War With Black Iris (Cyber Teen Project Book 2)

by D. B. Goodin

  “It’s John. I’m no longer an agent of the FBI.”

  “We believe that the attack on the Milford Police station involved Black Iris. That group always acts with a purpose,” Natasha said.

  “That makes little sense. Why would Black Iris attack the police?” John said.

  “Based on what we know so far, Nigel was the target of the attack. Nigel’s work at Collective Systems may have put him in danger,” Natasha said.

  The room was silent for a long time.

  “Have any of these suspicions been confirmed?” John asked.

  “These attacks have originated from blocks of IP addresses that belong to Black Iris. And . . . we believe that Gregor is involved, somehow. Gregor’s betrayal hurt more than just Nigel,” Natasha said.

  No one said anything for a long moment.

  Nigel wrote in his notepad and then handed the note to his mother.

  “Has anyone performed any kind of network forensics or investigative work?” Ellen said.

  “Not yet—that’s where you come in, Nigel,” Natasha replied, looking at him.

  “Surely you have other people who can do this. Nigel is still recovering,” Ellen said.

  Natasha frowned, deep in thought.

  “As much as I hate to admit it, our network is less than reliable at the moment. I’ve been cut off from much of Collective Systems. I’m resorting to calling on people I can trust, which is a short list.”

  Nigel wrote another note and handed it to Natasha this time: I’m in!

  “Thank you, Nigel. I know your help will be invaluable.”

  “I will offer any help,” John said.

  “Same here!” Milo said.

  “I’m ready,” Cassidy said.

  “Very good. It’s late and we’re all tired. We will regroup tomorrow,” Natasha said.

  I will not sleep . . . not yet, not when there’s recon work to do.

  Nigel started a secure virtual private network (VPN) and a multipoint online remote privacy (MORP) browser session. He navigated various Dark Web forums looking for any known Black Iris hacker handles. He had gathered a few when chasing Gregor’s misdeeds that cost him almost . . . everything. Nigel checked the usual bounty boards that often recruited hackers. They seemed unusually quiet—even for the holidays. He was about to try another board when he saw a post that reminded him of Gregor, which read:

  Looking for a super 1337 to help with some misdirection of traffic in the Tri-City area.

  Message IcePick for details.

  Nigel was tempted to use the site’s private message system to see if he could get a jump-start on the investigation. The number “1337” meant that only elite hackers need apply. There probably would be tests and an “audition” during the application process. Nigel’s head started bobbing like a fishing lure; he was tired. Then he heard someone knocking on his door.

  It’s late!

  Nigel opened his bedroom door: nobody. The knocking continued. He followed the knocking sound to the front door. He opened it to nothing but the wind. He looked around for anyone. Moonlight shone through the windows on either side of the door.

  He used to love the moonlight. When he was little, he would look up at the moon, and sometimes he thought he could see a face in it. His father had told him it was a protector. Now, Nigel thought it was a malevolent specter looking for unsuspecting boys.

  Nigel rubbed his eyes. Then he heard a smash as both windows caved in, and he dodged the broken glass and window frame. He noticed movement just in front of him. Is it a man? The figure had something in its hands: a sledgehammer! Nigel’s heart pounded. Another man, dressed in a trench coat and fedora hat, flanked him; apparently, he’d entered through the other window. Nigel saw the reflection of moonlight shine off something in the other man’s hand . . .

  A knife?

  “What should be done with him?” asked the man with the trench coat.

  “We tried shooting and slicing, but we haven’t tried pounding,” a familiar voice said.

  Nigel recognized the voice. Gregor! Nigel looked just in time; Gregor was bearing down on him with a large sledgehammer. Nigel rolled, and Gregor missed.

  “Hey, hold still. You need to be pounded,” Gregor said.

  The man in the trench coat appeared next to Nigel.

  “I prefer slicing,” the trench-coat man said.

  Are his eyes glowing? Nigel wondered, frozen with fear.

  “Out of the way. You’re ruining my fun,” Gregor said to his companion.

  Nigel took a long look at the man in the trench coat. Although his face seemed blurred somehow, he could see a nasty scar across his face; it looked like someone had mistaken it for a jack-o’-lantern. He took out a large knife with a serrated edge; it looked like a portable saw. He jabbed at Nigel. As Nigel moved away from the knife, the sledgehammer crashed into the wall next to his head, and Nigel collapsed. Then Nigel got up and ran in the opposite direction, but it felt like he was barely moving. He turned and saw the man with the maniacal grin, waving his knife around like a kid with a new toy. Both men were gaining on him, and as Nigel looked back again, the mysterious man threw the knife. It moved in slow motion; meanwhile, Gregor was coming down with the sledgehammer.

  Nigel screamed.

  “Nige! Are you okay?” Ralphie asked.

  Nigel looked up; Ralphie was standing over his bed, staring at him. Nigel was covered in sweat. He felt cold and clammy.

  “Yeah, buddy. I just had a bad dream is all,” Nigel said.

  Ralphie gave his big brother a hug.

  Freeman Johnson was far from his birthplace in Newport, a town two hours south of Milford. Like most teenagers he didn’t want to move. His father, Robert, had taken a job working for the US government as an intelligence analyst. Last spring, Freeman’s world came crashing down when his father made an announcement at dinner.

  “How would you like to live in Hawaii?”

  Freeman’s mother, Susan, was delighted. “I can finally work on my tan and not be so cold,” she said. But Freeman didn’t want to leave Newport, or his friends there.

  “I don’t want to move that far.”

  “Why not? It’s paradise. You can learn how to surf, get a tan, and finally meet some girls,” Robert said.

  “I won’t go.”

  “You will go wherever I go. I’m the man of the house, and that’s final.”

  Freeman left the dinner table and headed straight for his room.

  “He will come around,” Robert told Susan. “Just wait until he sees the sands of Waikiki.”

  Susan smiled in return.

  Eight months later, the family landed in Oahu. It was December, and the heat and humidity were too much for Freeman. The family was in the car, driving to their new house.

  “It’s too hot!” Freeman complained to his father.

  “Nonsense—feel the breeze of the trade winds, look at the water,” Robert replied. “I bet you can’t wait to go for a swim.”

  Freeman just stared out the window.

  “There’s traffic here, too. Might as well live in Los Angeles,” Freeman said to no one in particular.

  There better be air-conditioning, Freeman thought.

  About thirty minutes later, Robert pulled up to a modest home.

  “The house is tiny,” Freeman said.

  Robert unlocked the door to their new home. Freeman was uncomfortable the minute he entered. It took him a minute or two to find the thermostat; the house was set to 85 degrees Fahrenheit.

  “Is there a freakin’ lizard living here?” Freeman said. Then he adjusted it to a comfortable 68 degrees.

  “Let me show you to your new room, son,” Robert said cheerily. Susan joined them.

  Freeman followed his dad and mom into an eight-foot-by-nine-foot room with only one small window, which provided inadequate light. The room featured a single bed and a small student desk.

  “It’s smaller than my old room,” Freeman said.

  “I’m sorry, son
, but it’s the best I can do at the moment.”

  Freeman looked out the window. Good thing this house is on a hill. Better hacking opportunities. Freeman smiled.

  “Whatcha think?” Robert asked.

  “I can make this work,” Freeman said. He was beginning to feel better now that the air-conditioning unit was on.

  “Let’s go to the beach. It’s only a fifteen-minute walk from here,” Robert said.

  “Sounds great,” Susan said.

  “I’m going to stay here and set up my room,” Freeman countered.

  His parents quickly left the house. The idiots think they are on vacation, Freeman thought bitterly.

  Freeman opened his large computer bag that contained what he called “The Beast”: a seventeen-inch gaming laptop he used to enter the world of the Colossal Machine. The online game he was addicted to. Although he was tired from traveling, he was eager to try out the new exploit code that he’d downloaded just before the twelve-hour flight to Hawaii. Freeman opened a medium-sized zippered case that revealed several color-coded hard drives. He took the red drive from the pouch, pressed a button to eject the one that was currently residing in The Beast, and then inserted the red drive. A few minutes later, he was greeted with a command prompt that was customized to read, “Hello, how can I help my maker?”

  Freeman scanned for available Wi-Fi signals. Drat—no internet connection. Is Dad trying to punish me? Freeman unzipped another large bag and took out a cylinder with a wire attached to one side. He positioned it near the window, plugged the cable from the cylinder into a port on his laptop, typed in a few commands, and found several suitable Wi-Fi hotspots. He connected to “Ohana Joe’s Coffee Shop Free Wi-Fi” and brought up a program called Wiresploit, which allowed him to hack into unsuspecting Wi-Fi access points. Seconds later, he was on the network. After a few more keystrokes, he was able to see a complete connection list with the names of machines and assigned IP addresses and open ports. He took note of the information for later. Never know when I’ll need a puppet, Freeman thought, chuckling to himself.

  After a few more keystrokes, Freeman was connected using an encrypted VPN connection. He launched his recently patched MORP browser and copied some cryptic-looking addresses into the address bar. After entering the necessary information to authenticate to the site, he entered an area titled “Dark Maven,” which required another set of credentials. This time, he needed to enter some numbers from a fob that was attached to a keychain. It displayed an eight-digit numeric code. He navigated to the repository section and clicked the “Daily Builds” link. A directory listing of several files all starting with the letters “PV” appeared. He typed some commands and, after a few minutes, several files appeared in his downloads directory. He used a compiler program to assemble and build the files. He copied the newly created code to an external flash drive and then shut down the machine.

  He swapped hard drives. This time, using a blue drive, he copied the code to the appropriate Colossal Machine source patch directory and then initiated the patching process. Normally, the program checked the files for the appropriate version numbers and assembled them into the appropriate game code. Freeman’s version of the game launcher was modified to disable the watchdog program, which disallowed unauthorized code. Freeman injected the code he had received from Dark Maven. He plugged in his VR headset and, within minutes, he was in the world of the Colossal Machine.

  His avatar appeared in a brightly sunlit expanse that featured a large city in the distance with a clear dome surrounding it. He noticed several flying birds with figures riding them; they appeared to be patrolling the city. The terrain around the city was an inhospitable wasteland. Several strange-looking creatures appeared. One of these creatures seemed to be a hybrid of a large toad and a duck. When another, smaller creature that resembled a mouse got too close, it spat a green liquid at it. Within a minute, the recipient of the green goo stopped moving. The toad took its time waddling over to it, opened its mouth, and latched a tentacle around the fallen creature; its small wings flapped as the toad thing reeled in its prey. However, the size of the winged creature proved a challenge. The toad’s webbed feet dug into the soil to stabilize itself as its victim was being swallowed whole.

  Then another toad-like creature started waddling toward Freeman’s avatar with a hungry look. Freeman jumped reflexively, and large wings stretched out of his avatar’s back and propelled him toward the sky.

  Whew!

  “I need to be more careful. There is no one to resurrect me here,” Freeman said to himself.

  Freeman surveyed the land below. He was in a section of the game world usually reserved for the gameplay masters: a group of in-game administrators who policed the game. The code that Freeman had downloaded took advantage of an exploit in the game’s code that granted Freeman (and whoever else who used it) unfettered access to the world between worlds. Freeman’s avatar couldn’t afford a microcosm, which was a private area that gave players full control to create as they saw fit; however, his plan was simple: find a decaying microcosm, then pillage all the loot out of it before it disappeared from the game world entirely. Player structures and worlds were set to degrade if the owners’ avatars didn’t show up for a certain period of time. The time period wasn’t public knowledge, but Freeman estimated it was around three real-world weeks.

  After flying around in an aimless pattern for what seemed like an eternity, Freeman spotted a microcosm that was in the final process of decay. The outer protective shell of the microcosm was gone. Freeman could see a large, magnificent structure that looked like a tower with several spires. An impressive mountain range, waterfall, and lake were close to the tower.

  Someone spent a long time constructing this. It would be a shame to wreck it. No sooner had that thought run through his mind than he dismissed it.

  “Time to loot,” Freeman yelled as he dove through the remnants of the ruined microcosm.

  Within days, several exploits were introduced into the world of the Colossal Machine. The Dark Web code was supposed to have been fully play-tested before implementation. Inserting that code into the production build unbalanced the game world. Hackers were able to exploit vulnerabilities, which caused entire microcosms to disappear. To bring the world back in balance, the developers could either roll back the code, effectively wiping out the progress of millions of players during a holiday weekend, or send recon agents. Pretzelverse Games chose the latter.

  Jet got home late from visiting Nigel. It had been a couple of weeks since she had logged into the game, so she needed to refresh her microcosm. She put the keys on the hook. Her phone chirped. It was a text from Pretzelverse: Log in to the game for a special debugging event. The person with the most points will win a year’s worth of game time and a free expansion pack.

  I was going to log in anyway, Jet figured, so I might as well check it out! She looked around the house; it was empty. My parents must be out. Good.

  A short time later, she was presented with hundreds of lines of legalese regarding the nondisclosure agreements. Taking tests to prove in-game competency is a must, but I hate that Pretzelverse requires us to sign these agreements so often. I guess it’s because they have gotten burned in the past, Jet thought.

  After reading a few pages, she blindly accepted the remainder of the agreements. Minutes later, when she was back in the game, she flushed with anger as she processed the carnage.

  She almost always logged out of the game in her microcosm: her private spot in the Colossal Machine. But the protective shield disappeared. Of all her in-game pets, she enjoyed the unicorns the most, and Jet witnessed the slaughter of these pets before her eyes. Without thinking, she cast a personal shield on her avatar. The blue crystal on her staff shone brighter as a chunk of debris fell on her. She looked up. A laser was being fired at her tower.

  “Dom-Poe-Rec,” Jet yelled.

  She raised her staff and pointed it to the tower. Seconds later, a metallic barrier filled the open are
as around the tower. The winged intruder crouched in midair, and armor started enveloping his avatar. Several machine-gun turrets started firing at the tower; larger chunks of the structure broke free, and she saw even more of her pets tumbling to their deaths. The winged intruder had powers beyond anything that Jet had seen in the game. He must be using an exploit, Jet thought.

  She gave up on trying to save her microcosm. Instead, she summoned her rocket boots and propelled herself toward the winged interloper. “In-Por-Cod-Dev,” she uttered, and a beam of light enveloped the intruder, who stalled mid-flight. The armored avatar began to fall inside the shell of the microcosm. A large crater was formed, and large amounts of dust plumed in every direction. It took several seconds for it to dissipate and settle. An armored shape in the center was visible.

  Since Jet was a Bug Hunter, a player that was granted unique powers to help report problems or anomalies, her avatar was equipped with special tools. She made a log entry for an unidentifiable game object, took a sample, and then submitted it to Pretzelverse as a high-priority case. The intruder hadn’t disappeared, which meant he must have been disconnected in the real world.

  Good riddance!

  It had been weeks since Nigel had played the Colossal Machine. He knew that Jet played regularly, and he needed to see a friendly face after his constant late nights with the terrors that had been plaguing him lately. Nigel checked the time on his phone, 1:57 a.m. Wondering if Jet was still up, he picked up his phone to text her.

  Hey, you there?

  Hey, Nige, Jet texted back. What’s up? Everything okay?

  Well . . . sort of. Sorry I’m texting so late. I barely sleep most nights. Wanted to see if you were up for some friendly conversation.

  Of course! You can always talk to me . . . especially about those sludgelings I saved you from. Jet inserted a winking emoji.

  Nigel’s throat hurt as he laughed, but it felt good.