White Knights

by Julie Moffett

  “That guy is a total weasel.” Wally shook his head in disgust.

  “An evil weasel is more like it,” I said, then paused as something occurred to me. “Hey, why aren’t you in the running for valedictorian, Wally? You’re smarter than Nic.”

  “I’ve got a C in woodworking. Power tools are kicking my butt. Thank God PE is pass or fail.”

  “No kidding,” I said with heartfelt conviction. “Why didn’t you take photography or astronomy or something?”

  “I already took them. I wanted to take another math class, but my dad made me take woodworking. Said a man needs to know how to properly use a drill and other tools. Unfortunately, the tools are owning me. It is not a match made in heaven.”

  I felt a twinge of sympathy. Gwen was the power-tool user in our family, but I could get by as needed. But having to take a class on it? The thought made me shudder.

  Wally found a parking space and we walked to the hospital. We went directly to the ICU but were told by the nurse on duty that Mr. Matthews had been moved to another floor. Before we left, I asked how Anna, the woman who had been hit with the car, was doing.

  “She’s stabilized and has been moved to the same floor. The doctors are optimistic.”

  “Oh, that’s great,” I said with relief.

  We took the elevator up two more floors and approached the nurses’ station. The young guy at the desk in scrubs walked us down the hall to his room. This time all three of us were permitted to go in.

  The nurse took a quick peek, then waved us in. “You’re lucky. He’s awake.”

  Mr. Matthews was propped in a hospital bed with lots of machines hooked up to him. He was pale, and the circles under his eyes looked like small bruises. He had a bandage on one side of the top of his head. But his eyes were open, alert, and clearly surprised to see us.

  He noticed me first. “Angel?”

  “Hey, Mr. Matthews. How are you?”

  “I’m…alive. Wally Harris? Frances? What brings you kids here”—he glanced at the large clock on the wall next to the mounted television—“during school hours?” His eyes narrowed. He might have been in a hospital bed, but he still radiated authority.

  I gulped. “I’m sorry. They’re here because of me. We wanted to talk to you before Headmistress Swanson met with you.”

  He frowned. “Bonnie is coming here?”

  “Yes. But you can’t tell her you hit that woman on purpose with your car, because she will fire you from your job and we need you there.”

  He let out a sigh and placed a hand on the part of his head with the bandage. All the cords connected to that arm followed. “Look, this is complicated. I appreciate your support, but you shouldn’t be here.”

  “They’re going to charge you with assault with a deadly weapon,” I blurted out. “They’re building their case right now.”

  He stared at me for a moment. “How do you know that?”

  I raised my chin. “I just do. Why did you tell them you hit her on purpose? We know you didn’t.”

  He closed his eyes. “I didn’t tell them I did it on purpose. I didn’t. But I did hit her. It’s all a bit fuzzy. I remember slamming on the gas. I…don’t know why. I tried to stop, but it all happened too fast. I saw the woman and tried to swerve, but I hit her anyway. Luckily, I angled the car into a wall of a parking lot, so no one else got hurt.”

  “But why?” Wally asked. “Why did you press on the gas?”

  “I don’t know.”

  “Does this have anything to do with the reason you were talking with Vincent Kars the day of the accident?” I asked.

  “You heard our conversation?”

  “Not much, but enough to know you were worried. But I didn’t know you had prostheses at the time.” I glanced over at his legs plugged into the outlet. It didn’t freak me out anymore, but Frankie gave a loud gasp when she followed my gaze and spotted them.

  “Only the staff knew. It was to protect my privacy, that’s all.”

  “That’s how you stopped the bleachers with your foot and it didn’t hurt,” Frankie exclaimed.

  “Yes.”

  “Mr. Matthews, what were you worried about when you were talking to Mr. Kars?” I asked.

  “That’s not any of your business.”

  “Please. It’s important. You’re the eighth veteran to have an accident.”

  That caught his full attention. “What? Where did you get that information?”

  “Where I get all my information—the Internet. I know not all accidents are the same, but the only thing you all have in common, other than your military service in Iraq, is that you all have prostheses created at BioLimbs.”

  To my astonishment, he laughed. “You’re blaming my leg for pressing on the gas? That’s not possible. I alone control my prostheses, Angel.”

  “What are you saying? You wanted to hit that woman with your car?”

  “Of course not. I don’t know what happened.”

  “Then at least entertain that it’s a possibility the signal was interrupted or mixed up.”

  “It’s not a possibility. Nothing happens if the signal is interrupted or jumbled. I’m the only person connected to those limbs. If the signal is interrupted, I simply can’t move it. It works off my brain waves. Interrupting or manipulating the signal certainly can’t make me press my foot on the gas.”

  “Are you sure about that?”

  He considered. “Are you?”

  “No, I’m not sure. Not yet. We found Mr. Kars. I gave his name to the police, although at the time I talked to them, I didn’t know his last name or what he does.”

  “You tracked Vincent down?”

  “Yes. We had a lot of questions for him.”

  “Kids, I’m touched by your faith in me. Really. But this is on me. I’ve got to figure it out.”

  “How are you going to do that from the hospital?” I asked.

  “Yeah, we can help,” Frankie interjected. “We’re going to help. We know you’re a good guy, Mr. Matthews.”

  “This from the student who met me once?” He looked amused.

  “Twice, actually. One in the school interview and once in the gym. What can I say? I have spot-on instincts about people. Plus, you saved me. I owe you.”

  Wally spoke up. “By the way, the toxicology report came in a few hours ago. You’re clean.”

  Mr. Matthews narrowed his eyes. “How in the heck did you get access to that report, Mr. Harris?”

  Wally’s cheeks reddened. “Um, that’s a very good question. Would you believe I’m also quite resourceful, like Angel?”

  He sighed but said nothing.

  “I’m on your side, Mr. Matthews,” Wally said quietly. “We all are.”

  Mr. Matthews lifted his hands. “Why are you kids doing this?”

  “Because we know you’re innocent,” I said. “You’ve helped us, and now we want to help you. Please, Mr. Matthews, let us do what we can. Will you answer a few questions for me?”

  After a moment, he relented. “I guess I can answer a couple of questions.”

  It was a small victory, but I’d take it. “When did you get your prostheses—the IMES ones you have now?”

  “About six months ago. I don’t think the prostheses are the problem here.”

  “Just covering all bases. You said you don’t know why you pressed on the gas. If you didn’t do it intentionally, then there must be some explanation. What was the situation you were discussing with Mr. Kars?”

  “I was having some uncomfortable sensations. Almost like small electric jolts. It caused my legs to twitch uncomfortably and at unexpected times. I was mostly afraid of a fall or hitting my head. But that’s a far cry from someone intentionally manipulating my brain to jam my foot on the gas and keep it there. The truth is that other than the weird shocks the week before the accident, the prostheses have been flawless. A lifesaver. I’m not convinced the problem lies with them.”

  I glanced across the room at his legs. “They have to be ch
arged, right? Maybe it’s nothing to do with the software. Could it be an electrical problem?”

  “Vincent said they already checked that. They found no electrical problems.”

  “How long do the prostheses hold a charge?”

  “Fourteen hours.”

  I blinked. “That’s amazing. How often do they have to be serviced or tweaked?”

  “This is a pilot program, so we were required to come in twice a week for the first four months, and now once a week for adjustments.”

  “The IMES is a software, right?”

  “Right.”

  I considered other possibilities, my mind sorting through and discarding possibilities. “It’s got to be something with the software,” I muttered.

  “The answer always has to do with software when you’re involved, Angel,” Mr. Matthews said with a trace of amusement.

  “True.” I smiled. “And I’m almost always right. This time, however, it’s more of a gut feeling. How do the upgrades happen?”

  “At the beginning of the program, we had to go in for the upgrades. Now I can upgrade it myself through a special app on my phone.”

  That interested me. “Can I see the app?”

  “I don’t know where my phone is. Probably confiscated by the police.”

  “Okay. I’ll figure that out on my own.”

  Wally leaned forward. “We’re running a fund-raiser for you tomorrow night. Headmistress Swanson said we can use the stadium for an impromptu Medieval Melee. Hopefully the entire school will come and donate a lot of money to help you out.”

  “I made posters,” Frankie volunteered. “And put out the word on social media.”

  Mr. Matthews’s expression was total astonishment. “You kids did that? For me?” We nodded, and he swallowed. “I’m touched by your concern. But I’m going to sort this out.”

  “And we’re going to help,” I said firmly. “Just do us a favor and don’t admit to anything when Headmistress Swanson gets here, okay? Let us do our work first, okay?”

  His lips twitched, and for a moment, there might have been a familiar twinkle in his eye. “I’ll see how long I can hold out against the headmistress.”

  Chapter Thirty-Five

  ANGEL SINCLAIR

  True to his word, Nic had the website back up and running by dinnertime. Unfortunately, he’d also updated the website, which now held a sensational headline: Important Announcement Coming! Will Shock Community and Excalibur Academy to Its Core.

  Ugh. That guy was a serious piece of work.

  As I suspected, a quick probe indicated Nic had significantly switched up his defenses. It was a hack I didn’t want to spend time on right now. I had homework, a paper, and a quiz to study for, not to mention that I had several threads I wanted to pull on my dad given Wally’s NSA revelation.

  But first things first.

  BioLimbs had designed the prostheses to accept software and firmware updates to allow for any bugs and fixes, so the version upgrade of the software could be distributed to enhance performance and reliability. Mr. Kars had said they couldn’t find any issues with the software or hardware controlling the limbs. Lexi said X-Corp had checked it out and confirmed that. In my opinion, that meant it was clean.

  There was a lot to consider. Mr. Matthews said there was no way to make the limb do anything he didn’t want it to do, but what if he were wrong? What if someone was hacking in and controlling the limbs? The mind-boggling question of why would have to wait, because without the how, it wouldn’t be worth visiting yet.

  I began to pace, trying to work it out. If it were a hack, they had to get in somehow. But a hack of this magnitude had to go through the software or the hardware.

  No matter how many ways I looked at it, I didn’t have an answer. I hated that. A lot. Because no answer meant Mr. Matthews was guilty.

  Two hours wasn’t enough sleep for a growing girl. I dragged my butt out of bed and gulped two ibuprofen tablets to alleviate the raging headache. I’d driven myself crazy scouring the web for any insightful information on BioLimbs, IMES, and answers to Mr. Matthews’s predicament. I learned more than I ever wanted to know, but nothing seemed to lend itself to an explanation of what was happening. Eventually, I’d turned to chasing down leads on my dad to give myself a mental break.

  Although I trusted Wally’s hacking skills, I decided to probe King’s Security to see what I could find for myself. To my astonishment, I’d found a hole in the company’s security and had waltzed right in. It seemed shocking that the NSA could be so careless, but I considered it a stroke of luck. It took me under twenty minutes to find several files mentioning my father.

  It looked like Wally was right after all. Somehow, my dad was connected to the NSA. But how and why?

  I copied, took them all, and got out. I’d started reading but finally stopped when the letters started to bleed together. When my alarm went off, I was barely able to drag myself out of bed. I tried to avoid a direct look at my mom in case she noticed the gigantic dark circles under my eyes. Unfortunately, my mom has a sixth sense about things like that. I’d just sat down at the table when she spoke.

  “Angel, did you get enough sleep last night? You look exhausted.”

  “I’m good, Mom.” I shoveled a spoonful of cereal into my mouth. “Studied late.”

  “How late?”

  “Uh, I lost track of time.”

  “You’ll go to bed early tonight.”

  “The fund-raiser for Mr. Matthews is tonight,” I reminded her.

  “Then you’ll take a nap before you head out.”

  “What?” I lifted my head sharply. “Mom! I’m not five. I’m not coming home after school to take a nap like a preschooler.”

  “Oh, yes, you are, young lady. The fund-raiser doesn’t start until seven thirty. You’ll come home first and take a nap before you get sick. I’ll drive you to school about six thirty when I get off work. It’s either that or you aren’t going. Understood?”

  Her jaw was set. I’d never win. “Fine,” I huffed. “I’ll take a stupid nap.”

  “Good.” Happy she’d won, she ruffled my hair and then pressed a kiss on top of my head. “Don’t get me wrong. I’m glad you are participating in school events. You don’t know how happy that makes me. I just want you to stay healthy while doing it.”

  I wanted to assure her this was a onetime thing, but that would only trigger another lecture, so I kept my mouth shut.

  When I arrived at school, I met Frankie and Wally at my locker.

  “Are we ready for tonight?” I asked.

  “Ready as we’ll ever be,” Wally answered.

  “I hung up all the posters and put out the news on my social media,” Frankie offered. “I also got four other students to help us collect donations.”

  I leaned back against my locker. “I have a small problem, guys. I can’t help after school. I’m under strict orders to go home first. I was up most of the night hacking and my mom nailed me on it. Not the hacking part, thank goodness, just the lack of sleep thing. She’s going to drive me back to school when she gets off work. Is that okay?”

  “Fine with me,” Frankie said, shrugging. “We have enough volunteers to handle the setup. The players have already paid and Wally got one of the students to referee. But even better, Wally’s got a secret.”

  I looked at Wally. “Spill.”

  He puffed out his chest and grinned. “I contacted the local television stations. Guess what? We’ll have live coverage from two of them. I played the wounded-American-hero-turned-school-administrator-needs-our-support card and they took the bait. We’re on!”

  “Sweet!” Frankie grinned. “We’ll be on television.”

  “Well, not us, exactly. But the game will.”

  Now I felt guilty that other than getting Colt to play, I’d done squat to get this fund-raiser off the ground.

  “I hope it raises a boatload of money for Mr. Matthews,” Wally said.

  “It will,” Frankie assured him. “I
t’s going to be epic.”

  Frankie dashed off to her class, while Wally and I walked down the hall together. I sincerely hoped the topic would keep me engaged and conscious.

  Before we parted ways, I pulled on his arm, yanking him against some lockers. “I need to talk to you for a minute,” I said. “It’s important.”

  He looked slightly alarmed. “What’s wrong?”

  “I did some, um, work on the King’s Security site myself last night. You were right. My dad either worked for or was associated with the NSA.”

  He looked at me, astounded. “You hacked the site after I told you it was NSA? Are you nuts?”

  “Don’t worry. I was careful—more than careful. I found a hole, a security lapse. I waltzed right in.”

  Wally shook his head vigorously. “No way. There was no hole. I swear. I probed it thoroughly. I would have seen it.”

  “You must have missed it.”

  “I didn’t miss anything.” He frowned. “What if it was a trap?”

  “Wally, I’m not stupid. I know what a trap looks like.”

  “We’re talking about the NSA! You don’t know squat.”

  I bristled. “I took extra precautions. I got inside and found documents about my father. I didn’t have time to go through it all yet. But I’m going to find out the truth. I wasn’t traced or tagged. No worries.”

  “Right. You hack the NSA and tell me not to worry.” A worried expression crossed his face. “Angel, is this worth it? What if your father is dead? Are you ready for that?”

  I met his gaze evenly. “My father has been dead to me my whole life. Confirming it won’t change anything.”

  He shook his head. “Are you sure about that?”

  “I need the truth, Wally.”

  “Okay. I hope you’re satisfied with what you find.”

  I didn’t see him again until Red Teaming. Mr. Franklin started the class by asking us what we’d learned by researching the intersection of cybersecurity and artificial intelligence.

  Wen Hai raised his hand. “After researching the work of Gustav Monteray and Omar Haider, I discovered brain-computer interfacing, or BCI for short. It’s the hot new marriage between biotechnology and artificial intelligence. This involves a lot of the work these two guys are doing. In fact, it opens lots of possibilities for hackers to break into things like insulin pumps and pacemakers. Did you know that Dick Cheney, the forty-sixth vice president of the US, had his pacemaker disabled because of the hacking risk?”