Is there something I could add to, where I could work a few hours a week and make a useful contribution?
Everything changes so fast, and the demands on my time would make it so—
“Boss? You coming to staff?” Amber gestures toward the conference room. “It’s ten now.”
Exactly my point. There’s no way I can do anything without getting interrupted. “Be right there.”
Amber nods and leaves.
I shove my laptop into my bag for the short journey to the conference room to free my hand for my coffee cup, and make it halfway to the conference room before I realize I’ve forgotten the coffee. I go back for my cup, and arrive to find to conference room full.
Igloo must have had the band in over the weekend, because we’re in the big conference room, and there is space for us all now.
I set my laptop down and connect wirelessly to the big screen. I look up at the room, and the talking dies down.
Wow. There are forty-two of us here. I only know the number because headcount growth came up in the investor briefing yesterday. Technically we don’t have employee numbers, because Igloo complained that monotonically increasing identification numbers contributed to the male-dominated, hierarchical management paradigm, so we all have SHA keys instead.
“Where is Igloo?” I ask Amber.
“Not here,” Amber says.
“Igloo’s never missed a day before.”
“She’s probably hungover,” a friend of hers calls out.
That might be, but still, Igloo has never missed a day. Oh, I’ve discovered her on the couch in the break room, reeking of alcohol and pot, but actually not in the office is disconcerting. Still, everyone gets sick eventually.
The meeting passes without incident, and I give the presentation about our plans for the next couple of weeks, including our major development themes. I introduce the new guy, our third business development hire. Afterwards, I’m sidelined into a debate over third-party testing and validation, which goes right through lunch, which I’d planned to use for a series of phone calls, and then I’m into a string of afternoon meetings with marketing.
Dinnertime comes, and half the employees are still here. A call goes round for Mexican takeout orders, and they make the new guy go pick up the order. When the food shows up, everyone gathers in the break room. I grab my burrito and make a hasty exit. I hear the distant thud and the sound of laughter as they try to load a new keg into the refrigerator. I wonder if Igloo’s band has been taking advantage of the free beer. If so, that might be pushing things a bit. I’ll talk to Igloo about it when she gets back.
I think back to the commits I reviewed this morning. I didn’t see anything from Igloo in the last few days. It was the weekend, but this is Igloo we’re talking about. She must be really sick.
I grab my phone, hesitate a second, then dial Igloo.
The phone rings and rings.
“This is Igloo. If you are not the man, leave a message.”
“Hey. This is Angie. I wanted to check to see if you were okay.”
I send the same message by text.
* * *
I show up on Tuesday morning, a bit late after meeting with Mat. I’ve got a heavy buzz from an over-caffeinated coffee, and I’m hyper when I arrive at the office. I greet the first few employees with way too much enthusiasm.
“We IPO already?” Amber asks. “You’re sure excited.”
“No, I just drank a mutant coffee bean.”
“Eat some protein. There’s fried chicken in the fridge.”
“Will that help?”
“Not really. I was mostly suggesting it for the placebo effect. Also, I wanted to see if I could make you eat fried chicken for breakfast.”
“Is Igloo in?”
“No.”
“Have you heard from her?”
Amber shakes her head. “Give the girl a break. She works twelve, sixteen hours a day, seven days a week. Everyone needs some time off.”
I nod and head to my desk. I send another quick message: “Hope you’re feeling okay. Send me a message and let me know you’re still alive.”
It’s another grueling day at work. The Series B funding is in the last stage of wrapping up, with everything in the lawyers’ hands. There’s nothing I need to do, but knowing what’s happening in the background doubles my tension.
In the late afternoon, I go for a walk, and when I come back, the smell of leftover fried chicken is overwhelming. I check my messages again. The lawyers are waiting on one last set of supposedly minor tweaks from CompEx, then we’ll have an agreement to sign.
I pace back and forth in my office, still worried about Igloo. I can’t do this. I need to get out of here.
Sitting in my car, I tether my laptop to my phone, and check HR records to get Igloo’s address. She lives in an apartment complex on the East Side, off Sandy Boulevard. I drive over and park outside her building, feeling foolish, like an overprotective mother.
She’s an adult, right? She doesn’t need me watching her. It would be a great way to spoil a perfectly good employee relationship if I act weird. Still, my gut aches.
I shut off the engine, brainstorming excuses for why I’m visiting her at home. For all I know, I’m breaking some employer law. I hit the intercom for her apartment, and wait without getting an answer.
I stare at the front door, noting the lock mechanism and intercom model. I’m fairly certain I had some exploits for this model, back when I had my . . . hobby. My tools are backed up, heavily encrypted, sitting on random hard drives, including a server in Germany, in case I need them again. Not easily accessible at this moment.
I hit buttons for other apartments. It’s a modern system that uses an autodialer to ring their phone, and can only dial one person at a time.
“Hello?”
“It’s me, I’m at the door.”
“Me who?”
“Sorry, wrong button.”
It takes six tries before someone buzzes the door open.
I find Igloo’s apartment on the second floor and knock. No answer. I knock louder, my knuckles complaining. Still no answer.
Ten minutes later I’m back in my car, still staring at the apartment building.
I drive along Burnside, looking for an open coffee shop. I park outside one, and take out my laptop. I change the MAC address, using a bit of shell script to store the old one and generate a new one. I shut down everything I can that might connect to the net and leak any data about who I am. No browser, no email widgets, no Dropbox, no software update tools. When there’s nothing left except Firefox running in incognito mode, I connect to the wi-fi, and download TOR. It’s compromised, but better than nothing.
I make a couple of configuration changes from memory, and log into A Dead Channel. I page sysop.
SysOp> Back from the dead?
Angel> Long story. Been busy.
SysOp> I know. Been watching. You want a locate on your friend?
I know Nathan keeps tabs on me, and I’m fine with that. We’ve been friends a long time, and it’s good to have people watching your back. I didn’t realize he was keeping that close a watch, though. He is blind, so at least I don’t need to worry about him watching my video feeds. But if he can do this, who else can?
Angel> Yeah, her mobile geo would be nice.
SysOp> Hold on.
Two minutes go by. A few people go into the coffee shop. A cop drives by.
SysOp> In her apartment, in the SW corner.
Angel> You sure? I was just there.
SysOp> Yes. You want history?
Nathan could tell me everything about what Igloo’s done online and in the physical world, probably inside of ten minutes. Is it worth that level of intrusion into her privacy? I can’t operate that way anymore.
Angel> No, I’m good. Thanks. Owe you one.
I disconnect everything and power down the laptop. It’s not perfect, although it’s the best I can do without other tools handy to ensure no traces of
my connection to the board is in memory.
Back at Igloo’s apartment, I do my thing at the door again, starting with apartment number seven, until someone buzzes me in. I go back to Igloo’s, knock on the door, and then text her. “I know you’re inside. You don’t want to open the door, you don’t reply to messages. I’m worried about you. I’m not leaving until you tell me what’s going on.”
I sit down on the floor, wrap my arm around my chest, and wait.
A few minutes later I hear footsteps near the door, but it doesn’t open.
“I’m still here,” I call out loudly.
“Go away, Angie.” She talks through the door, her voice muffled.
“I’m worried about you and I don’t want you to be alone.”
“I’m fine.”
“You haven’t committed any code in five days. You’re not fine.”
“Can you please leave?”
“No. Let me know what’s going on. We can talk.”
“I’m sick. I don’t want to infect you.”
“I’ve already lost an arm. I’m not afraid of germs.”
Nothing. I keep waiting.
“Are you still there?”
“Yes.”
The deadbolt turns and the door opens.
“You can come in.”
I practically jump to my feet. At least, what counts as jumping for a forty-five-year-old, out-of-shape computer programmer. I inspect Igloo’s face. It’s red, and she’s got bags under her eyes. Nothing I can see looks like bruises, although she’s mostly covered up as usual, under layers of clothing and regular baggy white hoodie.
I couldn’t admit it to myself before, but I was worried she had gotten into trouble with a man. It doesn’t appear that way, at least not obviously. I let out a small sigh of relief.
I follow her into the apartment. It’s small. A tiny, gloomy living room and kitchen, and through an open door, I see a bedroom, brightly lit.
Igloo turns on the living room light and clears her throat. “See? I’m fine.”
“I thought you were sick.”
“I am.”
“You look okay.”
“You’re not my mother. I didn’t want to come into work, okay? Is that such a problem?”
“You’ve never not come into work before. I wasn’t even sure you had a place to live outside the office. Why don’t you tell me what’s really going on?”
We’re standing awkwardly, facing each other across the living room. In the kitchen, dishes are piled up, garbage on the counter.
“It’s nothing you can help with.”
There is something. I knew it.
“Is a guy bothering you?”
She shakes her head.
“A girl?”
“No. It’s not about me. It’s my sister, Claire.”
“What’s going on?” I take a seat on the couch, hoping Igloo will follow suit.
She slumps into a chair across the room.
“She, ah . . .” Igloo runs her hands through her hair, then pulls apart a greasy tangle. “Aw, fuck. It’s complicated.”
I nod and wait, suddenly feeling like my therapist.
“Claire took pictures of herself and her girlfriend. My mother doesn’t know about the girlfriend.”
I’m confused about where this is going. “How old is she?”
“Fourteen.”
“Your mom saw the pictures?”
“No.” Igloo takes a deep breath, and I realize she’s on the verge of crying. “Someone messaged Claire. They hacked her phone and had the photos. They threatened to share the photos with everyone. You know what it’s like? When you’re different, and everyone gossips about the slightest thing.”
Now Igloo does cry.
“What’d they want?”
“More photos. Naked pictures.”
Oh, crap. I know where this is going. “Did she?”
Igloo nods and wipes her face with her sleeve.
“And then they wanted still more,” I say, “and they used each new round of more compromising photos to blackmail her.”
Ratters, possibly the most villainous scum on the net this side of Mos Eisley, use remote access tools to invade their victims’ phones and computers and toy with them. A subset of the more manipulative and cruel assholes keep escalating their demands, obtaining ever more incriminating photos and videos, until they turn their victims into their personal online sex slaves.
“They won’t stop,” Igloo yells, her voice choked up. “Why won’t they leave her alone?”
If they’ve taken it this far, they will never leave her alone, not until they run out of ways to torture her (unlikely) or become bored of her (somewhat likely) or she kills herself. It’s not going to help to tell Igloo this.
“Why are you here,” I ask, “and not with her?”
“I thought I could find them, figure out who’s doing this. She sent me their messages. They’re coming from an IP address range in Sweden that belongs to a VPN provider.”
“You’re not going to be able to trace them.” In fact, it’s more likely they’ll find Igloo and threaten her too.
“No, but they’re using a tool called Mole to take over her phone. Because they know things she’s only talked about, like they’re listening to her all the time, even when she’s not on the phone. I found a darknet forum where Mole was created and I’m pretending to be a teenage guy.”
“She should turn her phone off,” I say. “Not give them anything else to use against her.”
Igloo shakes her head. “They told her she’s not allowed to turn her phone off, or they’ll share the photos.” Her voice catches. “They created a whole website under her name, password protected. They keep threatening to turn off the password.”
“Is she likely to hurt herself?”
Igloo wipes her face on her sleeve. “I don’t know.”
“You should go home right away, be with her.”
“I’m going to find the assholes who are doing this and fucking kill them.”
“I will take care of it,” I say, my voice firm.
Igloo looks up at me.
“I have contacts from when I used to work in security, white hats. They’ll find these guys quickly, faster than you. They can take care of the website, and destroy all the photographs.”
Igloo stares. I’m not sure if she’s even seeing me.
“What did I tell you your first day at Tapestry?”
“Never get coffee or fix the copier for a man.”
I come over and sit next to her. “True, but not what I was thinking. I also said I would take care of my employees, and I will. Go pack right now. I’ll drive you to the airport. Whatever’s the next flight home, take it. Be with your sister. She needs you in person. I’ll take care of these scum.”
* * *
It’s almost one in the morning by the time I see Igloo off at the airport. I solve one small mystery when I watch her pack. I often wondered how her sweatshirt stays clean, given she never takes it off. Half of her closet was white hoodies, one after another hanging in a row.
I’ve been up since five, and I’m exhausted after fourteen hours of work and tonight’s drama. Still, there’s no way I can sleep. Every hour that passes increases the chance of irreparable harm. If the scum post photos or videos publicly, there will be no way to scrub them from the Internet, despite Tomo’s pretend version of privacy. Whether anything is released anything or not, the odds are high Igloo’s sister may harm herself.
I need my tools and a place to work.
There’s a storage facility off I-84 I chose specifically for its location and 24-hour access. I drive there now, park in a corner out of range of the security camera. With my laptop bag over my shoulder, I skirt the parking lot to enter through a side door, my hand over my eyes as if to shield them from the light. I have a soft RFID transmitter that can mimic different RFID keys, and in this case, I have the codes of several different tenants I stole over the course of a few months after I got my own st
orage room. The reader rejects the first code, accepts the second, and the door unlocks with a click.
I make my way to my storage room, an eight-by-ten cinderblock box at the back of the building. I enter the room and switch on the single fluorescent tube that spans the ceiling. It blinks and buzzes, and then settles into an uneasy light. The room is half full of furniture, with a stack of cardboard boxes along one wall. I pull out a folding chair and card table, set both up, and start my laptop.
In the 1800s, railroad companies criss-crossed the United States in unbroken lines spanning thousands of miles.
In 1865, the Southern Pacific Railroad formed and, over time, acquired other companies, peaking at 14,000 miles. Their right-of-way encompassed the railroad line and a swath on either side of the tracks. Southern Pacific built a nation-spanning communications network along those tracks using microwave transmitters run by a division of the company called Southern Pacific Communications.
In 1972, Southern Pacific Communications began leasing extra capacity on their network to large companies as private long-distance phone lines, skirting the existing telephone monopoly. Then in ’78, MCI won the right to provide switched-telephony services to compete with AT&T. Southern Pacific also sued, and, in the Execunet II decision, was granted the right to offer their own switched telephone network. They needed a new name and chose SPRINT, an acronym for Southern Pacific Railroad Internal Networking Telephony.
That brings us to the modern day, and the fiber optic switch station located on the other side of this cinderblock wall.
A couple of years ago, I broke into a Sprint supply truck and replaced a stock blade server with a customized version. I was back in touch with Nathan9 by then. Still the master, compared to me, he connected to the Sprint network switch station and faked imminent failure messages from a blade server. The monitoring team received the messages and routed the truck to the station, where the blade was replaced with my compromised version.
Now I enjoy direct access to Sprint’s Internet backbone through my blade server plugged into their slot.
Years ago I compromised a server cluster in Germany, and it, along with a few other servers around the world, have been unwittingly hosting backups of all my tools for years. I download a compressed virtual machine, or VM, image from the server. The VM runs on my Mac, insulating the host operating system by running a simulated computer within the real one. If someone tries to attack or profile me, they’ll only penetrate as far as the virtual machine. The VM is preconfigured with all the tools I don’t want found on my computer because merely possessing them is a crime.
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