ZerOes (16 page)

The trick for Aleena is this:

To hack Reagan, she first needs to get
out there
. She needs to leave the path they have made for her. She needs to disappear into the woods.

But they're filming her. And keylogging the computer.

Somehow, Reagan did it. Aleena doesn't know how, but if that bridge troll can manage, so can Aleena.

She goes about her business first, knowing they're going to expect her to get another good score on the testing—today, it's a company called Infinitest. A cursory search shows it's a nanotechnology company, specifically geared toward solving the post-antibiotic crisis.

Thing is, she doesn't know how long Reagan's going to take jumping in. Which means: no time to dally.

She has a plan. Two stages.

First stage: kill the keylogger. This part's risky because they're going to keylog her downloading anti-keylogger software. But here, she has an excuse: she needs—er, “needs”—a logger killer for her penetration testing. So she grabs a piece of software called KeyBreaker, then runs it in the background of the nanotech company, and then, ohh, accidentally runs it on her own side, too—

Ping
.
Ping
.

Two detections. Like little ships appearing on radar.

One she knows: when KeyBreaker identifies and shuts down the keylogger tracking her every key tap and mouse click, it's no surprise to her.

But the second one is a surprise. Someone was keylogging Infinitest.

That deserves a deeper look. But later, not now. For now, stage two—

Aleena leans forward, blocking the monitor with her body. She has to move fast so this doesn't look too obvious.

She pulls up the monitor settings. LCD and LED monitors film easily. Old boxy CRT monitors—the kinds that looked like old televisions, the kinds you could use as a boat anchor if you really wanted to—didn't film well because they flickered. People think LCDs don't flicker—and mostly they don't, at least not noticeably.

But you can make it noticeable. Mess with the backlighting. Apply pulse-width modulation—easily done in the monitor settings—to dim the backlight, and voilà: higher flicker. Then: add a little judder (easy to set on most HDTVs) and reduce the refresh rate and now the cameras behind her won't be able to see what's on the screen. What
should
show up is a pulsing, flashing light—nearly impossible to make anything out.

She cracks her knuckles. Now it's time to hack that bitch.

Chance gets a new pod for the day, and with it comes some softball job—he's pen-testing some self-help guru's website. The website shows a big banner:
Renowned Psychologist and Self-Enlightenment Specialist: Alan Sarno
. Chance feels dumb, but he's not
that
dumb. He knows he's been Nerfed. Part of him appreciates it. Another part of him just feels like a dope.

He's cooking along pretty well—the site is updated, in part, using WordPress blogging software, and that means he already knows the username. Nobody changes their username, because it's too hard or they don't care
or
they don't think it matters.

Username:
admin
.

The password is trickier. He tries the standards:
password, password123
, and so on. None of them click. Worse, he can't get on Facebook, can't Google search the guy, so he's stuck with what he can find on Sarno's own site.

Which, it turns out, is just enough. Sarno's bio lists his family and their first names: wife Sara, daughters Hayley and Katey. Chance tries all of those, and it's a no-go—but then he sees that Sarno's got a poodle, too. Big white fuzzy thing—less a dog and more a series of snowball-colored Afro-puffs connected by hairless pink bits. The dog's name is Knishie.

And boom: there's the password.

A chat window pops up.

                  
DUTCH JELLYFART
: HEYYYYYY

Chance looks up. Of course, the camera lights have gone red. He pulls the keyboard close, jaw tight at the hinge. He types:

                  
GUEST:
Reagan, you're an asshole.

                  
DUTCH JELLYFART:
There is no Reagan. There is only ZUUL. And I am an asshole! I know. I can't help it. It's pathological, I swear.

Chance thinks,
Where's Aleena?
She was supposed to be helping him. Maybe she pulled a Reagan and is abandoning him here in the abyss. Or worse, maybe she's helping twist the knife. His underarms start to sweat.

                  
GUEST:
Why can't you just leave me alone?

                  
DUTCH JELLYFART
: Because of the lulz. And because this is part of a larger game. And because I screwed you once before we even got here and because I liked it.

                  
GUEST:
What the hell are you talking about?

                  
DUTCH JELLYFART:
Shhh. SHHH. Just lie back and think of England, luv.

And then a third account pops in:

                  
ZENOBIA:
Sorry, troll, the third billy goat's here to kick you off the bridge.

The chat window closes.

Chance sits there for a while, waiting for something, anything. Like—maybe the computer will suddenly start to smoke and spit sparks. Maybe it'll grow legs like a Transformer and kick him in the teeth. Maybe Reagan will come out of the monitor like the girl from
The Ring
. But nope, nothing.

He pokes a few keys. Clicks the mouse. He still has control.

Aleena did it.
Aleena saved his ass
.

He whoops with laughter.

Ding, dong, the bitch is dead
, Aleena thinks.

Now, to find out who put that keylogger on the nanotech company.

They've given Wade another unhackable, uncrackable company. AeroCore. Maker of drones and other airborne robotic devices. AeroCore has on its board a number of politicians and politicians' children, and like with Blackwater in Iraq was allowed to preemptively bid on jobs with the military (air force, mostly) before anyone else had a chance. Prebids were preaccepted and every other company got prefucked. Not that Wade cares much for those other companies, either—but this is a symptom of a scrape that's long gone septic.

He goes through the motions, enough to get him a pass, not enough to make any real difference—these young hackers all are eager to please their new masters, but he knows the deal. Shut up. Do the bare minimum. Then get the hell out.

That assumes, of course, that they'll let him and the others out alive. But that's a problem for another day.

For now, he sits back and does little.

Though something keeps itching at the back of his brain stem. He senses connections here that he doesn't fully see and can't begin to understand.

AeroCore. Palisade. Both companies he knows. Maybe they're fucking with him. Maybe this is all one big psych experiment.

DeAndre can't get in.

It keeps changing. The algorithm keeps changing. He hacks one level and then another comes up and boots him back to the beginning. Almost like it's taunting him. All for a single file. Every delay, every defense, makes it exponentially more tantalizing. He bites his lip. Rubs his eyes, thumbs his temples, presses in so hard on the bridge of his nose it almost brings tears to his eyes.

Reagan is locked out.

Aleena Kattan slammed the door in her face. That little Kardashian.

Well, good for her
, Reagan thinks, trying like hell not to be mad. The little raw, red half moons in her palms from where her nails have dug in tell a different story.

Fine
, she thinks. She totally doesn't mind when someone gets the best of her.

Shane, though. He'll mind. He'll
definitely
mind.

Aleena's feeling pretty good about herself. She knew Reagan was more than just some 4chan troll—that one's got cred. Using it for, or
with, Shane Graves. So cutting both of those bullies off at the knees is a win.