by Theo Cage
Toshi also had a couple of bright red Alienware laptops spread out across his workspace that he used for gameplay. Strictly recreational. He loved Mortal Combat.
Wey was born in Chengdu. At the age of ten he was drafted by a local businessman to work twenty-hour days playing video games. Wey sweated away in a big steel warehouse full of gamers for years, winning virtual currency in a medieval fantasy role playing game called Hammer of the Gods that his boss sold on eBay for millions. Wey became a top grosser.
Eventually he recruited his own players, who hacked the game and stole the points. He used the money to buy his way to Canada where he lived for three years working for a cyber security firm in Ottawa. Until he got the call.
Now he resides in an unknown location.
Sure, he knew what country they were in, but that was as far as it went. The team had been transported to their present location by military helicopter, blind folded. Very dramatic. Extra in every way.
They were told by their handlers the mystery location protected them. They were non-state hackers. Non-state meaning they represented a non-political organization, not a country. They had more freedom than a group like Red Dragon, which was run by the Chinese government.
Their incentive was money. Lots of it. But there were other motivations: they were going to take down the establishment, create chaos, teach the rich a lesson. And their leader, Richard Yang, the man who brought them together, shared their enthusiasm.
Wey stood and stretched. He had been hunched over his keyboard for hours and he wasn’t sure if the opera music helped his concentration. He was craving some good old-fashioned thrash metal. That usually got his juices flowing.
It was Toshi who had introduced them to opera music. He said they were about to accomplish great things and great things should never be carried out to the accompaniment of hip hop or pop music. He played them the great Italian opera Turandot, sung by Luciano Pavarotti, Placido Domingo and Jose Carreras. The other two hackers hated it at first, but like all great music, it began to grow on them.
Yang liked the music as well. On conference calls he started calling the hacker team The Three Sopranos. Wey didn’t really care: whatever made the man happy. He was paying the bills and supplying the tech.
He told them the song they were currently coding to, was their anthem:
None shall sleep,
None shall sleep,
Not even you, oh princess, in your cold bedroom,
Watching the stars.
“Am I cold princess?” asked Zerzy, tapping away at her keyboard at seventy words a minute. Wey had never thought of her as cold; to him she was a force of nature, as alien to his upbringing as death metal to a teenybopper, but not icy. Maybe that’s how she wanted to be seen. After all, everyone in the 21st century had to have their own personal brand.
“You were cold yesterday,” answered Toshi, “when you tossed that twat Kennedy and the President’s daughter into the Pacific Ocean.”
“That was mission,” she replied. Zerzy rarely used the when speaking. The others were used to it by now.
“Yeah, but that was wicked how you waited for them to start crossing the Bixby Bridge. That's a 250-foot drop.”
“No splash landings for Prince and Princess. Just making sure.”
Zerzy looked over at the Japanese coder, dressed all in black like his hero, Bruce Lee. “Toshi added a little musical accompaniment, too.”
“Opera is always suitable for dramatic effect.”
“That’s not going to bite us? Some forensic team finds Madame Butterfly on the Osprey’s playlist? Added at the last minute?”
“All I keep thinking is the two of them heard it all the way down. Maximum volume on sixteen Bose speakers. What a way to go. I’m seeing it in slow motion. The car turning in the air, aluminum and graphite exploding everywhere, the two royals wrapped in each other's arms. It’s a Romeo and Juliet moment.”
“You’re such fucking romantic,” laughed Zerzy.
“Whoever gave us the backdoor on that EV? That was sweet, too.”
“That’s our boss man. The Yangster,” answered Zerzy, referring to their sponsor, Richard Yang. “Zat car was full of infected chips. Courtesy of Imagineers at Lutu.”
“Remind me never to buy a Lutu phone.”
“It’ll bite you, bro,” laughed Toshi. “Ever wonder how they can sell those cells so cheap? They’re recording everything you say and do. Selfies to dick pics. All for sale to the highest bidder.”
寻找
S E A R C H
RICE HQ
WHEN GRACE RETURNED from a wolfed-down protein shake in the group kitchen, she found Hunter on the second-floor patio, strapped into his tracker, looking out over the desert.
She slid the glass door open and stepped out onto the balcony. She knew from Jimmy that Hunter had taken a call from President King, who was trying to engage the Rice team.
“How’s the President?” Grace asked, knowing Hunter was most likely jacked into the Internet or catching up on his emails while he stood by the railing. He claimed he needed constant input. He was a broadband junkie.
Her partner surprised her by answering immediately. “She’s flying to Houston in Air Force One to be with her son and husband. What a horrible night she’s had.”
For a moment they just stared out at the sparse landscape, a lone hawk circling above them. Probably extra wary around Rice Headquarters where Hunter is often known to fly formations of swarming laser-armed drones.
“She wants us to help,” said Hunter finally. “She doesn’t think the Secret Service has the expertise to get to the bottom of the cause of the accident quickly enough. The conspiracy theories are already flying around D.C.,” said Hunter, his voice flat and unemotional. His researcher voice; Grace had heard it many times.
She looked up. “What now?”
“We need to get some hard evidence on the EV before the rumors get out of hand. The latest is that Taiwanese terrorists killed her in retaliation for US support of Taiwan.”
“That would be an act of war.”
“Not if it can’t be proven. Acts of aggression today are hard to attribute.” A favorite topic of Hunter’s. Why is cyber war not seen as actual war to people when it’s just as damaging? A bug in human thinking, he theorized.
“What do you think?” she asked. Hunter turned, his rubber tracks groaning on the pebbled concrete surface of the balcony.
“I’m just telling you what I’ve picked up on the Net.” Picked up on the Net, she thought. Through a direct implant into your cortex. Nothing newsworthy there.
“What does Jimmy think?” she asked.
“He thinks anything is possible.”
“And what about Rice?” She meant, any update on where he was.
“Jimmy brought up his idea again—”
“He’s been watching too many sci-fi movies.”
“He might have a point, though. For weeks we’ve been carefully increasing the bandwidth feeding into my neural implant. It’s helped me collect more data.”
“What he's talking about is completely different. He's talking about you going from 100 kilometers an hour to the speed of light. And it’s not his brain he’s willing to risk, it’s yours.”
“You don’t think I can handle it?”
“Hunter, he’s talking about plugging your very valuable mind, directly, no filter or governor, into a high-speed Internet connection. What could possibly go wrong?” She threw up her arms. She couldn’t fathom why she loved him so much, had such an overarching need to protect him, to keep him out of the line of fire. He hardly needed protecting even though he was totally dependent on technology to live and move and breathe.
“And for what?” she asked. “You take in information faster than any of us just the old-fashioned way. Why take the risk?”
“It has scientific value,” answered Hunter in his perfectly enunciated synthetic voice.
“You come from a long line of self-sacrificial researcher
s willing to try out experiments on yourself. They don’t always end well.” Grace couldn’t fathom Hunter’s thinking. When she tried to second guess him, she was always wrong. It wasn’t that men were stupid, especially this man, but their thoughts followed tangents impossible for her to predict. Not just twists and turns but dark dead ends. Layovers culminating in long unpredictable stretches of navel gazing.
“I have two immediate goals,” answered Hunter. “One, Rice has fallen off the map. I have a sense that the Internet may have clues buried somewhere. I just don’t know what questions to ask. An excellent experiment, by the way.”
Grace just shook her head. She had no idea how to head off Hunter when he was on the scent of something. Her concern for Rice was growing, too. People like that just don’t disappear.
“And two, I’d like to look more into this crash in California. Electric vehicles communicate by different means with each other and the gird. Maybe I can find something.”
“If the company who made that car or a foreign government had anything to do with that crash, you’d be opening a dangerous can of worms.”
“That’s one way to put it. But, yes.”
“And you’re not doing this on your own,” she demanded.
“Clarence will be there.” Clarence was one of the three full-time caregivers he employed
“Clarence is not a doctor. I want your medical team there.”
“They have already agreed. Grace, I know you care. But look at me. What can I contribute? I can write another book on insect swarms or flocking birds. That’s not going to change the world. I don’t know how much time I have. I need to do this.”
Grace turned back to the view that stretched out below her. He wants to change the world, she thought. Is it that easy? She didn't think so.
.
监狱
P R I S O N
Quinjang Prison
RICE ACTUALLY SLEPT for a few hours, woke up hungry and dry-mouthed, sore everywhere, intolerably itchy. He tugged at his unravelling sleeve, listening for Scarface in the hall. His thick woolen uniform shirt, as stiff as cardboard, was already coming apart; his filthy dungarees, clumsily manufactured and two sizes too big, rubbed the skin of his knees raw.
Rice hadn’t cleaned, shaved or showered since arriving at Quinjang. They had razored his head clean the first day and would occasionally hose him down with freezing water for a few minutes once a week, something he actually looked forward to. Little did the guards know that the routine soaking was a reward, not a punishment.
Rice actually smiled at the thought. He clearly hadn’t given up hope yet, but he could feel a sense of surrender sneaking up on him. He didn’t know how much longer he could hold up. Had anyone escaped this prison before? He wished he had done his homework better. He had heard about Quinjang, but he had no idea where it was located. Was it rural? Near a major city?
And if he could find his way out, how long could he survive in a hostile country swarming with Chinese soldiers and intimidated citizens?
Rice felt his rib cage. At least two bones were broken or fractured, the pain dull and ever-present—until his jailer found that special spot again with his damned bamboo stick, then the agony would explode up his trunk like a small bomb going off inside of him. Rice didn’t think he would ever heal while he was in Quinjang. Scarface would continue playing him like a drum kit every day, the same tune, maximizing his anguish, keeping him helpless.
Rice thought of Britt again, wondered what she would think of his new look. He knew one thing: she would never believe he would consider giving up. He hadn’t surrendered after ten years hiding out in the wilds of Washington State; hadn’t given up on the four hundred girls the terrorists had kidnapped in the Congo; hadn’t surrendered to his fears when he crawled into that water-filled African tunnel to rescue a young local boy trapped in the Coltan mine.
Quinjang was only a prison, built by slaves, run by the Communist party. There had to be a weakness he could leverage. But whatever it was, he was on his own. He would be getting no help from Grace or Hunter or Jimmy. They would likely be able to track him to Beijing where he booked a night in a hotel. But once he was shanghaied by the Chinese army and driven hundreds of miles, he was out completely of their reach.
The Chinese trip was supposed to be his last mission. Then he was going to retire. Sitting in the corner of his cell, his back against the cold concrete, his filthy feet in the dirt, it was hard to imagine a more spartan retirement.
Scarface jiggled the rusty lock on Rice’s cell door and entered with another guard. They weren’t bringing food. The other guard was carrying the hated wooden bucket.
Quinjang had a novel punishment they used on prisoners. For more than twelve hours a day they would force Rice to sit on an old bucket in the center of the room. If he slouched or tried to move, Scarface beat him with his ever-present bamboo stick.
Scarface’s partner placed the bucket down carefully in the center of the room and nodded at Rice. The ex-agent grimaced. Twelve hours was an eternity on the bucket, but if he could manage it without falling off, he might avoid a beating, give his ribs a chance to heal a bit.
Sitting there, hunched over, Rice was struck by how joyless the guard’s attentions were, the looks on their faces blank and distant as if they too faced beatings if they didn't properly administer the correct punishment. Rice and his two punishers formed a sad and silent trio, the guards never asking for information. These sessions weren’t interrogations, just random attempts at breaking him down and making him miserable.
Rice groaned, sitting on the hated upturned bucket, his ass cheeks screaming at him, his shoulders almost numb. He bent over to stretch and immediately felt a rod break across his neck. He reached up with his right hand and gripped the worn stick, wrenched the shaft hard, and turned as the second guard fell into him, a look of surprise on his lean face.
Rice punched the man in the neck, the blow lacking his usual power. The guard reached for his throat and let out a gargled scream, still gripping the beat stick. Rice waited for Scarface’s response, expecting a blow across his head, but nothing came. He stood on shaky legs and turned to see Scarface heading for the locked door. Rice had hoped to spare the old man, but now had little choice. He jumped across the room, feeling the stiffness drag him down. Then Scarface turned, lifted his wooden pole and glared with his one good eye.
“American!” he yelled, then expertly swung his weapon, both arms raised above his head. The blunt end struck Rice with surprising strength, right above his brow, a stunning strike that drove the ex-agent to his knees. Rice passed one hand across his forehead and wiped away a font of blood. Scarface had broken the skin and the wound was bleeding freely.
“That’s what you say in your country? An eye for an eye?” Scarface growled, his face tight with rage. Then he swung the pole again, the tip crying through the fetid air of the prison cell. Rice raised his arm, then felt a sharp pain and the crack of bone. Scarface had broken his left wrist with one expert blow.
“You want to talk, American CIA man? Pleasantries about wife and child? My wife of ten years died in a factory making tractor parts for American farmers. A tire exploded. She lingered for weeks. You want to hear about a daughter jumping to her death off roof of cell phone plant in Shenzen?”
Scarface rotated the stick above his head, twirled the weapon in a blur and brought the end down again striking him just above the right ear, the pain blossoming across his skull. Rice fell forward, his vision fading. He hit the cold concrete of the floor.
“Do you miss your cell phone?” Scarface asked, flashing the length of the pole down across Rice’s spine. The pain made Rice writhe on the floor. “I miss my daughter more.” Then he spit out a Chinese word.
Scarface flicked the pole again. Rice only heard the horrible sound, then a blast of agony along his left leg.
“Mrs. Yishee, gone in a blink. So, like all good comrades, I took her place at the factory. Two months later, another wheel explode
s. And now I can only watch with one good eye, wretched Americans like you shrinking into the dirt, crying their pitiful tears.”
Scarface pulled the other guard up off the floor who kicked Rice half-heartedly in the ribs as he passed. Rice was cradling his wrist, trying to protect his head, rolled into a ball. The agony flowed through him like a sickening river. He’d vomit but his stomach was empty. He believed foolishly that he was lost before: then he heard Scarface’s weapon whirlybird through the air and prepared himself for the next explosion of pain.
后门
B A C K D O O R
The Three Soprano’s
OF THE THREE HACKERS, Wey Lee was the most skilled with automated vehicles. He’d worked for a short time with the programming team at Lutu Technology in Beijing, the company that surreptitiously built the hardware for the Osprey self-driving sports car. He knew how to take control of the AI that managed the safety features. He did what all booters do—he left a backdoor designed only for him.
“Most EV’s watch your eyes. If you look away from the windshield for more than five seconds, seven in a Tesla, the computer knows you’re not paying attention. Then it will alarm you or vibrate the steering wheel. No response in two or three seconds and the car’s automated driving system shuts down.”
Toshi asked, “Those stupid people in the car who crawled into the backseat didn’t know that?”
“You think that’s the first time some idiot human dreamed up the idea of a quickie in the backseat while torqueing down the freeway. That’s nothing new. I’ve seen crazier.”
