by Schow, Ryan
9
That evening during the dinner hour, a friend of my father’s (Atticus Van Duyn Version 1.0’s friend, not Christian Swann’s) knocks on our front door ready to sweep our new home for bugs and provide us with new laptops and secure phone systems.
I’m dressed in casual clothes with a push-up bra to make my chest somewhat even and a baseball cap drawn low over my face with my pony-tailed hair pulled out the back. Even though it’s a half-assed job at hiding the stroke-like look of my face, it’s the best I can do on such short notice.
He is right on time, and he looks like your typical IT guy: a silly clash of plaids and stripes with old tennis shoes, a patchy beard and bed head. If he smelled anything like pot, he would have been a walking cliché. In his late twenties with thinning hair and squinty eyes the color of a retired UPS truck, this dude has no chance of ever having a hot girlfriend, not in this lifetime, which is why—when he looks at me—he gets nervous.
At first I’m sure it is my manufactured perfection that has him on edge, but then, when I catch the direction of his eyes, I realize it isn’t my cloned good looks that moves him, rather it’s the state of my physical deformity.
The stricken look of sadness in his eyes bears a certain familiarity. Savannah version 1.0 got that look a lot. The look is pity. Or well mannered disgust masked by pity. Like this guy has room to talk! I turn the left side of my face away from him. The right side almost looks normal.
I’m just about to leave the room when he introduces himself as Barry Kovalevsky. He says he’s an American born Russian hailing from Philly like he’s filming his online profile for Match.com. I’m thinking, jeez, another Russian? I’m thinking, who gives a crap where you’re from, just get to work! But then I realize this is the defensive part of me coming out and I hate that I even consider being rude.
I’m starting to worry about myself a lot these days. If something happens and I’m forced to forever look the way I do right now—if I’m going to have to suffer that monumental let down—then I can’t afford to be rude. There has to be some redeeming qualities about me, somewhere.
Barry’s accent is faint, but it’s there. When I stop judging him (because, really, who am I to judge anyone?), I think maybe I like him. It’s because of the accent, because he reminds me of how Netty sounds. For a second, I think this is the softer more human part of me emerging, and I wonder if this, too, will be consumed by my new DNA, or by the radiation.
When Barry asks my father (Christian—I’m still getting used to our new names) how he knows Atticus Van Duyn, he says, “We go way back. He says if there is anyone I can trust, it’s you.” This seems to work because within moments, Barry says, “I want to see your old system, to verify if it was compromised, and if so, how. This will help me set up a more secure system.”
Within the hour, Barry tells me my laptop is infected with what he calls “military grade spyware programs” so deeply embedded he beams with pride for having found anything at all.
“This system, and that’s really what it is—a spyware system—is nothing short of amazing,” he says. “Not only is it a keystroke logging program, it’s a program that basically mirrors your screen in real time at an undisclosed and untraceable IP address. It’s totally invisible no matter how many times I try tracing it. And not to brag, but I’m good. Like really good. What’s even worse for you, but brilliant for them, is it has complete control of your laptop’s microphone and camera. Basically, whoever wants to listen to you or watch you, they can do it whenever they want.”
A cold emptiness forms within me, ripping away my sense of safety. Inside, paradigms are shifting. Walls are shooting up; walls are falling down. Could my privacy have been invaded without me knowing it? And how did these people do this to me? From the dark abyss comes a creeping rage, my need to punish someone. Then embarrassment. Washing over me, over everything, I sit there, the blood draining from my ruined face, speechless. I don’t know what “they” may or may not have seen.
I shudder to think.
Then, almost on my own, my mouth says, “I heard about those dickhead school administrators in Pennsylvania and New York using students’ laptops to watch them undressing at home.”
“It gets worse,” he says, oblivious, insensitive. “And this is where it becomes alarming. The microphone now has a booster on it, which both amplifies and clarifies sound, and is tied in to another planted and embedded program that will activate the system in the event of certain key words spoken.”
A deep and churning sickness rolls through me. “What keywords?” I ask.
“I can print out the list for you, if you want, but Atticus Van Duyn’s company and the Virginia Corporation, plus a bunch of names. There’s Gerhart or Gerhard, something like that, and I remember cloning and a bunch of other related words, too. Plus there was Kaitlyn something or other, Damien, Brayden. Friends of yours I assume? Anyway, it’s a long list. But that’s not what matters. What matters is you basically have a mini Echelon program running in your computer.”
“I…what? What’s an Echelon program?” I ask. At this point, I’m not sure how much longer I’ll be able to form complete sentences.
My father, his voice low with emotion, says, “Echelon type programs are essential parts of the NSA’s threat fusion program. Certain keywords or phrases spoken into your phone, inputted into the internet search engines, used on social networking sites, or emailed will cause your conversations to be recorded at offsite data collection facilities across the US.”
“They say it’s how they prevent domestic terror, but we all know that’s a half-truth if ever there was one,” Barry says. “Anyway, the camera’s better, too. Completely upgraded and very expensive. The point is, someone had to physically add the booster and the camera, and that presents an even deeper problem, one I don’t even want to ask about.”
Like who broke into my room, my car, my house? My father’s face pales at the suggestion and I feel that awful sense of vertigo, the kind that hits you only in the very worst of moments. I’ve never passed out from bad news before, but that’s what is about to happen. My father puts his hand on my shoulder, steadying me.
“I need water,” I say. My father gets me a glass, gets himself a glass.
“Barry, what can I get you to drink?”
“Beer,” he says, not even looking up from the screen. If this was his problem, he wouldn’t be so calm. “The new laptop I brought you, it’s not secure enough for this kind of intrusion. What you need is a brand new system built from the ground up with an impenetrable firewall.”
“Impenetrable firewall,” my father says mockingly. “Talk about an oxymoron.” The color is returning to his cheeks, but then again, he’s suddenly developed a case of restless leg syndrome in his hands.
“For sure, right?” Barry says with a snort of laughter. “The thing is, it’s possible. You just have to think really, really far outside the box. In my spare time, I’ve been building such a system from the ground up. No microphones, no cameras, proprietary software, off the books encryption designed by yours truly, random password generator with no less than sixteen characters. It’s the Fort Knox of computers. But here’s the best thing, when you’re online—which always makes you vulnerable to attack—your system basically piggybacks local IP addresses at random. With a range of ten square miles, you’ll be jumping tens of thousands of IP addresses a week. It’s like your coded garage door in that you never use the same code twice. The firewall is top shelf, but no firewall is truly impenetrable. However, if hackers can’t find your system, then you can practically run it naked and still be okay.”
“If we can’t be seen, we can’t be hacked,” I say. My nausea is finally abating, but I’m scared one more piece of bad news will have it rushing right back. “That’s the idea, right?”
My father looks at me, then at Barry who gives a nod of acknowledgement. Barry says, “I’m thinking this is not your original laptop, though. I think someone swapped an exact replica of
your old one for this one. It would be a lot easier than someone trying to convert your system on site.”
Me and my father sort of give a dazed nod.
“How long will it take you to build two of these systems to meet our needs?” my father finally asks.
“Maybe two days. Since it’s a new thing for me, and I’m mostly in the later design stages, I’d charge you mostly for parts, but for some labor, too. And I’ll upgrade you as things develop.”
My father says, “All we need to do now is have you sign a non-disclosure agreement.”
“An NDA?” he says, taking a pull on his beer. “No problem. Like I said, they’ll be ready in two days.”
With that, my father writes a check to Barry for more than he should, enough for Barry’s eyes to flash wide.
“The price of privacy is far greater than the price of parts and labor, don’t you agree, Barry?”
Still reeling, a new shine to his eyes, he says, “For sure.”
Out of the Frying Pan…
1
All night long my skin and muscles have been deteriorating one painful cell at a time. When I look in the mirror, which takes every last drop of courage I have, I sit down hard and nearly pass out sideways. It’s like my skin is wanting to slide right off my body, like a slice of cheese held too close to the fire. After some deep breathing and a few minutes reprieve, I think maybe I have it together enough to get to Gerhard’s office without suffering any kind of significant emotional meltdown.
I don’t even bother with breakfast before leaving. As I’m roaring off in my new Audi, I see my father in the rear view mirror. He’s running out the front door, trying to flag me down. Like I’m going to take him with me on this.
No way José.
Someone has to man-handle Gerhard and I’ve got the experience. Plus, the way my father looked at me when I told him about the blackmail and the violence, there’s no way I can do what I might have to do with him standing there. And there’s no telling what my father will do to Gerhard. If I was him, I’d kill the man.
It’s about ten in the morning and I’m just heading into San Francisco when I use my new Bluetooth system to call Damien.
“Hello?” he says.
“Hey, it’s me Savannah.”
“Where are you calling from? I don’t recognize the number.”
“A friend’s phone,” I lie. Staple of criminal enterprise or not, I’m digging the anonymity my new burner phone has to offer. I almost laugh thinking me and my father are now semi-legit in the world of white collar criminals. Fake ID’s, burner phones, untraceable cars and communications devices. Say what you want about my new and improved father, but at least he isn’t boring.
“So what’s up?” he asks.
“There have been some recent changes I wanted you to be aware of, if anything, for Kaitlyn’s sake.”
I wait a second and he bites.
“Well, don’t be coy, Savannah, enlighten me.”
“My left breast has fallen. And the side of my face is drooping, too.” Okay, so recently I’ve developed even more of a flare for the dramatic. More of my clone’s DNA melded with mine? Most likely. These days, I don’t know what is me and what is my clone, but if I’m going to integrate the various sides of me, I’ve got to stop thinking of myself as different and separate.
He’s suddenly concerned, so I tell him about my changing body, then my conversation with Gerhard. When I talk about my phone and my laptop being bugged, it’s because his phone might be bugged, too. Plus, whoever’s listening, if they’ve wiretapped Damien’s end, by now they know I know about them. At least, I’m assuming they do.
“Whew,” he says, the weight of these revelations straining his emotions. “I thought we were done with all this crap.”
“They remade our bodies, Damien. Well, mine and Kaitlyn’s anyway. And the non-triplets. We let them put stuff in us without really knowing what it was. It would make sense that they put in control measures. At least on me since I did what I did to Gerhard.”
“What do you mean, control measures?”
“My father thinks it’s an RFID chip. They’re small enough these days.”
“What kind of chips?”
“RFID chips. Radio Frequency Identification. Tracking chips like they use on soldiers, old people and animals. Except in my case, and possibly Kaitlyn’s case, too, our hypothetical RFID chip would be able to remotely trigger low to moderate doses of radiation lying dormant inside us.”
“What kind of radiation?”
“Don’t know yet.”
“Is it that bad? The way you look?”
“If you want, you can come see for yourself. I shouldn’t have you out here, me looking the way I do, but—”
“I’m coming out. If they’re doing something to you, then maybe they will do it to Kaitlyn, too.” Typical Damien, more concerned with his step-sister than his non-existent love life. “I don’t want anything else happening to her.”
“What I can’t figure,” I say, “is how Gerhard could inject me with…whatever the hell he injected me with. I mean, if it isn’t localized, how would the radiation cause so much damage to one particular side of my body? Plus, it’s mostly the left side of my face and chest being affected.”
“There has to be radioactive particles in the solution. And if they’re triggered by a RFID signal, maybe the particles are inert, or held in some kind of protective, I don’t know, casing or something.”
“That’s what I was thinking,” I tell him, even though I wasn’t thinking that at all. “Gerhard says I can’t escape it. That I’ve basically signed my own death sentence.”
There’s a long pause on the phone, then he says, “Jesus.”
“Yeah,” I say, dragging the word out.
“Whomever holds the remote to that RFID chip will always have control over you,” he says. “As long as someone can push a button, you’ll never be safe. Maybe none of us will.”
“If I live that long,” I grumble. After another long moment of reflecting on this unsettling glimpse of what might be my future, I say, “A RFID chip needs to receive a signal to work, right?”
“I guess. I mean, I think so, yes.”
“So we get the remote and everything else just sort of sits dormant inside me. It’s not exactly a cure, but it’s enough to stop this from getting worse, right?”
“Theoretically.” Damien thinks about this for a second, then says, “Unless they can manufacture new remote controls whenever they want. They just have to know the receiving frequency, which is probably GPS based, then they can probably clone as many remotes as necessary. And what about the damage already done to your body? Did Gerhard say he could fix it?”
“I don’t know. He says he might have a solution, but I’m not sure what that means. We weren’t exactly brainstorming together. He wasn’t exactly warm.”
“We need to find out what Gerhard put into your body, and we need to find out if he put it in other people’s bodies, too. Specifically my step-sister’s body, and your friends’ bodies.”
“He said he put it in me because I shot him, and because I blackmailed him. Then there’s the killing of his war model. Basically I’m a threat to him and the organization. Kaitlyn isn’t.”
Thinking I got myself in this predicament by talking about the program with others is upsetting me more and more. What if talking with Damien is doing more damage to all of us? Putting us all in danger? If they’ve bugged Damien’s phone, they would know I’m talking again. Damn, I hope not. And what happens if I’m hit with another burst of radiation? What happens if I can’t get to Gerhard’s office in time?
“You have to come see me tonight,” I say in my most serious voice.
“Can’t. I’ve got a job now. The earliest I can get out there is…three days.”
“Three days?” Man, I’m sounding desperate. That’s because I am desperate. I need a friend, someone who understands.
“If I can get there sooner, I give you my wor
d, I’ll make it happen.”
Taking precautionary measures, I give him the Palo Alto address. The old one. As far as the Virginia Corporation knows—and this is a big assumption—I still live there. It won’t be long before the sale is recorded with county records. Thirty days at least. At least, that’s what my father says.
“Be there at nine P.M.,” I tell him, “and don’t be late.”
2
The way I feel inside—agitated, reckless and queasy—if I wasn’t driving my new S5, I would have run people off the road. With my body being radiated into near-oblivion and having to see Gerhard again, I have become unwittingly suicidal. At least my father isn’t here to see this. At least he can’t tell me to slow down. Or stop tailgating old ladies and fuel efficient four-bangers.
Stuck behind another idiot California driver, I try detaching from my road rage by thinking of other things. Pleasant things. Happier things. Like Netty and how happy I am to have her in my life again. Inevitably, my mind hauls me back to the problem at hand. Whatever happens, I can’t let my guard down. Not for a minute.
Then I see some douchebag in a suit driving a Porsche (big surprise) who looks like he’s late for the Financial District and this makes me think of another narcissistic douchebag: Jacob Brantley.
Jesus in heaven, Jacob. I never thought it would be possible to feel bad for that freaking tool. For what I’ve done to him. But I do. To make matters worse, I’m actually embarrassed by my behavior, by how disgusting I was to him.
What I did, that was so not me!
With that hot bucket of slop, I must admit, he’s officially paid in full for his mistakes. It’s time to back off. Then again, does my mistreatment of Jacob really matter if my father ships me off to the city? As much as I secretly adore Jacob’s good looks, and him chasing me for the first time ever, he’s just another distraction from more important matters. Besides, looking the way I do right now, Jacob wouldn’t have me anyway.
