Secret Acquisitions

by Raleigh Davis

  I shake out the clothes—a silk tank in peacock blue and a cream linen pencil skirt with a cashmere cardigan and adorable chunky-heeled, electric-green Mary Janes—then I poke my head in the bathroom. There’s a ton of bath products there, along with lotions and creams and makeup, all unopened. Does he keep these things here for every woman he entertains? Or is this solely for me?

  The fact that the clothes are exactly my size and style say it’s only for me. He must have done some magic to get this here before I woke up. Or else he was so damn confident I’d go home with him he did it the day before.

  Both prospects excite me. Competence or confidence—either is dead sexy in a man.

  I put myself together with all the lovely things he’s left me, enjoy the breakfast and coffee, then walk out to catch the Muni to work.

  Only, there’s already a sleek black Tesla waiting at the curb with a driver at the passenger door.

  “Miss.” He swings open the door. “I’m to take you wherever you want to go.”

  A girl could really get used to this.

  When I walk into our space in the incubator—we’re sharing a floor of a building in SoMa with three other start-ups—Doc immediately notices my clothes.

  “Where the hell did you get those?” My right-hand woman sneers but not at me. “You look like you just came from the Marina.”

  “I did,” I say lightly.

  “Oh God.” She grabs my arm. “Please tell me you’re not seeing some douche from there.”

  In Doc’s mind, the Marina is the epicenter of everything uncool and commodified about SF. Frat dudes, ladies who lunch, trust fund babies—those are the typical Marina people, and I have to say she’s not wrong. Except Doc is ultracool, probably too cool for this world. She actually moved out of the City and across the bay to Oakland, which is so cool it’s not even popular yet. She also has a PhD in computer science, hence the name Doc.

  “Um, I wouldn’t call it seeing him—”

  “She left the party last night with Mark Taylor,” Hallie pipes up. She’s at her terminal, washing everything down with antiseptic wipes. Hallie’s a bit of a germophobe, but given her horrible allergies, it’s kind of understandable.

  “How do you know that?” I don’t bother to deny it.

  “TidBytes.” She names the premier gossip blog in the tech world. She turns her monitor to me, showing a lovely, full-screen picture of me in my supertight dress leaning into Mark like I’m about to lick him.

  Had that much of my cleavage really been visible? It hadn’t looked like that in the mirror when I’d left the house.

  “Great,” I mutter.

  “It’s fine.” Doc firmly turns the monitor back, earning a glare from Hallie. “Did you get the funding? We’ve got like a week of runway left, max. Our server bill is fucking insane this month.”

  “I…”

  Did I get the funding? Somehow Mark and I never really got around to that.

  For all the grief I gave him about thinking with his dick, I certainly haven’t done much better. Maybe between one of those orgasms I should have brought it up.

  “Crap,” Hallie whispers when she sees my expression. “But there’s still Five Mile Ventures, right?”

  Five Mile is Julian’s firm. And no, I don’t think we’re on there either.

  “I’m still working on it,” I say, firm and upbeat and very once more unto the breach. “I’ve got it handled. Is Valentina here?”

  “Hmm?” From behind her workstation, Valentina lifts her head and blinks, waking up from a catnap. She came to me with some impressive architecture knowledge, which is why I hired her on the spot.

  She spent her first day sleeping at her desk, her head propped on her hand. She did it the next day too. On the third day, I was ready to fire her… and then she handed me her assignment, beautifully coded and commented and way beyond what I’d asked for.

  I had no idea how she accomplished anything with her eyes always closed, but I wasn’t about to question her results.

  “We’re testing your algorithm today,” I say. “That’s first priority on the server.”

  “Sure,” she says, then closes her eyes again.

  I’ve got four other employees. Nadia is at her desk, muttering to herself “No stinking comments in any line of this code, how the hell am I supposed to test this without any comments, what the hell are they teaching these kids in school,” but Imogen, Sylvie, and Meryem won’t be in until about eleven or so. Since they probably left at three this morning, I’m fine with that.

  “How’s the stack looking for today?” I ask Doc.

  “Great. We’re ticking along. We just need to fatten up the bank account.”

  I nod. “I know. I know.”

  I’ve got to save this company, somehow save Grace, and oh, make sure I don’t tank my own future too.

  “So the clothes came from Mark then?”

  I should have known Doc wouldn’t let it slide. “You don’t like them?”

  Doc dresses like a punk librarian with midlength skirts, graphic T-shirts that are too cool for me to decipher, all pulled together with men’s loafers. On anyone else it would look like a mess, but Doc makes it look completely natural and utterly chic.

  “Oh, it’s definitely your style,” she says. “But the labels are a bit… upmarket.”

  She doesn’t say it meanly, and she’s right—these clothes are definitely out of my budget.

  “I stayed the night at his place.” I shrug as if we might have spent all night discussing business. “He lent them to me this morning.”

  Doc snorts. “What, he’s going to want them back? And didn’t you guys have bad blood in college?”

  “What? No.” I’ve never discussed what happened with Mark with anyone, so I don’t know where she got that.

  “You just get this look on your face when he comes up.” She scrunches up her nose like she’s smelled something dead in the office fridge.

  “I… I don’t look like that.” At least I hope I don’t.

  “Okay, if you say so.” Doc grabs her laptop and heads for an empty desk near the whiteboard. “I’ve got some debugging to do.”

  And I’ve got some begging to do. First thing: call Mark and see what’s what.

  But when I get to my office—really it’s a cubicle, but I’m the only one who has one—my resolve fails. Last night was so amazing… and now I have to act like it didn’t happen when I call him.

  To psych myself up, I click on my shared files, the ones that I’ve encrypted with my own program, the files that only my closest friends have access to. I quickly navigate to the folder where Grace’s message still sits.

  I first met Grace when she was looking for a roommate. We were both new to the City. She was coming from China, I was coming from South Bay. But we were both fresh meat in the SF rental market.

  A man was advertising for two roommates, and I reluctantly answered. I wasn’t super thrilled about living with a man I didn’t know, but it beat living out of my car, which was what I’d be doing if I didn’t find a room and soon. Grace was in the same situation and showed up at the apartment at the same time I did.

  John, the man, turned out to be cool, and Grace became my close friend. For once, I finally had a friend who loved crosswords as much as I did, and we got hooked on Futurama together. We talked about almost anything. Except she never could talk about what she did.

  Everyone in the valley has signed some kind of nondisclosure agreement. It’s almost as common as signing a credit card slip. Only her reluctance to talk seemed to go beyond that. Like she was frightened of more than legal trouble.

  Corvus, Arne Fuchs’s company, had sponsored her visa, so I figured she was only afraid of losing her job and being sent back. That’s one of the dirty little secrets in the valley. CEOs complain that there aren’t enough American tech workers and they simply have to hire from overseas, but in reality, workers who depend on the company for their very right to remain in the country are the perf
ect drones. They’ll do anything to keep their jobs.

  So yeah, I figured that Corvus was maybe more secretive than most tech companies but not anything crazy. Then Grace announced that she was moving into company housing. And that she’d have a company phone from then on.

  Once she was gone, her phone went dead and her email went silent. It was like Corvus had swallowed her up. I was so terrified for her, but what could I tell the police? She’s working on some NSA-funded project and has gone dark? Oh, and she’s not a citizen?

  About two months after she disappeared, I found out what she was really afraid of. Because she sent it to me herself, in an innocuously named folder on my secure shared drive. I knew it was from her because it was named after one of our favorite jokes in Futurama.

  I have no idea how she got it to me, but she risked a lot to do it.

  With two clicks of my mouse on the folder named Mom’s Robots, the files fill my screen. I take in again all the information she’s risking her job and her residency to give to me. All of Fuchs’s plans to activate his spy network.

  There are programs and algorithms and memos, probably everything that Grace dared get her hands on. All of it is shocking, but the most informative bit is a master plan written by Fuchs himself. I don’t know who the audience is intended to be—his employees, his investors, or maybe simply himself—but he’s giving everything away here. Like some Bond villain monologueing.

  He’s installed his software in every single social media app I can think of, software that will let him turn on cameras, microphones, and even the GPS. Once he flips a switch, he can watch you, listen to you, even follow you, all without your ever knowing. And it’s all at least nominally legal, given the fine print he’s inserted in the user agreements for all the social media sites. The fine print that no one bothers to read.

  According to his memo, the program isn’t active—yet. He’s waiting to find just the right buyer, some government or company with deep enough pockets to afford information on every single American. I’m not sure how he’s gotten the agreement from the social media sites to do this. Perhaps he offered them a cut of the rewards. Perhaps they don’t know what his spyware really does. He might have claimed it was something to help target ads; who knows.

  The point is, the genie is definitely out of the bottle and is just waiting for Fuchs to make his wishes.

  I get chills looking over it again even though I’ve almost memorized it. The day after the files arrived, I started working on Ultra. I’d always loved encryption, but it became an obsession. I coded every second I could, pulled together the best team I could, and went hard after whatever funding I could.

  It was all because I couldn’t get to Grace since I still had no idea where she was. I can’t erase his program from every phone in the world, and I can’t stop him from spying on everyone—and I can’t rescue Grace—but I can at least scramble whatever information Fuchs is stealing. Scramble it so badly he can never use it.

  I have to do this for Grace, because she’s done the riskiest thing of all—she’s sent me the source code for Fuchs’s spyware. That was most definitely illegal but was my entire key to blocking him. When you’re fighting a giant, you need every bit of help you can get.

  You also need to work your ass off, which is why I’ve opened the source code yet again. I’ve been over it and over it and over it, but I go through it for what must be the thousandth time. I’m looking for just one more weakness, one more crack, one more place to get a hold in order to pull it apart.

  I’m also looking for some clue as to where Grace is. Code is filled with what we call comments: special lines that don’t tell the computer what to do but explain to another programmer what the code is supposed to do. Comments are sort of the user manual for programmers, but they’re also places for code monkeys to play and make jokes. And maybe leave a clue as to where you are and how you’re doing.

  Fuchs’s company is located in what’s known as an SCIF: Sensitive Compartmented Information Facility. No signals come in, and no signals go out. I’ve never met anyone who’s actually been inside, but according to the rumors, cell phones are completely dead there. There’s no wireless whatsoever. It’s a tomb for electronics.

  There are other rumors floating around too, about the draconian nondisclosure agreements employees have signed, about how they’re forced to live in company dorms with everything provided so they can never leave, and about how the company tracks them twenty-four seven.

  It’s all terrifying and creepy, but Fuchs’s incredibly rich, incredibly secretive, and those people desperately need those jobs. So even if it is true, what’s anybody going to do?

  Nothing.

  Well, I’m trying. I pick up my cell phone, looking over my cubicle wall at my team humming along.

  Except before I can even hit Call, Mark beats me to the punch by walking in. Totally unexpected and unannounced.

  The air swells, pressing against the windows, then sucks back in with a whoosh, gathering around him. At least it seems that way, with everything pulsing like Superman himself has landed.

  “Mark.” I stride over and hold out my hand like we’re old friends, although my knees are already weak. He’s in his usual T-shirt and jeans, but has any man ever filled them out so well?

  He takes my hand and pulls me close. “You look amazing,” he says into my ear. “Are you wearing the underwear too?”

  This is completely inappropriate for a business setting. I blush like a teenager anyway. “Let’s keep this professional.” I don’t pull away though.

  He winks at me, more dangerous than amused, a lion agreeing to play with a kitten. “Sure thing.”

  “What can I help you with?” I ask, loud enough for everyone to hear. I can’t figure out why he’s come here instead of summoning me to Sand Hill Road. Men like him don’t run errands.

  “I like to keep a close eye on my investments.” Sure enough, he’s looking around our office, taking in the workstations and whiteboards and general clutter that comes from people working long hours in a crammed space. I can’t tell what he thinks of it; he’s too good at shuttering his expression.

  “You’re funding us?” I ask with an undignified squeak. There should be more meetings, a grilling in front of all the partners at Bastard Capital, contracts, reams and hours of paperwork before we hit this point.

  Doc doesn’t wait for him to answer before whooping with joy. “Hot damn, we can make the server bill this month.”

  Mark smiles. “I like you.”

  “If you’re going to be paying my salary, I like you too.”

  “Wait.” I hold up my hands before this can go any further. What the hell is happening here? “Nothing’s been agreed to. I haven’t signed anything.”

  “We’ll take care of that soon.” He says that as if giving a start-up millions is no big deal.

  Well, it probably isn’t for him.

  “You never said yes.” I don’t know why I’m pressing him when he’s as good as said yes. Maybe because I can’t quite believe it. Maybe because I’m looking for the catch—the clothes, the night at his place, now the funding? There has to be a catch. Mark isn’t giving that away for free. Not to me.

  “Are you saying no?”

  Doc actually gasps at his question.

  “You know I can’t.” I’m entirely at his mercy, in the best and worst ways.

  “You always have a choice.” He says that with laser precise intensity, reminding me that I do. Just as I had a choice last night. I can say no and he’ll be gone, quick as that.

  Except I don’t want him to leave. And it’s not only about the money.

  “Well, I’d better say yes, or Doc will never speak to me again.” I make it a joke because I’m feeling a little too raw right now, at least for a professional setting.

  “You’re damn right,” Doc says.

  “Excellent.” Mark holds out his hand. “Welcome to Bastard Capital.”

  Chapter 7

  Showing up
at her office was meant to push January off her game, to unsettle her, but I’m the one who’s on edge here.

  She’s in the clothes I bought for her, glasses perched on her cute nose, one pen in her hand and another pushed through her bun, scrolling through her laptop as we go through her latest data. She’s completely, utterly focused, while I’m completely, utterly distracted by the way she smells, how her hair glimmers in the light, the way her top clings to her breasts.

  If I’m being completely honest, I didn’t only show up here because I wanted to unsettle her—I couldn’t stop thinking about her.

  Last night didn’t get her out of my system—no way, no how—but it should have settled me down some. I’m uncomfortably close to thinking with my dick here, given how badly I want to kiss her and bend her over her desk.

  We’re definitely going to play on my desk again though. Not tonight—I’ve got so many fantasies about her there’s no rush on repeats—but soon.

  She’s thinking of it too, no matter how engaged she is in her data. When she catches my eye or glances at my thigh or arm, her breath stutters in this glorious way. It’s like I’m tripping up the rhythm of her lungs. I can’t wait to have her panting again.

  This isn’t the place for it though. And really, it’s fun to simply watch her. Here, she’s in her element in a way I remember from college, animated and alive, pointing out her successes and failures with equal enthusiasm.

  It hurt to see that enthusiasm up close and personal after she turned me down, so I stopped looking at her directly in college. She lived only in my peripheral vision until we graduated. But looking at her straight on in this moment, when her love for what she does shines so brightly, I want to capture some of that light for myself.

  “Do you still do puzzles?”

  She blinks as I interrupt her flow. “Um, yes.” Her fingers are graceful as they set her pen down, the nails a delicate pink. It makes me think of other beautifully pink places on her. “Not crosswords—they got too easy for me. But there’s all sorts of stuff online: cryptology challenges and stuff.”