Hacked

by Tracy Alexander

  I walked home feeling surprisingly good given that I was newly single and wounded. It was five and a half weeks till my first exam. I was going to surprise everyone by getting the sort of grades that make people hate you (more). I could see myself in sixth form, spending my free periods with Ruby – Pay As You Go forgotten, personal statement riddled with noble acts of volunteering and other interests (TBA), bright future guaranteed.

  The feeling lasted all week. I caught up on my homework, sat at the front in classes, went to the revision sessions at lunchtime, taught Aiden – who’d developed a crush on me – the whole geography syllabus in the gaps, and studied with Ty in the evenings. I nearly made a timetable, but there are limits! Everyone noticed, from my teachers to my parents to El, who declared me a nerd.

  On Friday, the last day of term, Ruby agreed to go to the café with me.

  ‘Just friends?’ she said.

  ‘That’s your call,’ I said.

  ‘Don’t make it difficult, Dan.’

  ‘I’m not. I meant that I’m here, waiting … working, in fact, so when you decide I am perfect boyfriend material, just say.’

  I flashed her a huge smile. Not hard to do.

  She thumped my arm, and I grabbed her hand on its way back and we walked along like that. Nothing else happened, but I’m a patient sort. And anyway, I had no time for girls – there were Newton’s Laws of Motion to nail.

  I strolled home, full of hot chocolate and brownie, looking forward to a couple of weeks off school, and sure of my plan to win back Ruby. The contentment was brief. The butterfly effect was about to produce devastating news. I had fifteen hours until meltdown.

  22

  Saturday morning. No need to get up. No need to get up for seventeen days. I opened my eyes, noted the sunlight streaming in through the gap in my blue checked curtains, thought for a while. Random … nothing … scattered …

  Get up, Dan. Work to do.

  I poured the milk up to the rim of my bowl and dropped in one Weetabix – no splash. I ate it quickly and then dropped in a second. This carried on until the milk to whole-wheat ratio resulted in a dry bowl. Very satisfying. I shoved my glass, bowl and spoon in the dishwasher and went upstairs. Everything nice and normal.

  I logged onto Facebook, which I detest, but had started using to promote my new image (to Ruby) through deadly dull exam-based updates like:

  is trigonometry any use in the real world?

  And:

  the environment is always the answer to the animal studies question

  They were designed to demonstrate that I was working, whilst not being so goody-goody that they looked fake. All part of the plan to turn Hacker Boy into Keener.

  That’s the thing with my ‘condition’, if I have one. I decide things and then persevere until they happen. Time isn’t a significant factor, neither are obstacles. It’s key for a hacker, because coding is full of blind alleys and dead ends. I’m obsessive, I suppose, but without the anxiety and handwashing. I recommend it.

  My last little ritual before I started French revision – un moment, s’il vous plait – was to pop onto a forum to check Angel hadn’t reappeared.

  My mind was so focused on looking for him that it took a few seconds to catch up with the chat that was going on. And a few seconds more to take it in. Too panicked to read the thread properly I joined in, asking for more information.

  what drone are you talking about? – I typed.

  an unmanned US drone on ops in Germany has disappeared been off the radar for 12 hours

  a l33t did it

  how? – I typed.

  they thought it crashed in woods but they didnt find the hardware so now they think it was stolen and the live feed hacked

  Despite the paralysis in my brain I could see how a drone, flying on automatic, could be hijacked by a hacker who could send back whatever footage he chose – like a crash.

  critical stuff – hacking a feed into the US military and walking off with a drone

  is it loaded? – I typed.

  armed and ready

  its carrying Hellfire missiles

  how do you know? – I typed.

  I was willing it to just be talk – script kiddies full of hot air.

  everyone knows

  only a matter of time and it’ll be on CNN

  I stayed logged on but lay down on my bed, eyes closed, and tried to sort through the jumble of thoughts, all scary as hell, that were filling up my head. It took time, minutes, to get the told-you-so voices out of my head – Joe’s ‘You’ve been played’, and Ty whispering, ‘Ever heard of Gary McKinnon?’ As well as the images of Afghan kids being bombed while playing in the street, me being dragged off in handcuffs and Ruby looking at me with utter loathing. Eventually I slowed down my breathing, and got things in order:

  – Angel had challenged me to hack a drone

  – I’d hacked a surveillance drone

  – I’d sent Angel my lines of code so he could, in theory, control a drone (the ‘in theory’ was only in there to make me feel better)

  – I didn’t know whether the code could also access a combat drone

  – Angel disappeared as soon as he got the code

  – so did IRC channel #angeldust

  – a combat drone had disappeared from an American base in Germany

  – was it Angel?

  – who the hell was Angel?

  For all I knew he was a forty-year-old psychopath, or a religious fundamentalist, or a schizophrenic hearing voices telling him to bomb Simon Cowell. I was fuming at the idea he’d been stringing me along, working me like a puppet. I’m not good at dealing with anger. I needed to do something.

  Right.

  I went back to my computer and started information-gathering. I followed any current threads that mentioned drones, half of which were about drone strikes, for and against, a quarter were about toy drones, research drones, drone capability, and the rest were about the missing one. I left messages for Angel anywhere I ever remembered meeting him. Mum called me for lunch. Lunch! There was no way I could swallow bread when I might be responsible for … a drone strike … and carnage.

  There was no way round it – why steal a Predator unless you plan to use it?

  ‘Dan! Come on, I’ve made sausage sandwiches for my hardworking boy.’

  I went to the bathroom and splashed water on my face, took some deep breaths, stared at myself in the mirror and tried to make a normal face, worried that the feeling inside me would show on the outside. Fear. Dread. Disgust. Terror. Guilt.

  ‘Dan!’

  I had to go.

  ‘Sorry,’ I said, forcing a smile as I slid into my chair and smothering my sandwich in tomato sauce to help the lumps go down.

  ‘How’s it going?’ asked Mum.

  ‘Good.’

  The four of us sat round the table eating, with Radio 4 in the background. El gave a blow-by-blow account of her friend’s latest YouTube video – she has her own channel called WhatBetsyDoes, full of cake-making and face-painting. I attacked the lunch as though I was ravenous, desperate to get away from the family meal.

  I needed someone to talk to. Ruby was out of the question, so it was Ty or Joe. They’d both flip, but Joe would be less likely to drag me to the police station to confess. (And Ty only knew half the story.)

  It might be hard to believe I ever went near a drone without thinking about what I was doing, but there’s always more than one way of looking at things.

  A kid kicks a football up in the air again and again, twenty … thirty … forty times … desperate to keep the ball from touching the ground. A free diver holds his breath for … twenty minutes. Actually, I’ve thought of a better example – there are people that can recite Pi to thousands of decimal places.

  And my point is?

  These things are point-less. Ball skills are useful but … let it drop occasionally … it makes no difference. Not breathing is stupid, and gives you brain damage. You can look Pi up and read
it to one million digits. So why do people do these things? Answer – because they can.

  To follow the argument through, a hacker might wonder whether a drone is hackable. No ulterior motive. No agenda. Simply to see if he can.

  Trying to justify my actions wasn’t helping. I ran faster.

  Joe was on his back, shooting the ceiling, like last time.

  ‘Stop for a bit, will you?’

  ‘Why would I want to do that?’ he said.

  ‘Because I need to tell you something.’

  I turned on the light, which took away his screen.

  ‘Girl trouble?’

  ‘If only.’

  I told him what they were saying online. I’m not sure what reaction I expected but it wasn’t laughter.

  ‘It’s not funny, Joe.’

  ‘It is. It’s funny that you think you’ve infiltrated the CIA or whoever owns the drones and Angel’s up there flying one right now about to bomb … the White House.’

  ‘He might be.’

  ‘Dan, even if you really did get control of a drone, like you say you did, by now they’ll have patched up whatever the hole was. You’re a nothing, messing about in your bedroom. This is the US Army we’re talking about. If a drone’s gone missing, they’ll find it. You’re an idiot, but that’s all. Chill!’

  ‘You weren’t exactly “chilled” when I told you what I’d done.’

  ‘That’s because someone needs to try and keep you out of trouble,’ he said, rolling his eyes, ‘or one day you’ll majorly mess up, and they’ll lock you up. But it’s not that day yet.’

  I wanted to believe him. Maybe I had completely overreacted …

  ‘You said it was a spy drone you hacked, didn’t you?’ he said. ‘One with a camera?’

  I nodded.

  ‘And a drone with missiles has gone missing?’

  More nodding.

  ‘Nothing to do with you, then. Come on, let’s play,’ he said, chucking me a controller.

  I settled down on a beanbag like before and, as the action started, I felt myself relax. Joe was right. What were the chances that Angel was a terrorist? Tiny. He set me the challenge because we were talking about drones, and we were talking about drones because I’d hacked the satellite. No one made me do that. Stupid Dan. Everyone knows the internet is full of lies. There probably wasn’t a Predator drone on the loose at all.

  I stayed for an hour before heading home to immerse my head in French – bon idée. Dad was in the kitchen, scribbling the answers in the crossword. He’d finished the Sudoku.

  ‘Just the man I need,’ he said. ‘Seven across …’

  His voice was drowned by the sound of a helicopter passing over. There are often police flying about, chasing stolen cars on their way back to the Southmead Estate.

  ‘That’ll be the missing drone,’ said Dad, clearly joking.

  ‘What missing drone?’ I asked, instantly sweaty.

  ‘It was on the news.’ Dad nodded towards the radio. ‘The Americans have “mislaid” a Predator somewhere in Germany. The Secretary of State for Defence was on, no less. Cyber criminals, they reckon. That’s the trouble with relying on technology instead of people.’

  He went back to the crossword.

  23

  News is everywhere. I searched online sources from the BBC to Reuters, from India Today to World of Warcraft forums. I found tons of Angels, but not the Angel. I found people taking responsibility for the drone. I found pornography. I found lunatics demanding death to Americans, Muslims, Jews and Justin Bieber. What I didn’t find was anything that shed any light on whether I was involved or not. I supposed that was a good thing. No one was shouting, ‘That kid KP did it. Don’t you remember? It was his challenge.’ Actually, that was odd. All the other members of Angel’s gang who were on IRC #angeldust knew what I knew, so where were they? The channel had disappeared, like its originator, but why weren’t they roaming around trying to find me? I couldn’t remember any of the handles any of them used except Expendable (because of the films) and one that was a snake like Viper or something. And, like Angel, they were nowhere to be seen. I went to look on /digi/. It’s anonymous, and the content is dumped every twenty-four hours. I went fishing in the hope that someone might leak something knowing it wouldn’t come back on them.

  anyone seen Angel? – I typed.

  I bring you news of great joy – someone called Dogbreath (why???).

  jesus is coming

  And so it went on …

  a star in the sky

  a dark star – DarkStar (one of the many).

  ‘We need to go,’ said El, pushing my door open but staying on the landing.

  ‘What are you talking about?’ I said as I swivelled my computer chair.

  She was wearing what ten-year-olds wear to parties – sparkly tights, clip-on earrings and something purple in between. A memory forced its way to the front of my brain. Mum was working because someone had called in sick, Dad had just gone to the football – I’d heard the door slam and the BMW drive away – and I was on sister duty. Today of all days.

  ‘Where are we going?’

  ‘Maeve’s.’ She read the whole invitation aloud, including the address and telephone number for RSVPs.

  ‘OK. Give me five minutes, El.’

  ‘I don’t want to be late.’

  ‘I don’t care what you want.’

  She hovered her foot, but I wasn’t in the mood. I got up and slammed the door. Not shut, slammed. Babysitting! When I was on the verge of …

  What was I on the verge of? Damn!

  I scanned all the open tabs on my screen to see if there was more news, then logged out – because it’s a habit. Got my Gap hoodie and opened my door, stage face on.

  ‘OK, El. Party time!’

  She didn’t answer. Standard behaviour if your brother’s nearly amputated your foot. I leapt down the stairs, as though being pretend-lively could help me get through my shift as ‘responsible adult’.

  I wasted at least five minutes looking under her bed and behind the curtains, calling, ‘Come on, El. I’m sorry I was mean.’

  She was nowhere to be seen, and her coat wasn’t hanging by the front door. What the hell?

  The level of panic was almost paralysing. Ty’s accident … El’s lack of right and left … the fact I was about to be held on terrorism charges. I ran. She’d never gone anywhere on her own. No way to get to Bishop Road without crossing Coldharbour Road, which is busy. Would she know to wait, or step out?

  Lorries. Motorbikes. White vans …

  It’s about a mile to Bishop Road. I kept expecting to see her. How far ahead could she be? I’ve got long legs (but no lungs) and made it in ten minutes. I didn’t know what number the party was at, because I hadn’t listened properly when she said, so couldn’t tell if she was already there, or already dead. It was hard to breathe, or think. Why was Bishop Road so long?

  And then I saw balloons.

  I rang the bell and a man came to the door. Checked shirt, monkey mask.

  ‘I just wanted to check that El … Elena Langley is here.’

  The monkey face laughed (clearly not reading my body language). Turned and shouted, ‘There’s no Elena expected, is there?’

  Three boys with painted faces (tiger, zebra, orange sick) ran to the door to see what was happening. Took a look and scarpered back to the animal party.

  ‘Sorry, wrong house,’ I said.

  Demented, with no idea what to do, I rang Ruby. I’d repeat what I said, except it was gibberish. Luckily her answer wasn’t.

  ‘Isn’t El friends with Grace? Will she be going?’

  Good thinking. Grace is Amelia’s little sister. Amelia is Ruby’s BFF. ‘Can you ring Amelia for me?’

  I got off the phone and stood halfway down Bishop Road. Waiting. There was no way El could have been as quick as me. So where was she? My phone shuddered. It was Ruby … and she had the house number.

  ‘Thank you.’

  I raced bac
k up one block and rang the bell.

  Another dad answered the door.

  ‘I’m Elena’s brother. Is she here? Only I —’

  ‘She’s not here yet,’ said a girl in roughly the same clothes as El but with blonde hair, not brown. Presumably Maeve.

  The mum appeared. Mums have radars that pick up distress signals.

  ‘Is there a problem?’

  I told her what had happened. (The door slamming, not the impending drone strike.)

  ‘We should call your mum,’ she said.

  I shook my head. ‘She’s at work so she won’t answer.’ Not strictly true but I was still hoping for a happy, parent-free ending.

  ‘Fair enough. Are you sure Elena knows the way?’

  Stupid question. Or was it? If you’re walked like a dog, or taxied about, do you take any notice of where you go?

  ‘Actually, she might not.’

  The search party consisted of me, the dad and another mum, recruited when she came to drop off. Having swapped mobile numbers, we all took different routes back to St Albans Road.

  ‘Don’t worry, lad. We’ll find her,’ said Maeve’s dad.

  I retraced my steps, which was pointless, but the party-mum had dished out the orders and mums know best. My phone went. For the first time ever, I was disappointed it was Ruby.

  ‘Was she there?’

  ‘No. We’re out looking for her.’

  ‘I’ll come over.’

  Time really did slow down. I’m serious – it wasn’t my perception that was skewed, seconds dragged. I checked my phone at every other front door or shop window or driveway. A siren wailed in the distance, coming my way.

  Please let it be an old man with a dodgy heart, or a baby coming out too quickly. Please let it not be a little girl, unsure of the way to a party.

  The shrillness made me want to cover my ears.

  The cars pulled over to let the nee-naw pass. I don’t know what part of my body made the decision but I started to run, following the paramedics. The ambulance slowed at the junction and then turned left onto Coldharbour Road. I cut across the road and got honked. I turned to make an angry gesture (because I wasn’t close enough to kick the bodywork) and when I turned back there was El, coming out of the corner shop.