ZerOes (10 page)

Reagan says to Wade while pointing to Aleena, “So we know her deal. What have you done, Earth Man?”

“
Earth
man. Emphasis on the first syllable. And I'm not telling you all what I do because it's none of your business. Just know that I'm old school. I remember punch-card computers, some of them big as a fancy mansion's walk-in closet.”

“Fine, don't play our reindeer games.” Reagan faux-pouts. “Now, let's talk about me. I am no hacker. I don't belong here.” She feigns horror and exasperation. “Unlike all of you jerkoffs: I am innocent!”

“Bullshit,” Wade says.

“I don't hack. I troll.”

“Figures,” Aleena says.

“It's true. I spend a great deal of my time trading in that most precious of currency:
lulz
. I fuck with people because it's funny. And
because they deserve it. I expose people for who they are. All the hypocrisy and hyperbole. I'm frankly something of a champion.”

DeAndre thinks she's serious. She doesn't have that flip tone anymore. This is a girl who has bought into the smell of her own stink.

It's now that Chance chimes in: “Man, you all are the worst. Trolls, I mean.” He seems agitated—he takes a napkin and begins to tear it into ribbons like someone ripping apart a bedsheet in order to make an escape out a window. “I, ahh, knew this girl in high school. Didn't know her very well, but she got raped. And after the fact, she tried to tell people what had happened—though she didn't know who had done it to her since she was drugged at a party—and you know, it didn't go like I thought it would. I figured people would rally around her. They didn't.”

“What happened?” DeAndre asks.

“They mostly treated her like she brought it on herself. You know, all that ‘how was she dressed' and ‘that's what happens at parties' garbage. But the real corker was that she started getting . . . messed with. By people that I think she didn't even know. These people, trolls, just finding her online and posting pictures of her and blog posts and Photoshopped . . . things. Just wearing her down. She eventually swallowed every drug she had in her family's medicine cabinet. They drove her to that. Shamed her to death.”

Reagan arches an eyebrow so high it might as well float above her head. “Sucks for her, but maybe she really was asking for it.”

Jaws drop around the table. DeAndre shakes his head. “What the actual fuck.”

Aleena: “Yeah, seriously, are you joking?”

“Hey, you don't lock your car doors, it might get robbed. You drop chum in the water, you might get sharks. You go out to a party with a bunch of drunken asshole frat-tards and you wear skimpy-ass clothes with a whale-tail thong sticking out and a tramp stamp that's a Chinese character for ‘do me up the butt long time,' then maybe, just maybe, you send an RSVP invite to all the rapists in the room.”

“You're messed up,” Aleena says. “Aren't you a feminist?”

“Ugh,” Reagan says. “So uptight, those bitches.”

“You know what your problem is?” Chance asks, suddenly angry. “No way to see yourself wearing other people's shoes. It's all about
me, me, me
. No care about anybody who ain't you.” He thrusts out his jaw. “That's screwed up.
You're
screwed up.”

“The word you're looking for, dear Chauncey, is
empathy
. And I'm not a fan.”

“It's Chance. Not
Chauncey
.”

“Sure, Chauncey. So, fine, let's talk about someone who isn't me. Let's talk about, ohhh, I dunno. You. We're all showing our balls here, so tell us what great feats of mighty hackery
you
have committed. Share with the rest of the class.”

Chance leans forward for a moment, like all he wants to do is bury his head in his arms and take a long nap. Then he straightens up, stiffens, and thrusts his chin out. “I'm not much of anybody, but I was the one who exposed the Yellowjacket Rape Posse.”

“Right, right,” Reagan says. She snorts. “You and Faceless.”

“You're one of Faceless?” Aleena asks, and she's about to say something else but then it hits DeAndre. His eyes go wide and he says:

“Whoa, shit. You were the one on the TV? Behind the mask with the . . . the . . . whaddya call it that modulates your voice—”

“Voice modulator?” Wade asks.

“Yeah. Voice modulator. Was that you?”

Chance nods.

And then a shadow darkens the table. A pair of hands falls on Chance's shoulders—long-fingered hands that suddenly grip the meat between Chance's neck and shoulders and squeeze. He winces, pulls away, and protests. “Hey, what the hell—?”

Behind him, Shane Graves is grinning like the fox that ate all the chickens. “Look at this table. Some real odds and ends here. You ever puke and then wonder where the hell all that stuff came from? That's what it's like looking at you guys. Who barfed all of you up?” He makes a gross face like he's catching a whiff of a dog fart.

“Ivo Shandor,” Reagan says with no small amount of awe.
No
, DeAndre thinks,
that's not awe, that's
lust. She wants to climb him like she's King Kong and he's the Empire State Building. “Heyyyyy.”

DeAndre's damn close to feeling the same way. Graves is a bona fide legend. Biggest, most public hacks? All him. Hacked the Google Car, drove it off a Bay Area cliff. Posted YouTube videos on how you hack an airplane, an insulin pump, a pacemaker. Has taken over Times Square billboards not once, not twice, but
five
times. He even caused a small stock market crash the day he hacked a bunch of news sites and put up a story about how China and all these other countries were
devaluing the dollar and calling in a shitload of American debt. People lost
money
that day.

Then, about a year ago, the guy dropped off the map, like a ship sailing off the edge into the part labeled
HERE BE DRAGONS
. One day, the most public hacker everybody knows. The next: vaporware.

Now, at least, DeAndre knows where the guy's been.

“Now, this guy in particular,” Shane says, reaching forward and mussing up Chance's hair. “He's the real superstar, isn't he? Big social justice champion on the YouTube and the boob tube. I hear those rapey football assholes are gonna go to jail. Nice job. Seriously. You made a real difference, buddy.”

“Uh. Thanks?” Chance says.

“Thing is, though, you're not part of Faceless, are you? I know some of those guys. You were acting all by your lonesome.”

Chance shakes his head. “C'mon, man, Faceless is just a . . . faceless organization; it's all anonymous; there's no, like, central council or leadership—”

“But you still gotta earn your way in. Still gotta do something to deserve the name and the mask. Did you earn your way?”

“My stunt says I did.” DeAndre can tell Chance is trying to stay cool. But there's something going on underneath. Anger. Fear.

“Your stunt was a lucky hack on a dumb jock who didn't know how to cover his tracks. You're just a little script kiddie, couldn't hack your way out of a cardboard box even if I handed you a brand-new machete. You're gonna wash out. We don't have room here for amateurs. This isn't pool-hall karaoke, Dalton. This is Radio City Music Hall.”

“This is
prison
,” Chance says.

Again, Graves musses his hair. More aggro this time. He looks to the rest of the table: “Were I you, I'd jettison this extra weight ASAFP. Dump him over the side unless you wanna all go down with him.”

“That a threat?” Wade asks.

“It is, Grateful Dead, it is.”

Wade gives him the finger.

Graves just winks. “Enjoy your bagels, shitstains.” He strides off back to his own pod—a couple of other white boys who look moneyed and privileged, plus some Latina with little shoulders and big hips and an Asian kid in all black, maybe thinks he's the Japanese Dracula or some shit. His crew all laugh as Graves returns to them.

Aleena buries her face in her hands. “So glad we're making friends.”

Reagan just laughs.

Chance says: “Shit.”

And DeAndre, well, he just reminds himself:

Keep your head low
.

Do your time
.

Don't take the bait
.

HOLLIS'S OFFICE

T
he office they gave him must've once been a supply closet. It's still got the metal frames bolted to the wall where shelves must've sat, and the whole room still has that antiseptic stink, which calls to mind hospitals and high schools—two smells that haunt Hollis like a pair of vengeful ghosts.

He wonders if Golathan did that on purpose.

What the hell—
of course
Ken did this on purpose. That's who he is. Wouldn't surprise Hollis if the son of a bitch was pumping in those scents through the ductwork. Little injuries sent as a reminder of who is really in control.

As he sits at his desk, his monitor blinks on. It flashes a couple of times, then a green light winks above it. Golathan's face appears. He's stuffing his face with a forkful of salad. Dressing dripping.

“Agent Copper,” Golathan says, crunching lettuce.

“Ken,” Hollis says, trying not to show his surprise.

Golathan, even through the screen, detects it. “I startle you?”

“Nope.”

“Uh-huh. And how's the pod's first day?”

“Just dandy.”

“C'mon, don't shit me. I can smell a lie like a dead hamster in the walls. We had that a couple weeks ago, you know. Hamster in the walls, dead.”

“At your office?”

“At my—? What?
No
. No, at home. Mandy brought home the class hamster—Scrubbers, I think his name was. Or shit, maybe he was a guinea pig? Whatever. Point is, the little fucker got out, got into the walls somehow. Died there. Stunk up the place. Had to convince the kids that he ran off to be with his own family somewhere and that the smell was just some septic fumes.”

“That's a great story,” Hollis says. “Really.”

“Don't condescend. The story actually has a point, Agent Copper.”

“Oh, and what's that?”

“Your job is to be the adult that lies to the children. You're in charge of your little group, so you're gonna have to make them dance for their dinner.”

“They're gonna wash out,” Hollis says. “They're not gonna hack it.”

“Nice pun.”

“Didn't mean for it to be one.”

“If they can't—ahem,
hack
it, then fine, so be it. But we think they will.”

“
We
think. You mean
you
think. Or Typhon thinks.”

“There you go again, asking questions that are miles above your pay grade.”

Fuck my pay grade
, Hollis thinks. “What the hell
is
Typhon, Ken?”

“It's a program. Like I've said.”

“And it picked these people.”

Golathan takes one more bite of salad and shoves the plastic tray away from him as if suddenly he's offended by it. “It picked every one of those faces in that joint. Typhon even picked
you
. It crunches data. This is the result of that
crunching
.”

“I don't like it.”

“You don't have to like it. Just do your job.” Golathan's finger appears suddenly large on the screen—blurry, pixilated, purple.

Then the call ends.

“Asshole,” Hollis says, hoping Golathan can still hear him.

THE LODGE

T
hey're walking back to the cabin. None of them are really talking to one another—they're walking together but they're not walking
together
. Chance hangs back even farther. He's been here, what, two hours? And he's already feeling like a rat with its tail caught in a trap, little claws scrabbling against the cellar floor.

God damn that Graves. He's right. Chance doesn't belong here. He's a rube, a newb, a poser. But it's here or it's prison. And it's one year here. Or maybe ten there.

He's gotta stay in the game.

His palms sweat. His heart hammers in the sides of his neck. He feels suddenly, overwhelmingly alone.

And that's when, of all people, Reagan Stolper hangs back. “'Sup, Chauncey,” she says.

“Really wish you wouldn't call me that.”

“Okay, jeez, fine.
Chance
. Hey, listen, don't sweat Graves.”

He cocks his head. “Yeah?”

“Yeah. Fuck him.”

“You looked awfully into him.”

She shrugs, makes a face. “I really
would
fuck him. He's like a sweet-ass Popsicle I just wanna—” Reagan mimes sucking a Popsicle, then biting it. She smacks her lips. “Mmm. Yeah. And his résumé is
most impressive
. But I don't like people who think they're too big for their britches. I see egos like that, it stops mattering how frothy my panties get—my greatest urge is to knock that cocky parrot off his perch.” She grins big, then musses his hair the same way Graves did. “Don't worry, Chauncey. I got your back.”

Reagan whistles as she walks up to the basketball court.
Peter and the Wolf
. Doo-doo-dee-doo-dee-doo. There, on the court, stands Shane Graves. His babysitter, who she's pretty sure is named Rivera, stands there, too—practically nose to nose with him.

In Graves's back pocket is a phone. Black like volcanic glass. Thin profile.

Rivera's a slug. Might've been a lean cut of meat once—muscled of body, principled of mind. But now he looks like a mess. Sloppy. Tired. Everything
untucked
. Got all the hallmarks of being a drunk except for the smell of liquor coming off him.

They look, see Reagan sauntering over.

Graves takes the basketball he's holding, thrusts it into Rivera's middle. The hack makes an
oof
sound. He passes it back.

She hears Shane tell Rivera: “Take a hike.”

Rivera probably doesn't want to seem like he can be pushed around, so he says, “Whatever, Graves, don't fuck up.” But to Reagan's trained ear it sounds rehearsed: a bluff, some bullshit bluster. He passes her, gives her a look. “What?” he asks sharply.

She shrugs, keeps walking.

Now it's Shane's turn. Eyebrows raised. “What?”

“Hey, Graves. Or should I say Ivo Shandor.”

“What's your name? Stapler?”

“You know my name. You know more about me than I do, probably. I know you got a phone. I know you probably have a laptop here. I figure you've got Rivera in your pocket, somehow. You were Hacker Supreme on the outside, so no reason to think differently here on the inside.”

“So you're less of a zero than your cohorts.” He spins the ball in his hands. Dribbles it a few times. “What do you want, Reagan?”

“It's more about what you want.”

“And what do I want?”

“Besides a puppy? I'm guessing you have a hard-on for Chance Dalton.” He cocks an eyebrow and she rolls her eyes. “No, not like that. I mean, you want to burn him down. Wash him out. Punish him. Am I right?”

“You are, at that.”

A wicked grin cuts across her face. “Then I can help.”