I shrug.
“Yeah, that’s true. However, all their data gets mirrored to their warm site in Chantilly. That’s physically isolated from the public networks. The only way to get the data back out from there would be to insert a virtual agent into their external nets, and have it persist there long enough to be mirrored. They comb through their data very, very carefully before they mirror anything over. That’s the part that I don’t believe can be done.”
Tariq is staring at the floor, his hands flexing rhythmically. He looks up.
“What if you had physical access to the server farm in the Chantilly facility?”
I laugh. Tariq meets my eyes without blinking.
“Wait,” I say. “Are you serious?”
“I am,” says Tariq. “If you had physical access to their servers, would you be able to do this?”
I take a moment to think about that.
“Well,” I say finally. “Speaking hypothetically, if I had physical access to the servers, and some time to work with them without being shot or stabbed or anally electrocuted . . . yeah, I might have a shot at it. I’d want to talk to Inchy first, to see if he has any pointers on breaking their firewalls. If I could put some of his code into one of my cracker avatars, I’d give myself even odds of being able to pull it off.”
“So,” says Charity. “Are we a go on this?”
I laugh again.
“No, Charity. We are not a go. I think I mentioned that we were speaking hypothetically. Chantilly is the heart of the panopticon, and I am not a ninja. There is no possible way that I can get physical access to NatSec’s server farm.”
Tariq looks at Charity, then back at me.
“I can,” he says.
Sir Munchalot:
Sir Munchalot:
Angry Irish Inch:
Sir Munchalot:
Sir Munchalot:
Angry Irish Inch:
Sir Munchalot:
Angry Irish Inch:
Sir Munchalot:
Sir Munchalot:
Angry Irish Inch:
Sir Munchalot:
Angry Irish Inch:
Sir Munchalot:
Angry Irish Inch:
Sir Munchalot:
Angry Irish Inch:
Sir Munchalot:
Sir Munchalot:
Angry Irish Inch:
Sir Munchalot:
Angry Irish Inch:
Sir Munchalot:
Angry Irish Inch:
Sir Munchalot:
Angry Irish Inch:
Sir Munchalot:
Angry Irish Inch:
Sir Munchalot:
Angry Irish Inch:
Sir Munchalot:
Angry Irish Inch:
Sir Munchalot:
Angry Irish Inch: <???>
Sir Munchalot:
Angry Irish Inch:
Sir Munchalot:
Angry Irish Inch:
Sir Munchalot:
Angry Irish Inch:
Sir Munchalot:
Angry Irish Inch:
“Before we go any farther,” I say, “we should probably discuss payment terms.”
“This is true,” says Charity. “Gary needs to be able to pay his subcontractors.”
“I only have one subcontractor,” I say.
She looks confused.
“I thought you said you were getting help from one of your friends?”
I nod.
“Right. Inchy. That’s my subcontractor.”
“So am I a full partner, then?”
We’re sitting around the breakfast table in the kitchen. Anders called in a pizza and four liters of soda after the storm quieted down, and we’re passing around cups and slices.
“No,” I say. “You are not a full partner. You’re more of an unpaid intern.”
She shakes her head.
“I don’t think so. I’ve already provided you several valuable services.”
“Such as?”
“Well, for starters, not having my ex-boyfriend come here and kill you all.”
“She makes a good point,” says Anders. “You should probably pay the lady.”
Tariq scrapes the cheese off of his pizza, and leaves it in a greasy lump on his plate. Terry raises one eyebrow. Tariq shrugs. Terry picks up his cheese, and pops it into her mouth.
“I thought we had agreed that you have as much stake in this as we do,” says Tariq.
“That may be,” I say. “But as Charity says, I have to pay my subs. Also, I think my liability here is a lot smaller than yours. You need to erase any record that NatSec has of Elise being alive in Hagerstown on Sunday afternoon. I just need to make sure that there’s no record that she was in my house. That’s a much easier job. If you want me to focus on that and forget about the video, then I guess we can call it square.”
Tariq scowls. Terry takes another slice of pizza.
“Fine,” she says. “How much?”
“Well,” I say, “that’s partially dependent on how much Bar Floozie here intends to extort from me.”
Charity shrugs.
“Five thousand?”
“Done,” I say. “Inchy’s gonna want more like twenty-five. Ordinarily I’d need something similar, but I’ll credit you with the work I’d need to do to save my own ass. Forty grand total sounds about right. Does that work for you two?”
“I think we have little leverage to negotiate,” he says. “If this is your price, then we will pay it.”
“Excellent,” I say. “Make the transfer, and I’m on the job.”
“Wait,” says Terry. “You’re expecting us to pay in advance?”
“Well, yeah,” I say. “Tariq’s apparently going to break into the most secure facility in North America. I’m pretty sure if I don’t get my money up front, I’m not going to get it at all.”
“He also makes a good point,” says Anders.
Terry shoots him a poisonous look.
“Shut up, Anders.”
Anders grins. I glance at Charity. She catches my eye and winks.
“Okay,” she says. “Are we a go now?”
“Yes,” I say. “I believe we are a go.”
My fabber has just spit out a pass card that Inchy assures me is NatSec coded and keyed to Tariq’s biometrics, when a chat frame pops up in my field of view.
Argyle Dragon:
Drew P. Wiener:
Fenrir:
It’s an audio file. I blink to stream.
“To anyone who can hear this: My name is Robert Barrow. I’m in Portland, Oregon. Whatever happened in Hagerstown on Sunday—it’s happening here. People are dying, choking on blood . . . But listen—it’s not everyone. It’s not even most people. I’m fine. My wife, my daughter—they’re fine. We’re at a ball game right now. A bunch of the people in the stands are dead or dying, but at least half are okay. I’m sure NatSec is going to say we’re all dead and they have to do what they did to Hagerstown. For God’s sake, don’t let them. This will be redacted as soon as they figure out what’s going on, so please, repost if you can. We need your help. My daughter—she’s six years old. She needs your help. Please. Don’t let them burn us.”
Hayley 9000:
Fenrir:
Argyle Dragon:
Fenrir:
Drew P. Wiener:
Hayley 9000:
Drew P. Wiener:
Fenrir:
Drew P. Wiener:
A second frame pops open. I blink the first one closed.
Angry Irish Inch:
Sir Munchalot:
Angry Irish Inch:
Sir Munchalot:
Angry Irish Inch:
Sir Munchalot:
Angry Irish Inch:
Sir Munchalot:
Angry Irish Inch:
Sir Munchalot:
Angry Irish Inch:
Sir Munchalot:
Angry Irish Inch:
Sir Munchalot:
Angry Irish Inch:
Sir Munchalot:
I blink the second window closed.
“Well?”
I look around. Terry is standing behind me with her arms crossed. Anders, Tariq, and Charity are in the hallway, crowded around the door.
“Well,” I say. “First, what are you doing in my room? I told you to wait downstairs. Second, Portland just got whacked, so the time to jump is now.”
“Wait,” says Anders. “Portland, Oregon? You mean like Hagerstown?”
“Looks like it. Whatever’s happening out there, it’s going to keep NatSec busy for a while.”
I catch Terry’s eye. A faint twinge of guilt tickles the base of my skull.
“Hey, Terry?” I start, then trail off. She raises one eyebrow in question. Anders and Tariq turn to look at me as well.
“Got something to say?” Anders asks.
“Yeah,” I say. “Sort of. How tight are you and Dimitri, exactly?”
She shrugs.
“I dunno. Kind of? We’re friends, that’s all.”
“Right,” I say. “Friends, but not family. So if you had to pick somebody to get an ice pick in the back of the skull, and your only choices were Dimitri and Elise, you’d definitely pick Dimitri, right?”
They’re all staring at me now.
“Gary,” Anders says. “Is there a point to this?”
I look at Anders, then Terry, then back at Anders. Probably best to let this go.
“No,” I say. “No point.”
I walk out into the hall. Terry trails after me. She looks vaguely unhappy, but she doesn’t pursue the question. I hand the pass card to Tariq.
“This and your retina will open doors, and ought to log you into any systems that the real owner is authorized for. However, if a human cross-checks your identity, he will almost certainly not be fooled.”
For the first time, Tariq looks worried.
“Is there a heavy human presence at Chantilly?”
I shake my head.
“No. The security there is almost entirely automated. They’ve got avatar-run visual surveillance of pretty much every square inch of the facility, but I’m assuming you’ll be able to wizard that, right?”
Tariq doesn’t look as confident now as he did before. I hand him the data pin.
“Upload what’s on this onto any machine in the server farm. My avatar will do the rest. Understand?”
He nods. I look at Anders. Anders looks at Tariq. Terry clears her throat. Finally, Charity speaks.
“So what happens now? Does he just disappear in a puff of smoke? I’ve never seen a wizard in action.”
“No,” I say. “I’m pretty sure that now he rides away on his magical ATV. Right, Tariq?”
He nods again, and starts down the stairs.
“So,” says Anders. “Anybody for a gin and tonic while we wait?”
We’re back in
the living room—Anders and Terry together on the couch, Charity in one recliner and me in the other. Turns out we don’t have either gin or tonic, but we do have rum and grape soda, so everyone’s more or less happy. There’s nothing about Portland yet on the official newsfeeds, but a few of the less-clueless private channels are starting to buzz.
“So Anders,” I say. “How’s Doug’s super-top-secret project going? Have you discovered a new form of porn? Hippo on wildebeest, maybe?”
“Nah,” he says. “Turns out the whole file’s just a really elaborate knock-knock joke.”
“I thought you said it was the secret formula for BrainBump,” says Charity.
Anders rolls his eyes.
“Having trouble with the whole ‘super-top-secret’ concept, huh, Charity?”
“Oh please,” she says. “You said what it was right in front of me. If you can tell the bar slut, I assume you can tell your roommate, who was probably monitoring you the whole time anyway, right?”
“It’s bar floozie,” I say. “You’d need to sleep with at least one of us to qualify as a bar slut.”
“Give me time,” she says.
My heart skips a beat.
“Actually, I didn’t,” says Anders.
“Didn’t what?” I ask.
“Didn’t say that Doug’s files were design configurations for the BrainBump nanos. I said that to Doug. Charity had already left the room.”
Charity catches my eye and mouths ‘sorry.’ Anders is staring me down.
“Fine,” I say. “I might have been duping everything you said and did to the living-room wallscreen. You were working through my systems. Shouldn’t I have the right to know if you were doing something that was gonna bring a crowbar down on my head?”
The muscles in Anders’ jaw are bulging in a tooth-cracking kind of way.
“Anyway,” he says finally. “Yeah, I’m pretty sure the file Doug gave me is the design specs for the nanos in BrainBump—but there’s something else there as well, and I’m not sure what it is. I’ve got some suspicions, but I need access to a Siemens fabricator to test them out.”
“What kind of suspicions?” I ask. There’s an unpleasant tingling in the pit of my stomach. I’ve probably drunk more BrainBump over the last ten years than anyone else in North America. I’ve put away three cans of it just today.
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