Strange Flesh

by Michael Olson

  Slashdot is running an article quoting anonymous porn sources saying traffic to their sites has fallen off a cliff. Meanwhile, drive-formatting freeware hosts are currently offline due to unheard-of traffic spikes.

  HoseDown has an item headlined:

  Netphomaniacs scurry in the glare of sudden sunlight.

  Soon I suspect they’ll begin to sizzle.

  65

  Lillie_Hitchcock logs in at four PM the next afternoon.

  A short query to the NOD central server gives me what we’ve been after for over a month now: an honest IP address for Billy Randall.

  I’m tempted to send this straight to McClaren’s team and go buy myself a bottle of small-batch. But from long experience, I know that I need a solid physical address, or else there’s a good chance that they’ll wind up SWATing a midtown Starbucks.

  I treat the situation gently. A light scan shows his machine is as tight as one might expect from someone with Billy’s technical skills. Of course, I’ve already planned an attack. His Achilles’ heel is that he’ll have the NOD developer’s kit installed on his machine, and I’ve had plenty of opportunity to assay it for flaws.

  There aren’t many, but I did find a trapdoor buried in their testing tools. A poorly designed function allows one to load outdated versions for some of the program’s components. These contain errors that let me order his current NOD session to silently run any program I might specify. Even if Billy were watching closely, it just looks like NOD has started another of its many processes. But in reality, I’ve sliced a fatal hole in his system by uploading a tiny RAT designed to mimic a common security application.

  Now I have to be circumspect. Not wanting to risk tipping him off, I decide to lie back. In the meantime, I write up a triumphant status report to McClaren and hope that getting into Billy’s machine will suffice to prevent Blake from firing me tomorrow.

  I wait until four AM Monday morning to risk firing up my Trojan. I start by creating myself a shadow admin account. After that, I install a program that lets me discreetly spy on his sessions. Then I start copying down his hard drive. I browse through the software he uses: all the Apple media shit, Eclipse . . .

  Oh, what’s this?

  He’s running his own remote-access app called Mesmer, which lets you control your desktop from any smartphone.

  Billy’s phone, that’s what I’d really like to crack.

  Instrumenting someone’s cell used to be a huge pain in the ass. But now that your phone is really a fully functional computer, it’s become a perfect surveillance platform. With one program I can listen to your calls, download your texts and email, grab your Facebook password, turn on the mic to listen to your live conversations, take pictures or video, and, most importantly, learn your location from the built-in GPS receivers.

  I find several devious hacks in the Red Rook exploits database and rig Billy’s system to execute one of them the next time he syncs his phone.

  Before signing off, I start his webcam for a quick peep. I’d love the opportunity to spy on Billy at home. But all I can see is an unfocused view out of a large bank of windows, the city lights forming an amorphous constellation.

  I set up a script to have the camera wake up periodically, record a couple frames to an external server, and alert me if there’s any motion in the images. Then I log off and start poring over my copy of Billy’s hard drive. I see immediately that it won’t give him up. He’s thoroughly stealthed his system. I can hope that by watching his live sessions with it, I’ll catch him in a mistake, though that will be chancy and time-consuming—and I suspect Blake won’t be satisfied with any kind of long-term digital stakeout.

  While things are bad enough now, I’m sure Billy has even more fireworks in store.

  Since I left her apartment, Olya has completely ignored me. I decide to check GAME and see if I can find Garriott or Xan to determine what they’ve heard from her. Neither of them are there.

  Actually, almost no one is. Last night, a burst pipe on the third floor caused a team of emergency plumbers to shut off the water for the entire building. This morning they commenced a multimovement symphony of power tools and pipe banging, which has driven away what few of GAME’s inhabitants remained. At eight AM, I decide to take my laptop to a coffee shop around the corner on Clinton Street so I can work in peace and avail myself of a functioning bathroom.

  I’m still rummaging his files when I get a message from my RAT on Billy’s computer. Interestingly, the event wasn’t initiated by Billy himself. A server somewhere has stimulated a background program to spawn a window showing a low-res video feed that looks like an abstract photograph. It’s all black except for a faint gradient highlighting a square shape in the lower right-hand corner. Nothing happens for a second as I check the title of the program. It’s Brimstone. That’s an ominous name, so I run through his project files and locate the underlying code.

  It begins with simple motion detection on the video feed. When a specific recognition event triggers, it sends a text to a given phone number. Then the program pops up a button that, when pressed, relays a bunch of commands back to the device that’s transmitting the video. I skim rapidly through the instructions, until my head almost shorts out as my understanding catches up with my eyes.

  The function handler reads:

  _OnButtonClick (){

  sendCommand(CO_BOX_ADDR, _release_valve1);

  sendCommand(CO_BOX_ADDR, _release_valve2);

  sendCommand(CO_BOX_ADDR, _ flow_accel);

  sendCommand(CO_BOX_ADDR, _ignite);

  };

  The word “ignite” is what grabs me.

  What is this? Another one of Billy’s faux incendiaries?

  Then two things happen in rapid succession. The video image changes: a wedge of light opens at the bottom, and an arm enters the frame. It flips some switches, which illuminate a familiar space.

  It’s the Orifice, shot from above. And the arm belongs to Olya.

  She enters the room, followed by Blake. A graphics square flashes briefly over his face.

  Olya says, “. . . don’t know why you want to meet me here. You only should be finding this govnyuk brother of yours. You promise me his head. But where—”

  “Wait, I wanted to meet? You emailed me.”

  “I email you yesterday about—ah, never mind. We’re here now, so . . .?”

  Blake steps closer to her. “So . . .?”

  They embrace.

  Pointless jealousy dilutes my apprehension until I see the Mesmer service awaken. Billy’s password scrolls into the key log.

  I jump up so fast I upset the table, and my laptop crashes to the floor behind me.

  66

  I slam into the door of the Orifice, but Olya’s got it locked with the inside latch. I bang on it frantically, bruising the meat of my hands. Finally, she jerks it open. Her clothes are disheveled, an irate glare on her face.

  “James! What—”

  “You need to get out of here. Now!”

  Blake steps forward. He looks tired and irritable. “James, get ahold of yourself.”

  “No. You don’t understand.” I slide in and grab Olya by the arm. “There’s—”

  She wrenches it away. “Ai. Don’t touch—”

  “—a bomb.”

  Both of their faces go slack as they recall their confusion over who asked for the meeting. I assume Billy wanted them together for this and spoofed their email to that end.

  Olya squints. “You think I’d believe anything—”

  Behind her, we hear a metallic snap. I flinch away in raw panic. But nothing happens. There’s a small sputtering sound coming from above us, where the camera’s mounted.

  As if to mock my hysteria, the room’s sprinkler turns on. Blake and Olya look at each other, negotiating a reaction. Far from a bomb, but something is happening here.

  And the water is . . . wrong.

  I can’t immediately tell what it is. A strange scent. Something like a place I remember . . .
or is it, what? Matches. It smells like a box of matches. Then I remember the place that came to mind: Yellowstone National Park. The smell around the hot springs:

  Sulfur.

  Brimstone.

  “We need to get out of here,” I say.

  The flow from the sprinklers increases, and a new smell wafts in. This one is easy to recognize.

  Gasoline.

  Blake jumps toward the door. Olya seems transfixed by the sprinkler head. She must have gotten some of the fluid in her eyes, because she blinks them shut and puts her hands up to rub them. I dive to tackle her into the hallway.

  Not quite soon enough. As I’m in the air, there’s another soft click, but this one is followed by strong wind in my face and a burst of light. Then pain.

  First is the shocking collision with Olya, who is not a petite woman. Then the crunch of my kneecaps on the hard cement floor of the hall. I wrench my face away from her hair, which is now on fire, and start batting at it. The heat at my back intensifies. I spastically rip myself out of my jacket, rolling off of Olya, allowing her to flip onto her back and quench the flames licking at her hair. She staggers up and leans against the wall, smothering the flickering fire at her calves before it can ascend her legs. I get my jacket off and glance at her to confirm that she’s okay, but she’s not looking at me.

  She’s looking back into the blaze.

  Her face has a transcendent focus. A tendril of flame starts climbing again up her leather pants. But she doesn’t even twitch.

  She steps toward the door.

  It takes me a second to understand that she’s going back to rescue Ginger. And that with gasoline-soaked clothing, she’s not likely to emerge. And that I have to stop her. Suddenly I’m running into the fire as well.

  She gets two steps into the room. The Orifice looks as though it’s been painted with fire. All the tables, chairs, and computers are still recognizable, but they’re outlined in roiling blue and orange flames. The smoke is building, the ceiling now covered by a dense gray cloud. I reach for her arm, but she senses this and pulls it from my grasp. She takes another step forward, grabs Ginger by her neck, and tosses her out the door to skid across the hall into my office. Then she turns to scan the room for other valuables. She pauses long enough for me to get my right arm around her neck. I’m not sure of my ability to wrestle her out.

  That’s when the real explosion happens. I register a microsecond of surprise when the back of Olya’s head impacts my mouth, smashing my lips. Then there’s a gap in time, and I find myself lying back in the hall, my head partially buried in the drywall opposite the door. Olya and I have switched positions, with her body now sheltering me from the flames spreading out from the Orifice.

  There’s a violent cloud of white, and I can’t breathe anymore. The last thing I think is:

  I can’t believe that fucker killed us.

  67

  I come to in a cool, clean room with luxuriantly breathable air. A hospital room. Things are vague, and I start my “what happened last night” checklist. Then I notice the bandages on my left arm. A beautiful woman sits beside me. It’s Xan.

  Seeing her makes everything come back, but I can only whisper, “Olya?”

  Xan looks at me quickly but then buries her face in her hands, opening in me a black fissure of dread. Tears streaming freely, she says, “She’s in the ICU. Surgery.”

  “Blake?”

  Xan tips her head like she might have misheard me. “Blake? What about him?”

  This confuses me. I’m not thinking clearly, but I have a specific recollection of his being there. Running back through my traumatized memory, I conclude that the white explosion was a fire extinguisher, and Blake must have discharged it on Olya and me and then disappeared before the firemen showed up. I want to ask Xan about all this, but another question demands precedence.

  “Me?” I ask.

  This elicits a fragile smile through her tears. She says, “You’re going to be all right.”

  I suspect she might be lying. A body wiggle confirms that my spinal cord is still intact. I’m incredibly stiff, like how a veteran demolition derby driver must feel on the day of his retirement. I gingerly pat myself. Parts of my skin throb like they’ve been worked on by the Stasi school of cosmetology, but I don’t find any stitches, so things can’t be too bad. Then I think of Olya and start looking for the morphine button.

  Xan is good enough to push it for me.

  I wake up alone and in an entirely different frame of mind. I must have slept for long enough for the anesthetics to wear off, through the night probably. The pain from my burns is worse, and I feel unsettled. I reach for the button but can’t grasp it. My irritation flares into anger.

  Take it easy. You’re just coming down from the drugs.

  But then I find a target for my fury.

  I forget about the button as the feeling crystallizes. This aberrant asshole blew up Olya. The thought of such an unrivalled beauty scarred by one of Billy’s dangerous pranks fills me with rage.

  How did he even pull it off?

  The plumbers of course. He probably flushed a cherry bomb, precipitating the maintenance crisis, and then slipped in with a fake beard and coveralls. I’ll bet back at GAME they’ll find a storage room directly above the Orifice with its floor ripped up and a remote-controlled flamethrower resting in the crawlspace, its nozzle disguised as a sprinkler head. Funny that when we upgraded the security of that room, I changed the locks on the big steel door and patched the hole in the wall I came through that first week, but the idea of death from above never occurred to me.

  On the chair Xan occupied I see a small duffel bag. In it there’s a set of clothes, perhaps pulled from the GAME lost and found. More importantly, in a side pocket, I find my phone.

  I rip the bandages off my left hand and start typing.

  Minutes later, Blake picks up my call. His voice has an uncertain timbre.

  “James. Jesus Christ. I—”

  “They say Olya’s in intensive care.”

  “I know. I can’t believe . . . I can’t believe she—”

  “Yeah. Thanks for, uh, extinguishing us.”

  “Oh. Right. Look, I’m sorry I took off, but it didn’t seem like there was much more I could do. And, well, I didn’t want . . .”

  “I understand.”

  “You do?”

  “Yeah. It will be better if no one knows you were there.”

  “Uh-huh.” Blake’s tone is wary; perhaps he was thinking he’d have to sell me harder on the virtues of forgetting his presence. Now he tests how far he can push it. “So I guess the police may want to speak with you. This is very serious, but if I could just—”

  “I won’t be here.”

  “Wait. What do you mean?”

  “Blake, call McClaren. I know where your fuckhead brother is.”

  68

  Slipping out of the hospital without the normal exit processing is liable to raise some questions, especially when my injuries were sustained in a pretty noteworthy case of arson. And since I was just here after being Tased, maybe I really should stay put to make sure there aren’t any parts coming loose. But catching Billy seems more important, so I devise a rickety plan to blame my erratic behavior on PTSD and make my escape.

  At first I was puzzled that Billy had holed up in Washington Heights, but on mapping the GPS coordinates spit out from his phone, it made more sense: he’s not at a new apartment, he’s at the Cloisters.

  As good a place as any to contemplate the enormity of one’s crimes, the Cloisters is a branch of the Metropolitan Museum of Art dedicated to medieval-period pieces. Set on a hill in Fort Tryon Park and overlooking the Hudson River, it stands as one of the most serene and beautiful places in the city, possessing all the enchantment of an actual medieval abbey. I recall finding in the folder where Gina stored her own NOD models a lovingly detailed replica of the entire complex. Maybe a favorite place of hers. Maybe even the site of a rare RL excursion with Billy.


  My GPS fix is good enough to tell me that he’s in a gallery in the North Cloister that houses an impressive set of illuminated manuscripts. One of the most famous has a lovely depiction of the destruction of Sodom and Gomorrah.

  After a brief stop at home, I hurry uptown. Blake wanted me to wait for instructions from McClaren confirming that his extraction team was in place. But despite having sent two messages, I’ve yet to hear anything back.

  I arrive to find Billy striking a reflective pose on a bench facing the water. His attitude makes me question whether he knows the outcome of his fratricidal attack. A tree on the other side of the path provides a suitable screen as I settle in to wait.

  Several minutes pass. I send increasingly shrill messages to McClaren, but they’re flying into a void. I get antsy.

  Billy fishes his phone out of his jacket pocket, presses some buttons, and reads. He doesn’t like what he sees and shakes his phone as if he’s going to chuck it into the water. But he restrains himself and just slams his fist into the bench’s wooden slats. He then shoots up and casts around as though he’s not sure where to go. He elects to return toward the galleries, and I decide I can’t take any more of this.

  The wind is loud and the clouds prevent any revealing shadows, so I’m able to stalk right up to him and seize him by the shoulder. He freaks, wrenching himself away so hard that he falls down. Gone is the smug hipster who grinned at me when I fell for his tricks at our earlier meeting. Now he’s a skinny geek looking up in naked terror. I squat over him, making sure he sees the pistol clipped to my pants. To ensure docility, I hammer my fist down on his nose.