Hacker

by Camille Picott

  The bike was once a sparkly bright red, but much of the color has been eaten away by time and rust. The word Schwinn, flaked away so that it now reads winn, adorns the down tube.

  Hank pedals into downtown Oakland. She rides in the center of the street, her gaze making constant sweeps to the shadowed sidewalks and buildings on either side of her.

  Her dad always says Oakland hadn’t been the safest place before the Default, the day the United States government declared bankruptcy; these days, there was never any guarantee one would make it home alive or unhurt.

  Her parents fret about her traveling alone to her job at East Bay Delivery. They don’t try to stop her because, like her, they know how much they need the extra income she brings in. It’s the difference between being hungry and malnourished. But she sees the worry in their eyes every time she leaves their cubicle. Which is one of the reasons she often leaves before they get home from the dump.

  Hank always takes a different route to work and never leaves home at the same time. Varied routine is key to avoiding ambushes. Once, before she bought the bike, she spent half a day wedged underneath a stairwell, breathing in the stench of urine while a pack of four teenage boys tried to find her. She’s had enough close calls to be wary and paranoid every time she ventures out.

  Logan runs East Bay Delivery in an old high rise on Broadway. It had been a medical facility in the Pre-’Fault days. Now it’s a run-down mishmash of businesses and living quarters.

  Hank wheels her bike up a stairwell; no way can she leave it anywhere unattended. Two boys lounge just inside the second floor door, keeping watch. Both are armed with handguns. She mentally braces herself for the encounter.

  Jacob and Ace are in their early twenties. They smirk as she enters.

  “Hey, it’s Copper Top!” Jacob reaches out to give her red ponytail a hard yank. He and Ace laugh when she stumbles.

  Shifting her balance so the bike won’t fall on top of her, she flips them off. They laugh again.

  “One day, Copper Top.” Jacob leers at her. “One day Logan won’t need you anymore. I’ll look out for you when that day comes.” He thumps his chest for emphasis, his dark eyes sweeping up and down her body in a way that makes her feel dirty.

  She walks a fine line with these boys. It’s true, her position with Logan brings her a measure of security. Still, she has to push just hard enough to earn their respect if she doesn’t want them grabbing her ass or copping a feel when she walks by. She’s seen them do it to meeker girls. She’ll take a yank on her ponytail any day.

  “You’ll be third on my list when that day comes, Jacob,” she says, wheeling her bike past him.

  Something dark crosses the other boy’s expression, but he covers it with another leer. “Three’s my lucky number, Copper Top.” Both boys laugh again.

  She wants to shove their laughter down their throats and make them choke on it. Instead, she continues at a measured pace, making sure they know she isn’t running from them.

  Even if she wants to.

  Tristan stands outside the entrance to Logan’s operational suite, only a hundred yards down the hall from Jacob and Ace. He had a clear view of Hank’s exchange with them.

  “His girlfriend dumped him a few days ago for knocking her around,” Tristan says without preamble, using his chin to indicate Jacob.

  Tristan is one of the few guys here who isn’t a complete ass. He’s older than the other two by a few years. His stocky build and long reach make him ideal for security.

  “He’s a powder keg ready to blow,” Tristan adds, sliding another look in Jacob’s direction.

  She recalls the dark undercurrent she saw in Jacob. It isn’t a stretch to imagine him hitting a girl. Logan does it all the time to his girls, and he has them lined up around the block.

  “Thanks, Tristan.” Hank gives him a tight smile. “I’ll be careful.”

  He nods, opening the door to let her in. Hank enters a wide, deep room. She pops her bike up on its back wheel, spinning it around so it faces the door in case she needs to make a fast getaway. Hank always likes to be prepared. She leaves it propped against the wall.

  The suite is filled with the usual hum of activity. Sweaty teenage and twenty-something boys banter with each other, gossiping and trading insults. There are a few girls among them, but they’re big, strong girls with biceps to rival that of the boys. Hank doesn’t fit in.

  In the center of the room is a mound of packages. The employees sort them, flinging them into piles that correspond with locations in northern California’s East Bay.

  The US Postal service went belly up the day of the Default. Pink slips were issued to all locations. All the post offices were locked, their doors chained and windows boarded.

  Logan runs a courier service called East Bay Delivery, which specializes in making local deliveries. Much of their work is for the small businesses that string from Oakland south into Silicon Valley. He even sends couriers west over the Bay Bridge into San Francisco sometimes.

  On the outside, it’s a legit business, something Logan inherited when his father died of heart disease eight years ago. Hank and Mr. Thames work hard to keep it looking legit.

  “Jacob’s Copper Top,” one of the boys jeers as she passes. “Here for her cush office work. You should come and play with us sometime. Do some real work for a change.”

  The other kids chuckle, most of them looking down at her like she’s a waste of space. They think they’re better than her because they navigate the East Bay at all times of the day on their bikes. True, there isn’t one among them who hasn’t had to fight or flee for his life. All carry at least one firearm, if not several. Logan keeps his people well-armed. She knows these people risk their lives every time they ride out on a delivery. The streets aren’t safe for anyone, and Logan guarantees all his customers that their packages will arrive at their target destinations intact.

  All of Logan’s upper management—like Tristan, Ace, and Jacob—started out as delivery boys. Logan doesn’t hand out the “cush” jobs until his employees earn legit street cred. In their eyes, Hank’s never proved herself. She waltzed in and went straight to work in the safety of a converted storage closet.

  Hank rolls her eyes at the boy who made the comment. “When your brain grows to something larger than a pea, maybe we can trade places.” She delivers these sentences without breaking stride. “Try not to get shot tonight, Aaron. Logan would have a hell of a time replacing you.”

  The other kids laugh at that, despite their resentment of Hank’s position. Most of them know she’s good with computers, but they aren’t smart enough to wonder what she does for hours on end in the small room at the back of the suite.

  “Hank. You’re early. Good.” Logan steps out in front of her, closing his office door behind him.

  In his late twenties, Logan is a walking melting pot of ethnicities. He has light eyes, dark skin, and curly, honey-colored hair that he keeps cut close to his scalp.

  He always wears two zip hoodies, one layered on top of the other. It’s his signature look. Hank has never seen him without both of them on. He has what seems like an endless supply of hoodies, rarely wearing the same two twice. Other guys try to mimic Logan by also wearing double hoodies, but none of them quite pull off the odd look the way Logan does.

  On his arm is his latest girl of the month. Like all the girls, she sports cuts and bruises. Logan makes no secret of his proclivities. The girls who latch onto him know what they’re getting into. He rewards them with expensive gifts—like the heels this one is wearing—then shunts them aside when he gets bored. He never keeps a girl for more than six weeks.

  “I have something for you to take care of.” Logan strides past her, heading toward the storage closet that functions as an IT room. The girl follows in his wake, moving with surprising adroitness in her four-inch stilettos.

  “The rest of you . . .” Logan pauses to cast his eyes over the room, taking in all his employees. “Get back to work.”


  A flurry of activity follows this statement, packages flying into their correct piles. The good-natured banter continues between the couriers.

  Hank follows on Logan’s heels. They enter the closet, a rush of stuffy heat boiling out as the door is opened. Logan disengages from his girl, telling her to wait outside, then closes the door.

  The only other person in the room is Mr. Thames. In his mid-forties, he has graying brown hair and a kind smile. His full-time job is sitting at the computer all day doing stuff for Logan. His part-time job is mentoring Hank in the finer points of cyberthievery.

  If there’s one person in this company she likes, it’s Mr. Thames. He’s been nothing but kind to her since her first day on the job. He never complained when Logan dumped a teenager on him to train. And when Hank surpassed his skills in six months, he never resented her for it.

  Mr. Thames looks up from his computer as she enters, smiling at her in greeting. His gaze drifts past her to land on Logan. The smile never falters, but Hank sees something flicker in his eyes. If she didn’t know better, she would say Mr. Thames looks apprehensive.

  “Thames,” Logan says in greeting. “I need you and Hank to clean up the Greenstreet account. Come see me in my office when you’re finished.”

  When the door closes behind Logan, Hank turns to Mr. Thames.

  “Are you okay?” she asks.

  This time, his smile is definitely forced. Hank sees the lie in his eyes when he says, “I’m fine, Henrietta. We have a lot of work to do.” He picks up a Vex set, sliding it in place over his head.

  Hank doesn’t pry any further, even though she’s certain something is bothering Mr. Thames. She plops into her chair—shifting to avoid the piece of plastic that always poke her—then picks up the second Vex set. Following the lead of Mr. Thames, she setting it in place on her head, lowering the goggles to cover her eyes.

  She is swallowed by the blue of Virtual Experience—also known as Vex. She is automatically deposited in East Bay Delivery’s secure Vex site, a vast gray space with two large screens suspended in mid-air.

  At the moment, both of the screens are dormant. Mr. Thames steps up to the screen on the right. His avatar is a man-sized snowy owl. He has the hands and arms of a human; he couldn’t do his work in Vex without them. Springing from his back are a pair of luminous white wings.

  Hank, since she is a minor, has an avatar that mimics her real-world form: too tall, too thin, with long red hair and freckles. Avatars like hers are considered Naked—that is, unadorned by any Axcent modification. Hank dreams of someday being old enough to add Accents to her avatar. The first thing she is going to do is shrink it to a respectable five foot five inches.

  “We have eighty thousand in the Greenstreet account. We’re going to clean with Deka Bank in Germany.”

  Hank nods, anticipation tingling along her real-world body. Back in the real-world, she sits motionless at the desk in Logan’s IT closet; all her words and actions in Vex are controlled by her mind.

  Deka Bank has some of the toughest cybersecurity in Vex. The code for the firewalls and IDS—intrusion detection system—morph every ninety seconds. The bank keeps a large roster of programmers on their payroll and are constantly scrubbing and updating their code.

  The first screen comes to life under Mr. Thames’ touch, code flaring to life as he enters the Greenstreet account. Hank does the same on the second screen.

  They work silently side by side. Despite the fact that she’s using Deka Bank to launder eighty thousand dollars, Hank finds herself sliding into the challenge of the job. Her focus narrows. Her fingers fly over the screen as she watches the constantly shifting code and moves to counter the bank’s defense systems.

  Although she would never admit it aloud, she finds a thrill in the work. Every time she makes a successful counter, triumphant pride wells within her.

  But that isn’t the only thing she feels. Also nestled within her is shame over the illegal activity. She tells herself they’re only swindling the government, helping Logan avoid having to pay obscene amounts of taxes. The government is corrupt and practically useless anyway, so really, no one is getting hurt.

  It’s not logical that Logan could make this much money delivering packages. Hank knows this, but she’s never been brave enough to ask where the money comes from.

  Questions could lead to her to losing her job, to her family ending up poorer than they already were. Questions could lead to her family having to leave McClymonds High and move to a refugee camp. Questions could lead to her not being able to study under Mr. Thames, and she’s not stupid enough to think there are other middle-aged hackers out there willing to take a poor teenager under their wing.

  Hank isn’t willing to risk any of that, so she keeps all her questions carefully tucked away.

  After nearly two hours, her work with Mr. Thames is complete. Every last dollar has been successfully washed, bleached, and pressed to perfection.

  Mr. Thames turns to her, the white feathers along the top of his head dropping in a manner that makes him look impossibly sad.

  “We don’t have a lot of time,” he says, voice urgent. “I want you to know that working with you these past three years has been a joy. It’s not every day a man has the privilege of teaching such a gifted student.” One feathery wing brushes her cheek.

  “Mr. Thames, what’s going on?” Why is he speaking to her like he’s never going to see her again?

  He avoids her question. “Whatever you do, don’t make the mistake I made. Keep your head down, work hard, and provide for those who depend on you.”

  “What are you talking about? Mr. Thames, what’s wrong?”

  “Goodbye, Hank.” He just smiles at her—a smile filled with infinite regret and sorrow—and disappears from Vex.

  3

  Promotion

  ––––––––

  Hank yanks off her own Vex set. The real-world crashes in around her. She arrives just in time to see the closet door shut behind Mr. Thames.

  She jumps to her feet, intending to go after him, then hesitates, hand on the doorknob. A kernel of fear rotates in her chest, refusing to be ignored.

  She drops her hand and slips back into her chair. What’s going on? Why was Mr. Thames acting so strange? Why did he say goodbye like they were never going to see each other again? Why can’t she shake the feeling that something terrible is going to happen to him?

  A small sheet of paper covered with Mr. Thames’ blocky handwriting is taped to the top of her computer screen. It’s a list of bank accounts and sums of money that need to be cleaned. Most of it is easy stuff she can do from the computer without Vex. Not knowing what else to do, she pulls the keyboard toward her and gets to work.

  Over an hour passes before the door opens. She looks up, hoping to see Mr. Thames, but it’s only Tristan.

  “Logan wants to see you,” he says without preamble.

  She’s in the middle of working on a large sum of money Logan received from a client outside of Chicago.

  “Can I finish this transaction?” she asks.

  Tristan shrugs. “Make it fast.”

  Hank neatly makes the money disappear into an equity group supposedly gathering investors for an offshore desalinization plant in Japan.

  She pushes her chair back and follows Tristan down the hall to Logan’s office.

  Logan sits behind a wide wooden desk from the Pre-‘Fault era, his girl-of-the-month nowhere in sight. A painter stands on a ladder behind him, working on a beach mural. Her brush makes pale beams of sunlight radiate through a blue sky with fluffy clouds.

  “Hank.” Logan twines his index finger around two of his hoodie strings. “Mr. Thames has kept me appraised of your progress these past three years. I’m pleased with your work. Jasper was right to recommend you.”

  Hank tries to hide the glow of pleasure his compliment stirs within her. It’s at odds with the unease crawling up her spine.

  “Does any of the work bother you?”
Logan asks.

  “I like it,” Hank says, words rushing out in her nervousness.

  “What part do you like?”

  “All of it.” This isn’t a complete lie; she does like her work. She just wishes it were legal. “It’s never boring.”

  Logan drops the hoodie strings and steeples his fingers, studying her. “I’m glad to hear that. I’ve decided you’re ready for the next level of training. What do you think?”

  She nods, sitting up straight in her chair. “I would like that.” Maybe she would get a raise. Maybe her nervousness had been for nothing. Maybe Mr. Thames’ strange behavior was nothing more than the result of a bad day at work. Everyone had those.

  “I’m glad to hear it.” Logan stands, chair rolling back on well-greased wheels. “Come. Mr. Thames is ready to show you everything you need to know to be a truly excellent employee.”

  Hank jumps to her feet, following Logan out of the room. Tristan, who had been silent during the exchange, falls into step behind her. She glances back at him once, wondering at the stony expression on his face, then dismisses it. Tristan is always severe at best.

  Logan takes her down the hall, past the closet where she works, to a door secured by a retinal scanner. In all the time she’s been an employee here, she hasn’t seen anyone beyond Logan and his most trusted employees pass through this doorway. The significance of this moment is not lost on her.

  Logan holds open the door for her. She smiles, hoping her expression shows him how grateful she is.

  Inside the door is a small landing. Beyond that is a well-lit staircase with a metal hand railing.

  The first thing that registers is the smell. Hank wrinkles her nose in response.

  “Something wrong?” Logan asks.

  Hank shakes her head. “No. It just smells like something got burned. Is everything okay?”

  Logan just nods. He turns without comment, heading down the stairs. Tristan gestures, indicating she is to follow.

  Hank takes in her new surroundings, doing her best to ignore the burned smell that grows stronger as she moves down the steps. Crisp white paint surrounds her on all sides. The LED lights cast an austere pallor over the stairwell. Everything is clean and pristine.