Chapter 01011

Monday, November 10, 2008

Fiction

Rog doesn't know why he bothers to ride to campus on days like this, when the lab assignment is dull road node programming he could have knocked out when he was 15 years old, and the lecture is another endless drone about standards bullcrap.

The company's insistence that a hardcore hacker like himself must spend 2 years staring at a professor who can barely speak 'Merican casting newbie lessons from somewhere in Taiwan is beyond belief. After trade school finally spits him out with an associates' degree and he's stuck at a peon job in a cube farm tracing unpaid accounts, if the company needs him to know the Realtime Alert System Protocol, they'll teach him. At last, he strolls out of the lecture hall, casting an eye for the cute latina he chatted with yesterday, but no joy. Totally no point in coming to class.
    He walks across the shabby office park and out to the lot where his velo is parked. The caps got a full charge from the conductive lot surface, so at least he won't have to pedal home. He climbs in the bucket seat, closes the canopy and mutters, “Home.” It's a warm spring afternoon and the ten-minute ride through downtown Fort Collins is chill, way cooler than festering in fluorescent-lit lecture hell. Crossing the pedestrian mall he flashes a peace sign at three Tri-Delts he knows from the football games. “Man, that blonde Revolutsia...” he grins, feeling a rush of hormonal anticipation.
    Back at the pad, none of his roommates are there. Today's football game hasn't kicked off. He grabs a brew from the fridge and sits down at his console to check in. Might be a bar night at one of the frats. He pages through the links. Nothing really cool. He thinks about doing some homework, but then comes to his senses and jumps into his fave chatspace. Maybe someone's posted some good tun3z.
    A furious chat is underway, messages flying like volleys of arrows at a medieval siege:
    Zapp0: get this - i got the login!
    J00p: no way!
    Zapp0: here's the IM console, sweeeet
    Sheepherder: ooh yeah, IM iz cracked!
    0: COOL! you've r00ted the instant messaging subsystem
    0: now what, gonna spam the world with IMs?
    Rog: i wanna spy on my gf's IMs, send me the crack!
    J00p: you gonna share her msgs with us?
    Sheepherder: she hot?
    Rog: aw yeah, total hottie
    0: u kidz take it easy, fsck with IMs too much and the Co will nail ya
    Zapp0: i knowz
    Sheepherder: i just wanna send msgs from math class without school tracing me
    0: just send some IMs and noone will ever notice
    0: no bot swarms or msg floods
    0: unless you like getting disconnected and monitored
    Rog: u gonna share the hack? i wanna try
    J00p: maybe 2morrow
    Zapp0: yeah it needs some work
    Zapp0: need to wrap up the code then i'll put up the war3z
    Rog: ok thanks
    Rog: you rock

    The frenzy continues, but Rog drops off, uninterested in the outcome. Only 0 seems to have any idea what he or she is talking about. The rest are just roaches scurrying around in the company's dumpster.
    His roommate Dan arrives with a squeal of tires and marches in the door triumphantly hoisting a case of beer. “Who's ready to watch some Wednesday Night Football!” he howls.
    After five hours, uncounted liters of lager, hazy impressions of a plastic hose streaming suds, brown liquor streaming down an ice tray and down gullets, Rog stumbles into his room and collapses on the futon. The bedspins are sucking him down into a stuporous vortex, but loud noises prevent him from achieving complete unconsciousness. The slams and shouts grow more thunderous until they are outside his bedroom door. He stumbles to his feet and throws open the door, screaming “You drunk bastards shut the f-!”
    He is silenced in mid-yell as his collar is seized by a massive gargoyle of a man clad in a black helmet, goggles, and armor, festooned with dangerous-looking hardware. “Get in there!” the man shouts, shoving Rog down the hall and into the den, which reeks of stale beer.
    “Wha-” Rog manages as he is thrown to the floor at the booted feet of several more masked commandos, one of whom is carrying a huge shotgun, another a camera, the third an electronic clipboard. The one with the gun slings it behind his back, then whips a plastic tie around Rog's wrists and yanks him up to sit on his knees.
    Clipboard pulls down black facemask to reveal that she is female. “Roger Combs,” she says sharply.
    “I'm-”
    “I wasn't asking,” she barks. “We know who you are.”
    “Uh-” He notices that Dan is sitting on the couch, eyes fixed on the floor, wrists bound on his lap. Camera guy steps in for a closeup, shining a painfully bright white light in Rog's face.
    “Listen carefully,” she says. “You're in deep trouble. You've been traced associating with known saboteurs.”
    “Me?” Rog coughs.
    “You can talk to us, or you can go straight to detention and interrogation,” she says.
    “Who are-?”
    “That doesn't concern you. We're corporate security. That's all you need to know.”
    Dan urgently glances at Rog, then returns his gaze to the stained carpet. “O-OK,” he says. “I'll talk.”
    “Good,” the cop says. “Where can I find John Miller?”
    “Uh, who?”
    “John Miller,” she barks. “Don't play dumb. You chatted with Miller for at least 30 minutes this afternoon. I've got it all right here.” She pokes him hard in the chest with the clipboard.
    “I was chatting! I was! But I don't know names, just handles.”
    “Alright,” she says. “I'm talking about the person with the handle '0'. You obviously know him.”
    “I've chatted with 0, yeah.”
    “That's John Miller.”
    “OK. Sure.”
    “When was the last time you saw 0 in person?”
    “Um- never! Seriously!”
    The cop bares her teeth fiercely and leans over him, her helmet thudding into his skull. Rog involuntarily cringes. “You sure about that?” she snarls.
    “Yes! Yes. Only on chat, I've talked to him, like, 3 times.”
    “That's too bad,” the cop says. “I was hoping we'd be able to finish with you quickly. But we're going to have to take you into custody. You're going to help us find Miller.”
    “Are you sure you've never met the guy?” the cameraman says in a wheedling tone, bringing the spotlight closer, until Rog can feel its heat burning his forehead. “Really sure? Maybe he's a student like you? You know where he hangs out in the real world?”
    “All I know is his handle. 0.”
    “That's a shame, it really is. Well, we're taking you for a trip, then.”
    “I, uh, wanna lawyer?”
    All four cops snort on cue. “We got all the authority we need,” the one with the gun says. “Company authority. No lawyer's gonna talk to you.”
    “Even if they knew where you are,” chuckles another.
    “Let's go, punk,” the fourth says, jerking upward on Rog's cuffs until sharp pain in his shoulders makes him jump to his feet, yelping.
    “What about this other guy?” the cameraman says, turning the spotlight on Dan, who winces anxiously.
    “We don't wanna leave a witness,” the gunman says.
    “Heck, he could be Miller.”
    She laughs. “I don't think so, he's about 30 years too young. But you're right, he might have relevant info. Cuff him.”
    “No, wait, I gotta final tomorrow-”
    “Shut up,” gunman says, flipping cuffs around his lower arms, “unless you want a black eye to go with your hangover.” He laughs. “College, I kinda miss it.”
    “Dude,” cameraman says. “After we deliver these punks? Miller time.”
    “Alright,” lady cop says. “We're still on duty, slackers. Let's roll. Get those suspects into the APC.”
    The masked operatives silently and efficiently vacate the house, yanking along the stumbling pair of students, leaving no calling card. Pulling the mask over her face, the female takes the rearguard, carefully shutting the door of the house, quickly running an alcohol-cleanser wipe around the doorknob. No need to leave any unnecessary traces. Security might need to keep these suspects under wraps for weeks, she thinks. Or even permanently.