Biohack

by J D Lasica

  26

  Brooklyn, New York, August 23

  T he half ruck across Brooklyn took most of the morning. She used it to clear her head and finalize the questions she wanted to ask. Now it was time to play this out and get some answers.

  Kaden entered B Collective, super sore from the fifty pounds she carried on her back during the hike but no worse for wear. She washed up and set down Nico’s backpack in a corner of the office. She eased into her chair, checked her messages, and saw nothing pressing she had to deal with.

  She took a deep breath to steady herself. It was time.

  “Hey guys, heads up.” She had mapped out a plan of action with Nico last night and during the march, and now she outlined her idea to the others. They were all on board, nodding their support.

  She encrypted her video feed and entered the code to access her private hack on Blackburn’s machine. Nico, Sayeed, Annika, and Colin all gathered around the periphery of her monitor’s webcam .

  They could see Blackburn working up some numbers in a spreadsheet, but he couldn’t see them.

  Until … right … now! She entered the command to make her feed go live.

  “Mr. Blackburn, good morning. We need to talk.”

  Blackburn’s eyes flew wide and he reared back in his chair, startled by someone commandeering his computer screen.

  “My name is Kaden, and I’m one of your operatives.” She thought it only fair to reveal her identity. He probably already knew who she was anyway.

  Blackburn fidgeted, clearly not used to talking into a computer screen. He paused, as if deciding whether to summon his security people. Instead, he leaned forward a little and spoke haltingly to one side of the computer screen. “Can you hear me?”

  “Yes. I can hear you just fine. I need some answers.”

  “How did you track me down?” He looked a little rattled. “Never mind, not important. You’re the one who neutralized my guards and broke into my home.”

  Kaden raised her voice a little. “Yes, sorry about that. Like I said, I need some ans—.”

  “I’m not in the habit of talking with home intruders.” Blackburn narrowed his cold dark eyes. “What is it you want?”

  Kaden took the measure of the man. He was thin and dour-looking, with silver hair and a closed, studied expression, as if he’d mastered the art of not giving anything away.

  “Let’s start with this. Why me? Why choose me for your special ops missions?”

  Nico leaned in supportively, right above her shoulder.

  Blackburn shook his head dismissively and gathered some papers on his desk. “I don’t have time for your games, child.”

  “You better make time!” Her other friends came up from behind to close ranks and show they had her back. “Why me?”

  Blackburn sank into his chair and rocked back and forth, contemplating his next move. He frowned and reached toward his keyboard, fumbling for an off button.

  Kaden stared straight into the webcam. “Mr. Blackburn, if you don’t answer my questions, our team will unleash unholy hacker hell on you and all of your businesses. What were these missions for? Were you the one who hired my adoptive parents? Did you pay for my scholarship at Lost Camp?”

  She had hoped her questions might elicit a reaction or a lie that she could read in his expression. But he sat stone-faced, refusing to say a word.

  She leaned in to ask the most important question of all. “Do you know what happened to my real mother?”

  She detected a little tremor pulse through his taut features. He leaned forward to power off his computer and closed his eyes. “Yes.”

  27

  Dallas, August 23

  V alerie Ramirez followed Sharon Sullivan into the Fertility Clinic and Birthing Center, two connected modern buildings with a glass entrance. The receptionist summoned the genetic counselor Valerie had been video-chatting with for weeks. When Erica emerged, Valerie thought, She looks even younger in person than on my tablet .

  They exchanged an awkward little hug, and Valerie patted Erica’s left shoulder. “Since I’m here, I thought I’d ask if the in vitro took place yet. Sorry for seeming in such a hurry!”

  “That’s fine, everyone’s always on pins and needles at this stage.” Erica checked the latest updates on her tablet. “Let’s see. Oh, yes! Your surrogate underwent the embryo transfer a few days ago. As you know, we can’t tell you her name or location under the rules. Of course, it’ll be a little while before we know if the hCG levels indicate a pregnancy. If it’s positive, you’ll receive a mobile alert from us.”

  “Thanks so much. That’s all I needed to hear.”

  Erica went back to her counseling duties and Sharon Sullivan continued the tour, showing Valerie the waiting rooms and delivery rooms in the Birthing Center. Impressive facility.

  The two women padded down the corridor to the Nursery, where Sullivan donned a nurse’s cap and face mask and gestured for Valerie to do the same. Sullivan plucked a newborn out of a sealed bassinet and began rocking him in her arms. Blue blankets for the boys, pink for girls. Ah, stereotypes from day one , Valerie thought.

  “Here, this one needs a little cuddling,” Sullivan said, handing her the baby boy.

  “How precious!” Valerie rocked the infant for a minute, smiling and cooing and making funny faces. Remembering what it was like to be a mother. The newborn gurgled and laughed with that little-baby laugh that tears at your heart.

  She handed the baby boy back to Sullivan and observed, “A lot of empty cribs.”

  “Well, yes.” Sullivan scanned the Nursery, looking a little puzzled. “We try not to overbook.”

  Valerie began to get down to business, asking Sullivan questions about the surrogates and how they were recruited and what she could expect if she went ahead with this proposal for her to be a paid consultant.

  “What’s involved with being a spokesperson?”

  “Not just a spokesperson—a spokesmom !” Sullivan brushed the top of Valerie’s wrist.

  “But I’m not a mom yet.”

  “Oh, but you will be. It’s all but guaranteed—if not the first surrogacy attempt, then the next one. You know our success rate. Now we need to tell the world what we do here.”

  “And so you’ll basically be using me to tell the Birthrights story.”

  “It’s the story of someone who wants to be a mom, told from your viewpoint. We’ll take you through the entire process, from the options during the genetic screening stage, to the photo and video updates you’ll receive from your surrogate. At the end, when we deliver your new baby into your waiting arms, we want to be there with our camera crew to capture the moment. Think of it as a nine-month mini-documentary condensed into a few short video clips, plus some shots for our advertising campaign, all done on your own schedule, no muss or fuss.”

  Valerie tried to keep her game face on but wondered if her expression was showing some hesitation about sharing such intimate moments with the general public. For sure, she would have to let her ex know about this.

  “We don’t need to go into detail about my personal backstory, right?” Valerie said. “I mean, you won’t mention the son I lost or the fact I’m using his DNA, will you?”

  “No, no, of course not,” Sullivan said. “The focus will be on the procedure and the surrogacy and the birth. You just have a few cameos. Nobody will know about the ‘later-born twin’ aspect. It’s our policy to keep those details private in any event.”

  Sullivan repositioned the baby in her arms and quickly added, “We understand the sacrifice you’re making by sharing your story. You’ll be helping pave the way for many thousands of women to follow in your footsteps in this safe and exciting new frontier.”

  She’d never considered herself a role model or pioneer. But it was in her nature to be supportive and to help out others. And the money she earned could go into her son’s college fund.

  Sullivan returned the baby to the bassinet, and they removed their caps and face masks as the
y exited the Nursery into the corridor. “Tell you what,” Sullivan said. “In addition to the consulting fee, say yes and we’ll throw in an incentive bonus. How about some nice Eyewear for all of your students back home?”

  “That would be amazing!” The school budget would never allow for such an extravagance.

  Valerie had been debating the idea of being a spokesmom since her genetic counselor first forwarded Sullivan’s proposal several days ago. She’d never been a public person, but the public appearances would be kept to a minimum, she was told. It was her buy-in and her image for their advertising that they were really after. And hadn’t she been complaining for years about the lack of Latinas in the media?

  They walked out into the Dallas twilight as the first cool breeze of the evening began to stir.

  Valerie thought it over. This was less of a risk than she was already taking with the new Jordan. She turned to Sharon Sullivan.

  “If you throw in that Eyewear for my students, you’ve got yourself a deal.”

  28

  Tiraspol, Moldova, August 24

  A nton Bors showed up at the Pit a few minutes earlier than usual, wearing his earbuds and listening to headbanger music. He nudged his way through the rows of data scrapers, some of whom were finishing the night shift, some of whom were just starting the day shift.

  He approached his workspace and saw Luca, the humorless security guard, stationed there. He was about to set his backpack down when Luca said, “Mr. Cazac would like a word. Conference room two.”

  Anton wasn’t sure what to make of this. He had been busting through his production quotas, though his boss was not one to reward stellar work. Am I in trouble?

  He entered the conference room, a dimly lit space with a couple of card tables positioned side by side in the middle, a few scattered chairs, and bare walls except for a row of photos. He detected a slight scent of urine coming from the ratty carpeting.

  The last time he was in here, he was being interviewed by the man who hired him, Victor Radu, head of Data Fulfillment. During his job interview, Anton had put on a dazzling display of bullshit. He took the absolutist position that privacy was dead. Given that premise, he argued, everything else flowed logically. If privacy no longer existed, how could anyone object when data operators entered details about random strangers in a database? How could anyone object to data mining a person’s likes, dislikes, habits, behaviors, lifestyle, sexual proclivities, and more? We’re living in an age of radical transparency—get used to it!

  Victor Radu ate that shit up.

  But Radu was gone, unable to hit his numbers.

  The door opened and Andrei Cazac entered, holding a large manila envelope. If there were Olympic events for humorless SOBs, Cazac would sweep the medal stand.

  Anton rose, not exactly sure of the protocol.

  “Sit,” Cazac commanded. He sat directly across the table and opened the envelope.

  “You’ve been a busy boy.” He shuffled through a few documents that looked like one-paragraph summaries with time stamps.

  “It’s been a busy month,” Anton agreed.

  “We know about your age. Radu knew, too. Maybe that’s why he looks like that now.”

  He nodded toward the portraits on the wall, and Anton’s eyes followed. Sure enough, a photo of every past Data Fulfillment officer was up there, right from the beginning. Each had a big red X marked over their face, including Radu, whose portrait hung next to Cazac’s.

  Anton remained silent, not sure whether to lie about his being underage at fifteen or to argue the benefits of bringing young prodigies into the workplace.

  “Do you know why we keep those pictures up?” Cazac asked.

  Anton shook his head.

  “To remind people what happens when you fail. When you break the rules.” He removed the top document from his small stack and studied it. “You broke the rules.”

  “I don’t … think so,” Anton protested.

  “One week ago, an intruder broke into our database. It went undetected at first—a very sophisticated hack. But even backdoors can leave a trace. No trace of your log-in. But we were able to trace it to your machine. The video of the Pit shows there was only one employee sitting at that terminal during the time of the incursion. You.”

  Anton silently cursed himself for being so sloppy. Inexcusable. He should have used a proxy server.

  “You may think you had a justifiable reason. You could say you were probing our defenses to help us ward off attacks. Whatever. I’m sure you can come up with some elegant lie. But I’m in no mood to hear it. Do you deny that you broke in?”

  He knew the game was over. He shook his head.

  “Good. Luca will escort you from the building now. Don’t expect to be paid for the days since this breach occurred.”

  Damn! A full week’s pay lost!

  “Go, before I decide to impose a harsher penalty.”

  Anton exited the conference room and headed toward his workspace to gather the few trinkets and ratty photos that added a small personal touch to this sterile data factory, but Luca grabbed his shoulder and redirected him toward the main exit.

  “Access card,” he demanded at the door.

  He handed it over. “When do I get my stuff?”

  Luca turned without answering and disappeared inside.

  Anton fumed all the way back to his parents’ place. What would he tell them? He had lost the thing he prized most: his position as a paid blackhat hacker. Where else was he going to get a job like that? He sure wasn’t about to join his friends and start hosing shit off the streets.

  With each step, his anger became more intense, a white-hot smelter of hate and resentment focused on one man, Andrei Cazac. How could he get revenge? How could he get a big red X plastered over Cazac’s ugly face?

  He looked up and found himself just a few blocks from home. He turned left onto the familiar rubble pathway that led down to his favorite spot along the riverbank. He found a shady spot, leaned his back against the tree trunk, and took out his smartphone.

  That’s when it hit him. His Black Swan installation. He’d copied those twenty tracker files. It would be a simple matter of finding them and sending them an anonymous note with an attachment they would find deeply disturbing.

  So disturbing that they would have every incentive to trace it back to the Pit and Andrei Cazac.

  He called up the first file and began searching online for a Kaden Taylor Baker.

  29

  Dallas, August 25

  W aterhouse’s eyes fastened on the faces of the Birthrights Unlimited brain trust gathered around the conference table in the board room. Everyone who needed to have a voice in the company’s marketing strategy was here: Henry Lee from the Lab, Julia Wentworth from biz dev, Lance Harrison from the data team, legal counsel Alan Tornquist, and, of course, the marketing chief, Sharon Sullivan. It was her show today.

  They were at a critical juncture. Until now the company’s focus had been on science, data collection, and operations. But it was time for the focus to turn to marketing—“go to market” in the parlance—and sales. Word of mouth was already generating tens of millions in revenue. The Island Retreat was a good start, but those glitzy dog and pony shows would not scale on their own to tens of thousands of customers and billions in sales.

  It was time to blow the doors off and go global.

  He watched Sullivan fiddle with the projector. Waterhouse had lured her to Dallas from New York three months ago. On Madison Avenue she’d made many enemies, slashing and burning her way up the corporate ladder to become creative director of Benzinger-Mikeljohn. She had carved out a reputation as a ruthless ball-buster, earning her the moniker the Bitch Goddess of Madison Avenue.

  And today she was putting her killer instincts on display for the first time.

  For the next ninety minutes he watched as Sullivan ran through an impressive presentation, sketching out target segments… showing the ideal customer, including demographics, psy
chographics, income levels … lifetime customer value … retargeting techniques … heartwarming testimonials from early clients … an enhanced word-of-mouth referral program … corporate partnerships that could open doors to millions of potential clients … a stealth ad campaign on the major social networks … intent marketing opportunities uncovered by the data collection team … brand awareness campaigns.

  She started out by showing the executive team the video spot she’d worked up that they had played at the Island Retreat. Not everyone had seen it yet. It was personal media, not made for TV, and it ended with the tagline she’d devised: “Nurture your child from day one.”

  “Does ‘day one’ mean birth—or conception?” Julia Wentworth asked.

  “Exactly.” Sullivan let the mystery float in the air.

  She turned from the video spot and told her colleagues, “This speaks to primal impulses that date back eons. The human yearning to do better for your children. It flips around the old nature vs. nurture debate to work for us. Who doesn’t want to nurture their children? Who doesn’t want to give their kids an edge?”

  Nodding heads around the conference table.

  Sullivan paused and took the measure of the executive team. “I look around this table and I see experts in genetics, high finance, patent law. But marketing is my field, and I’ll be frank. Genetic engineering has major image problems with the public. We need to break through that barrier of fear and suspicion. We have to get away from the image of wild-eyed scientists in lab coats running around with bubbling test tubes. No offense, Henry, but it spooks people.”

  Henry Lee glowered but remained quiet. She had taken Lee and Waterhouse aside before the meeting and mentioned she would not be including the Incubots in her presentation today but was keeping an open mind about it.

  “We need to embrace a new, user-friendly lingo,” Sullivan was telling the group. “Preventive medicine. Pre-birth insurance. Evergreen investments in your child’s future.”