well be people with actual training.”
“Eric’s learned more about cryptography in the wild than anyon
e ever could sitting around a lecture hall.”
Emily looks skeptical as she replies, “I bet these guys have similar backgrounds to your friend.”
I adjust the backpack on my shoulder and fix my gaze on the door. No longer angry, I’m starting to think my life would be less complicated if I was doing this on my own. “No, I trust Eric. Excuse me. I’ll find a way there myself.”
She’s speechless. Judging from the power hike in the woods, as pathetic as it sounds, I think she might have the upper hand if she wanted to place me in a submission hold, but then what? She can’t keep me here forever and she knows it. Finally, a situation where I feel I’ve got some kind of control.
“Fine. We’ll talk to your friend. Where is he?”
“San Francisco.”
“Wow. Wow.” She’s chewing on the same nail again and from the looks of it, she’s talking to an end table, not me. “How’s that going to work?” she mutters. Her head snaps up. “I can…” Then, her eyes go wide.
She tackles me to the floor as the window behind us explodes.
Chapter 18
Thump.
Thump.
Thump.
My ear is pressed on the floor right where the downstairs neighbor has been tapping out S.T.F.U. in Morse code. Emily’s face comes into focus.
“Emily?”
She’s laying on the floor beside me, her eyes closed. I put a hand on her throat, blindly groping for a pulse. She’s got to have a pulse. Somewhere? I don’t know what the hell I’m doing, but I feel a shallow breath on my forearm. Glass shatters and I peek over the couch to see the robot shouldering through what’s left of the window.
I grab Emily’s arms and drag her closer to the couch. Broken shards of brick clatter onto the breakfast nook’s linoleum while the drone rips through the wall.
Awake, asleep, how many times do I have to relive this scenario? People diving on me, surrendering for me. Maybe this time, we can both get carried off into the sky. All of this can end.
A fog of mortar dust hangs in the air. The swaying shadows are sharply outlined against light from the busted overhead lamp, its naked bulb swinging wildly. Outside air rushes in as the robotic arms gouge more chunks from the wall.
The aromatic scent of the flowers in the courtyard carries on the breeze. I recall their bright colors, the complete opposite of the frozen hell I came from; a place I will absolutely, positively never see again. Never.
With that thought, I’m juiced. Alive. The entire world is waiting. Waiting for me to prove I don’t need to be locked up and praying for someone to come save me. If anyone needs to be saved right now, it’s Emily. She needs my help, and carrying her out of here isn’t going to work. You’ve gotta work with what you’ve got.
I’m going outside and the drone is coming with me.
Jumping to my feet, the distance to the apartment door closes fast. Glowing eyes in oversized sockets lock on to my movement.
“Why can’t someone program you morons to use a door?” I shout, trying to keep its attention focused on me.
With a final swat, the drone clears a chunk of the wall big enough to fit through. Its head turns slowly as it scans the interior of the apartment and the eyes flare when they sweep past me. My sudden clarity of purpose wavers. But Emily, she’s still lying motionless on the floor.
“That’s right, I’m talking to you. Your backup better be a Roomba, bitch!” Sounding brave works better if you aren’t desperately fumbling with a deadbolt.
The drone hovers through the opening, and boot rockets extinguish right as the faux-tile floor blackens and melts. It lands with a squishy thud and the cloud of pulverized mortar thickens. Head swiveling, it scans again. I’m looking over my shoulder as the deadbolt clicks. Bug-like eyes lock on once more and the drone starts to pound across the apartment. Past Emily. Straight for me.
Scrambling out the door into the stairwell, I get maybe half a dozen steps before the landing shimmies as the robot tears through the door frame in one long stride. Two, three stairs at a time are left behind in frantic leaps. I nearly fall face-first in the foyer. An angry old woman with a hairnet and a Hawaiian muumuu glares out the doorway of the apartment below Emily’s.
“Have some respect! You know what time it…” her voice dies as the entire building shakes.
Our fearful eyes connect and she disappears inside. I shout and ram the push bar of the courtyard door, stumbling into the cool night air. Cutting to the left, I leave the walkway and crush a trail through the flowerbed.
There’s an enormous crash as the foyer door hurtles into the courtyard. Sure, being a non-Augment right now sucks, but I’ve practically got a degree in running from lumbering bullies. Sharp turns are the best option, keeping obstacles between us to slow my pursuer down. I head for a row of parked cars along the street.
The sounds of rending metal and raining shards of plastic and glass fill the air as I duck between parked vehicles. A few cars zip by on the road, swerving madly as the drivers catch sight of the cyclone of metal behind me. Further away, cars screech to a halt, engines gunning desperately in reverse. If I stay out here much longer, someone else is going to get hurt.
A car flips end-over-end along the street as the drone searches the parking spaces. I dive under a nearby SUV, shimmying on knees and elbows to the other side and trying not to hook my backpack on the undercarriage. Heat blossoms out as the drone takes to the air.
Unfair.
Up and running, the street is my only option. Bright lights whip around the corner. The air screams with tortured tires. A hood emblem looms large and I roll away, eyes closed. My foot catches the curb and the pavement comes up, hard. Whatever impacts next, hopefully it’ll be big. Maybe a dump truck or a semi, and this’ll end quick.
“Holy crap! Kid?” A man’s voice, tinged with panic, separates from the idling engine noise. He stumbles out of a dangerously-close box truck in slow motion. Why the hell is this guy getting out?
Two bright points of light flare above the truck. I stagger to my feet and fling a floppy arm at the man and sputter, “Get out of here!”
Hot blood streams down my face and throat. Pain shoots through my ankle but I race down the sidewalk. There’s a shout of surprise but I don’t look back.
Flames roar and spit behind me. The distance to the corner might as well be a million miles away because the robot will catch me before I can get there. Light from a store streams into the gray street. Glass doors unlocked, I barge in and the drone jets by, inches off my shoulder.
A guy that can’t be much older than me looks up. His face pulls into a scowl between chunky earphones. He’s pushing around a big floor buffer that’s whining as it scours the tile. He swats the headphones off his head, tossing the cord over his shoulder. “Hey! We’re closed!”
Checkout counter to the right. Shelves to the left. I take off for the floor-to-ceiling aisles shouting, “Get down!”
The Zamboni driver, or whatever the heck they call it, flicks the machine off and starts toward me. Before he can take a second step, there’s a high energy whine from the street.
He’s barely got time to shriek before he throws himself behind the counter. The exterior doors explode in a shower of glass fragments and twisted steel. I slip behind a pegboard display on a sturdy shelf. Through the tiny holes, I see the robot scuttling around on all fours. And like those time-lapse movies of a plant sprouting, a third pair of limbs comes writhing from the trunk.
With an unnatural twist, the head swivels, first toward the counter then the aisles. I hold my breath. It might be necessary to make some noise if the robot decides to try to finish buffing the floor with Zamboni-guy’s face. But no need. It charges straight for me.
What? X-ray vision? Infrared? How can it even tell me apart from that dude? Doesn’t matter, I can only run like hell. The drone crashes through the pegboard and slides on the freshly waxed floor.
I zigzag up and down aisles, overturning a rack full of garden tools. Floor clean
er, fertilizer, power tools; no loose display is left standing.
Despite the trail of debris, this thing stays close. To get more speed, I slip off the backpack and hurl it overhead in an arc. The pack hits the warehouse ceiling above and bounces onto the top of a shelf full of insulation. When I round the next corner, the rapid-fire clank of gaining drone appendages stops.
I skid to a halt and flatten against the shelves. Across the aisle is a kiosk with a cash register and a paint-splattered terminal. Several paint cans litter the counter.
“What color is home for YOU?” belts out a cheery baritone.
Spinning toward the voice, I see a display covered in a rainbow of color sample strips. In the center, a monitor displays a bearded, handy-looking guy. He’s shouting. Loudly.
“Bay Breeze? Colonial Red? Winter Sun?”
No volume control. No off switch. Just a tiny motion sensor mounted under the monitor. I shove a desperate hand over the speaker and peer around the corner. Two aisles down, the shelf sways. It shakes again, and I see a clawed arm grip the outer support bars. The drone is in the aisle where I ditched my backpack.
It wants my backpack?
“Our specially formulated radiant barrier paints beautify and protect…” Mr. Snitch continues his muffled shouts into my palm.
I can make a break for it. While the drone screws with the backpack, I might stand a chance of escaping. Instinct says to get the hell out of here while it’s still possible.