Three
Silver light receded into white, into gray, fading out into as the familiar shapes of his box took shape. Braxton Gargaryan unjacked, pulling wires from his wrist. He looked at the clock. 03:07. He could still get three hours of sleep if he slept right now.
Sirens and the whine of ArkSen Security drones sounded from outside his window, his walls being painted in alternating blue and red flashes of light. He snapped his fingers, the TV snapping to life. He flicked his fingers through channels until he found a channel of white noise. Twirled his index finger clockwise to turn the volume up. Light static filled the room.
“Alarm, 06:30.” He said. His TV beeped once in acknowledgment.
Gunfire on his block.
He shut his eyes and fell asleep.
----------
The alarm blared and Braxton sat up abruptly, hand reaching under his pillow to grab the service revolver that wasn’t there. Or had never been there. “Snooze. Five minutes.”
---------
He got up, shaved, shit, and showered. Nuked some Nucaff. Smoked a Black Eagle while still wearing a towel around his waist. Finished his liquid stimulant, prepared another. Put out his cigarette, and got dressed in a pair of khakis with cargo pockets and a green t-shirt. His hair was short enough that it didn’t need to be combed, and slipping on his boots, he was ready for work. He drank his second cup of Nucaff, scarfed down cold rice, and finished his half smoked Black Eagle.
His television started ringing, the text on the screen reading in bold block letters: WORK 800-555-1242/REBECCA GONZALEZ- PRESIDENT. He lifted an eyebrow. “Answer.” He said.
Braxton stood in front of the TV, “Hello?”
The image of a woman, blonde, sharp angular features, cold blue eyes, the ravages of age offset by expensive surgeries and prosthetics, appeared on the screen. “This is a recording,” she began. “for all employees of ConvoyDynamics, LewAub center. The site has been requisitioned by Arkonian-Sendai Security as a headquarters in their recent fight against crime. At this time, there is no reason to report to work. We will follow up with you in one week. All questions and inquiries can be made to your direct supervisor.” Rebecca Gonzalez’s pre-recorded image looked off camera, nodded, and continued. “Do not attempt to approach the center. Arkonian-Sendai Security Enterprises or ConvoyDynamics cannot guarantee the safety of yourself, or anyone else that approaches the property.
“Remember, you are all still under contract, and we expect you to report to work as soon as we regan the site from Arkonian-Sendai. If you have any vacation pay or sick leave, feel free to file the necessary paperwork to have it deposited to your credcards. For those without vacation or sick leave, you may fill out an application for a short term loan, depending on credit. I look forward to seeing you at work.”
The recording stopped. “Bullshit.” Braxton lit up another Black Eagle. President of ConvoyDynamics, Rebecca Gonzalez to his knowledge had never even so much had graced the LewAub center with her presence.
A bar of text appeared on his TV. A message from his direct supervisor, Robert Morgan. DON’T ASK ME, I’M JUST FINDING OUT NOW.
Nice. He sighed. Smoked the rest of his cheap German cigarette. Jacked in, the shapes of his box fading, blurring, an event horizon forming, blossoming silver light.
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LOBBY ONE
Braxton’s avatar stirred from the booth it had been sitting in, a cold bowl of ramen, broth half congealed greeting him as he opened his eyes. The bar was crowded, avatars ranging from steroid-addled bodybuilders to half-naked elves, to tentacled horrors from beyond the stars, to web geeks in power armor mingled and conversed about every topic. Virtual sex, subtle but obvious went on around him. Moans of coding swirling around his head like mist. Braxton muttered a few lines of numbers and letters and suddenly his avatar lifted through the ceiling, and a minute of green and black vertigo later, he was sitting on the roof of the bar, staring out over the silver sea of cyberspace. He brought up his hand, traced a symbol in the air. Frowned as he saw his vacation balance. Muttered a few more lines of code, added a zero to the number, and hit deposit. That should get him through the next few weeks.
He glanced down at his avatar, blinked and got a third-person view of himself. His avatar was much like himself, thin, shaved head, brown eyes. More chiseled and distinguished, maybe, a bit more attractive. Not like the freaks in the bar. The fact that he looked normal made him stick out like a sore thumb, and he was okay with that. He had been jacking in since he was a child, and instead of playing toddler bullshit games, he had been taught by his father to crack cybercode. He could recite algorithms in his sleep, use a ghetto-rigged icebreaker to bypass any residential or small business security. Access to credcards, journals, expense reports. Blackmail shit. He had never gone through with it. Sure. He had looked, that’s how he had discovered his ex-wife cheating on him. Easy pickings. He had checked out her lover. Some ArkSen accountant. He had lied to her, said he was single (which was fair, as she had told him the same thing), that he was a SpecOps (maybe of number crunching, he never specified), and they had spent hours of showing each other how they masturbated before they had hooked up while Braxton had been at work.
He had discovered this information almost at random, he was checking his wife’s credcard info, to see if they could afford groceries. And there it was. Just sitting there, like a giant glowing red button that read DO NOT TOUCH. He touched it. And his world shattered.
But not really.
And that’s what scared Braxton Gargaryan. Sure, he smoked a bit more now, maybe ate worse than he used to. He didn’t drink anymore, or even often. There were weeks when he didn’t even think about his wife. Was that normal? Was he a sociopath? Was he just an apathetic piece of shit? Or was it because she was a cheating whore, and he knew he didn’t deserve that? Probably a combination of all the above. He shrugged, digitally, and then frowned again. Pulled up his credcard information. A hole was being chewed through his firewall.
“Shit,” he muttered. began reciting code, patching the hole, code flying to repair the damage. Holographic numbers, representing his (very small) balance began stuttering, flickering, their red neon glow blurring. Changing to letters, back to numbers, to symbols, to Chinese lettering. More holes began to eat at the fabric of his account, worms of virus feeding their way in. He began tracing runes in the air, his voice fast urgent, letters, numbers, figures in commanding tones.
The holes shrank. The worms retreated. The neon numbers of his balance stabilized. He sighed. Patched the holes. Doubled their digitized strength. When he was satisfied, he descended back into the bar.
Into absolute panic.
ZERO FUNDS.
ZERO FUNDS.
ZERO FUNDS.
ZERO FUNDS.
Again and again, the holographic bartender, Admin said. Each avatar trying to buy a drink came up short, from power armor space marine to big-tits the elven whore. People he worked with, that he knew.
He sat in his booth, his bowl of ramen still there. It was beginning to smell like rancid fish. He recited some codes, looked at his ex-wife’s account. ZERO FUNDS. He looked at her ArkSen accountant’s file. ZERO FUNDS. “What the fuck?” Br3nd3n’s. ZERO FUNDS.
“Oh, this is bad.” He muttered, and jacked out.
----------
The lobby of his building was empty, save the elderly security bot. He went to the ATM, pulled out as much cash as he could to the nearest 20. Not many places took it, but if his account was attacked again, at least he’d be able to buy some food. If prices didn’t go up to take advantage. G
“GOOD MORNING, MR. GARGARYAN.” The bot said, inclining its silver head.
“Good morning, Hilton.” Braxton replied.
“WILL YOU BE LEAVING THE BUILDING TODAY?”
“Probably, why? What’s up?” He asked.
“THE BUILDING WILL BE ON LOCKDOWN STARTING AT 18 HUNDRED HOURS THIS EVENING. BY ORDER OF ARKONIAN-SENDAI SECURITY ENTERPRISES.”
“Oh great. Yeah, work shut down, so I may just go out to get smokes and some chow.”
“VERY GOOD, MR. GARGARYAN.”
Braxton nodded, he always felt awkward conversing with the security bot, it was pleasant enough, but it was so ancient, so… archaic that it came off as fake. Not to mention the fact it looked like one of the Terminators from that old movie.
He stepped outside the apartment building, to the nearest supermarket.
Chaos.
Old women screaming at cashiers as their credcards declined. He waited patiently in line, twenty pound bag of rice slung over a shoulder, a carton of Black Eagles balanced on a twenty-four pack of Diet Coke, a packet of NuCaff powder balanced on the smokes.
“Our card reader isn’t working,” the acne-ridden cashier said to him in a flat uncaring voice as he stepped to the register.
“I don’t think it’s your reader,” Braxton replied.
The cashier shrugged, rang up his items. He paid in cash. Walked back to his building.
He said some pleasantries to Hilton, his shoulders and arms aching with carrying his purchases. Went back to his box. Flicked on the news.
CYBERATTACK! The words scrolled along the bottom of the screen.
“Yeah, no shit.” Braxton said around his Black Eagle. He shook his head, sat on his bed. He flicked through a few channels, finally landed on on CNC. An obese man in a well fitted, curve hugging suit (probably not the intent) filled the screen. “Good morning, Janet. We have a situation, as I’m sure your viewers are aware.”
“Good morning, Mr. Arkonian,” the anchor woman, who Braxton assumed was Janet said, “just what is going on?”
“Well, this morning, America was hit by a devastating cyberattack that broke through Arkonian-Sendai firewalls like they were made of paper. The terrorists, and yes, that is an accurate word, drained 90% of cred accounts within minutes, leaving hundreds of millions with a zero balance.” The obese man sighed, jowls quivering. “This is unprecedented.”
“What is Arkonian-Sendai doing right now? Panicking?” Janet asked.
Mr. Arkonian chuckled, which struck Braxton as completely inappropriate, “no, we don’t panic, Janet. Your viewers can be rest assured, we are doing everything we can to reverse the damage, and redeposit every single cred that was stolen in this cyberattack.”
“How long before we can expect that?”
“Soon,” the obese man said. “I would feel uncomfortable giving a timeframe at this moment, for obvious reasons. We will however, keep Comcast News updated on our progress.”
“Well,” Janet said with a smile that didn’t remotely reach her eyes. “Can’t ask more--” the screen cut off as a call came in.
ARKONIAN-SENDAI SECURITY URGENT. The text on the screen seemed to scream at him and he froze.
“A-answer.” He said.
A man with graying hair appeared on the screen, gray eyes tired. “Good afternoon, Mr. Gargaryan. My name is Gregory Miller. We need to talk.”
Oh shit. Braxton instinctively brought a Black Eagle to his lips, it ignited as he pressed his lips to the end. “What about?”
“As you’re aware, there was a cyberattack this morning that emptied the accounts of the majority of Americans, Canadians, Mexicans, and most of Europeans. By majority, I mean damn near all. And then there’s yours.” The man looked at him, an almost sad expression on his face. “You can imagine why we’d be questioning you.”
Braxton shook his head, “not really.”
“We have you on surveillance withdrawing cash minutes after the attack.”
“Is that illegal?” Braxton asked.
“Don’t get smart you fuck. We know you prevented the attack in real time in your account. We know you jacked out right after, got cash as soon as possible. How did you know it was going to happen?”
“What?” Braxton asked, dumbfounded.
“You must have known it was going to happen. Or was it just a coincidence that you were doctoring your vacation time payout and depositing it into your cred account right before the attack?”
“Coincidence, honestly.” He decided not to acknowledge the whole doctoring of his vacation time thing.
“Bullshit. How did you repair the holes to the firewall? That’s Arkonian-Sendai property.” Gregory Miller said.
“I have my own firewall on my account,” Braxton replied. “To be honest, I didn’t even check the ArkSen. Never have.”
“Your own-” Gregory Miller paused for a minute. “You a pro hacker?”
“Never been called one before, but I’m okay, I guess.”
Miller laughed. “Okay, you guess. Alright, here’s what we’re gonna do. You’re coming to LA. There’s a few people we need you to talk to, face to face, so they don’t have to look at your poverty box. We’ll send a car.”
“Wait, I have fucking work.” Braxton started to protest, “and you have no right to demand me to do shit.”
Miller’s face hardened. “First of all, no you don’t have fucking work, you don’t think we fucking checked? Arkonian-Sendai is using your place of employment right now. In fact, you’ll be lucky if ConvoyDynamics ever opens its fucking doors again. Second. I do have every single right to demand you to come with us. Washington gave Arkonian-Sendai those powers this morning. So when the car arrives, get the fuck in. I’ll even have the plane catered. You run, and we’ll shoot. You’re not under arrest. Yet.” Miller sighed. “If you’re not lying, and you really did patch your firewall against this attack, we’re going to need your help.”
Braxton lifted an eyebrow, exhaled smoke. “With what?”
“You think they just struck civilian accounts? You think they stopped with banks and cred?” Miller shook his head. “They hacked into everything. My boss wasn’t lying when he said they cut through our firewalls like fucking paper.”
“So everything is pretty much fucked?”
“That’s about half of it.” Miller ducked out out of the screen, came back with his lit smoke in his mouth. “We’ll have a car waiting outside your building in exactly seventeen minutes.”
“What choice do I have?”
“None.”
---------
Two more smokes, a half cup of NuCaff. Thirteen minutes. Braxton grabbed his cyberdeck, slammed it into a duffel bag, threw a few random items of clothing on top, his carton of Black Eagles. NuCaff powder. Ready to go.
He went down the elevator.
“MR. GARGARYAN, THESE MEN WOULD LIKE TO SPEAK WITH YOU.” Hilton greeted him as he stepped into the lobby. Braxton’s eyes snapped up to see three Chinese men in dark suits standing at the door.
“Mr. Gargaryan.” The man in the middle said, taking a step forward.
“You guys are early. I didn’t expect an escort either.”
The man in the middle smiled, took off a pair of shades. One eye was swimming pool blue, a gold script logo etched onto the iris. Mercer Law. “You will come with us, Mr. Gargaryan.” A pistol appeared in the hands of the two men flanking him.
“Hilton, call security.”
“I AM SECURITY, MR. GARGARYAN. ARE THESE MEN A THREAT?”
Shots rang out, explosive rounds ripping the Security bot apart within seconds. Braxton threw himself to the floor, rolled behind the old fashioned desk that served no purpose but decoration.
“Please, Mr. Gargaryan. My employer is a man of little patience.” The man’s voice was even, calm, even bored. “Come with us, or we will be forced to shoot you. It will be painful, but you’ll live. And we’ll be angry.”
“Go fuck yourself.” Braxton said with a bravado he felt the opposite of.
“That was a stupid thing to say.”
“Probably.” Shit, what was he doing?
“The door slammed open, he heard grunts, and then weapons cocking. “Drop ‘em! ArkSen Security! On the ground! Now!”
A hissing sound filled the lobby, and then everything went white and all Braxton could hear was static. And then gunshots rang out, muffled.
And then silence.
Warmth flooded Braxton’s front. He looked down. He had pissed himself.
“Mr. Gargaryan,” a new voice called. “Please step out from behind the counter.”
He did. Three dead Chinese men lay on the lobby floor, along with one man in an ArkSen uniform. Rifles locked onto Braxton before the owner of the voice patted the air. The guns lowered. “Braxton Gargaryan?”
Braxton nodded. “That’s me.”
“You have identification?”
“Yeah. Yeah.” He reached into his back pocket, eyeing the ArkSen with the rifles. “Just grabbing my wallet.” He tossed it to the man.
“You need to go get changed?”
“Would be appreciated.”
The man nodded, gestured to the man on his right. “Officer Lopez will accompany you.” Lopez stepped forward. “Meet us outside, the transport is right on the street.
----------
“So, who the hell were those guys?” Braxton asked.
“The chinks?” Lopez tilted his head.
“Obviously the chinks,” the man in charge, Officer Reynolds repled. “Judging by their hardware, a security firm called Mercer Law.”
“MercLaw?” Braxton shook his head.
“The same. They’re from Canada.” Reynolds said.
“Not really.” Braxton sighed. “Can I smoke in here.”
“Free country,” Reynolds nodded. “What do you mean not really?”
“Do you guys even--” he paused, lighting a smoke. “Yeah, space rumors are they’re from Hong Kong.”
“Explains the chinkiness.” Reynolds chuckled, “but space rumors usually mean shit.”
“If the same rumors are true, they run cinnimeth and weapons even more than ArkSen.” Braxton exhaled smoke.
“Arkonian-Sendai does not run cin. Christ.” Lopez almost, almost growled.
“Okay, whatever. Anyway,” Braxton looked out the window, glanced down at LewAub below. “What a shithole. Is LA nice?”
“You know the shows on TV, all those palm trees and clean streets and beautiful women?” Reynolds said.
“Yeah.”
“All fake.”
“Oh.” Braxton said, took a drag of his Black Eagle and laughed.
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Portland International Jetport. Private plane. AI guided. Boarded. Jacked in. Lobbies filled with panicking avatars. Checked his account. Still secure. $14.95 remaining. Checked his firewall patches. All good. Jet AI good conversationalist. A quick nap.
Awake in Burbank.
---------
Braxton Gargaryan stepped off the jet and almost choked on the air. It was hot, humid, and smelled like decay and exhaust. The sun was barely visible through the smog, and his first thought was to turn around, tell the plane to fly back to New England and fuck California.
“Welcome to California, Mr. Gargaryan.” A woman in a gray pantsuit said, stepping up to the jet. “My name is Ashley Morse. I’ll be your escort to see Captain Miller.”
“Thank you,” Braxton inclined his head.
She led him to a matte black hovercar, opened his door, closed it after he sat down.
They took off, headed for the freeway.
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