Sleep State Interrupt

by Ted Weber

  The account still existed. He called Pel over.

  “Be extra careful,” he said. “In case it’s a trap. But let’s see if he can help.”

  Charles created a new account, FreedomDoctor, visible only on the Collective network. Using Collective Router encryption, he sent disgruntld1 some choice video clips of his boss of bosses, Robert Luxmore. He added text, “Greetings from a fellow Collectivista. Want to get this and better on air. Have access codes and scripts to trade and glory to share. Contact me ASAP.”

  He waited, but received no response.

  28

  January 13

  Cedarville State Forest

  Charles

  The next day, as Charles worked alone at the smaller of the two tables, FreedomDoctor received a message.

  disgruntld1: Your offer sounds tempting.

  Charles set up a chat box with disgruntld1 and called Pel and Waylee over. “This is that engineer, or whatever, who helped me with my zombie message.”

  Waylee jumped up and down. “Charles!” She leaned in to stare at the screen, her breath hot on his cheek. “Tell me it’s true!”

  Pel edged in front of Waylee. “So is he an engineer or not?”

  Charles typed.

  FreedomDoctor: Are u an engineer?

  disgruntld1: Certified broadcast engineer

  “How do we know this is the same person?” Pel said. “How can we trust him?”

  Good question.

  FreedomDoctor: Tell me something Authority wouldn’t know.

  “Authority could know anything,” Pel said.

  “Shut up,” Waylee said behind them. “Let him dialogue.”

  disgruntld1: Trollface McTroll on snarknet is actually a bot.

  “That’s useless,” Pel said. “Ask him about your ticker op.”

  FreedomDoctor: What password did u give Dr. Doom?

  disgruntld1: How do I know ur not Authority?

  FreedomDoctor: I’m Dr. Doom.

  Pel threw up his hands. “Why the fuck?”

  Charles ignored him.

  disgruntld1: Righteous if true.

  “Looks like an impasse,” Pel said.

  disgruntld1: Which pw?

  FreedomDoctor: studio subnet News.US.R3.textsys

  disgruntld1: Little bird sez password was Ay2ENTg8

  “That’s right,” Charles told Pel. He had a good memory for passwords.

  FreedomDoctor: Great op, but nothing compared to next one.

  disgruntld1: What’s up with yr piddly bandwidth?

  FreedomDoctor: Camping. Living primitive.

  “So will he help or not?” Waylee asked.

  FreedomDoctor: r u in?

  disgruntld1: Luxmore’s a royal douche and so is rest of company. But what’s the op?

  Waylee clapped her hands. “Ask him if he’ll broadcast a video for us during the Super Bowl. Five to fifteen minutes, preferably closer to fifteen.”

  FreedomDoctor: Here’s the ask. Want to broadcast 5-15 minute video during Super Bowl.

  No immediate answer. Then,

  disgruntld1: :D

  FreedomDoctor:

  disgruntld1: :O

  disgruntld1: u serious?

  FreedomDoctor: yes

  disgruntld1: U have to send from MediaCorp main control studio. I do IT there, I know the system.

  “So we don’t have to break into the Georgia Dome?” Pel asked.

  FreedomDoctor: what about Jorja Dome?

  disgruntld1: lern to spel

  FreedomDoctor: f u

  “Don’t piss him off,” Waylee said.

  FreedomDoctor:

  disgruntld1: Here’s how sports events work.

  disgruntld1: The broadcast director works out of a trailer in stadium parking lot and decides which cameras & mics to use. They patch in graphics as needed. Then the signal goes by high-capacity optic cable from stadium to MediaCorp main campus in northern Virginia, where commercials & other content are inserted, and final signal uploaded to satellites and Comnet.

  disgruntld1: The studio crew can override anything coming in from remote sites before it gets aired. But from main control there’s no override except at the individual receiving stations, & there’s thousands of those.

  disgruntld1: Therefore u would have to take over main control studio at game time to transmit your video.

  disgruntld1: QED.

  “Snotty little bastard, isn’t he?” Pel said.

  FreedomDoctor: Can u do it if we send u the video?

  disgruntld1: By myself? R u high?

  disgruntld1: U need someone @ control studio, @ server console, @ Comnet router, and @ uplink station, all different locations. Maybe someone @ power station too.

  disgruntld1: And there’s security, lots of it.

  FreedomDoctor: Can u get help?

  disgruntld1: Co-workers R all douchebags. U want to do it, u bring people.

  disgruntld1: I can send u schematics & manuals. 100,000+ pages, have fun.

  FreedomDoctor: That’s what search is for.

  “This doesn’t seem very doable,” Pel said.

  “I don’t know,” Waylee said. “He listed four places, and there’s four of us here. And I bet we can recruit more.”

  * * *

  Baltimore

  Kiyoko

  Kiyoko organized a big outing to Club Kuro Neko, recruiting Absinthe and a bunch of other goths and cosplayers. She created a special costume for the occasion, a samurai cat girl, complete with armor, ears and tail.

  Absinthe volunteered her black hearse for transport. Samurai helmet in hand, Kiyoko spotted the Watcher high overhead, betrayed by clear skies and moonlight. She pretended to ignore it, and waited until last to pile into the back of the hearse. Before getting in, she donned the helmet and cat ears and carefully adjusted her costume in the outside mirror.

  Absinthe rolled down the driver’s window. “Hurry the fuck up. You can do that on the way.”

  “No mirror.” Kiyoko checked her plastic sword, then clambered in. She set her comlink video to low-light magnification, aimed it out the back window, and watched the Watcher follow them. Tears blurred her vision. She’d never see her home again.

  Absinthe pulled into the parking lot. Club Kuro Neko had sprouted inside a long-abandoned granite-block church. Its bell tower collapsed during a derecho a few years back, leaving an ugly scar on the southeast corner.

  The bouncers waved Kiyoko through. She’d never once paid cover at a Baltimore club.

  Inside, bubbly J-pop echoed off the vaulted ceiling, shook her feet, and drove her sadness away. A whiff of sweat mixed with flowery incense and spilled beer. She strode past costumed regulars gathered around wall screen anime, game stations, and tall lotus-like tables. Beyond the crowded dance floor ahead, an animated furry quintet played on a screen mounted between a multihued rose window and the altar.

  Friends, quasi-friends, and pseudo-friends accosted her every other step.

  “Righteous costume.”

  “Meow.”

  “When’s your band playing again?”

  Normally she lived for this shit, but she had a mission to focus on. She found her friend Jayna at one of the bar counters, dressed as a slutty elf warrior, more skin than not. A lit-boy in wire spectacles and a floor-length scarf talked to her cleavage.

  Kiyoko shooed the boy away. “Jayna, what the fuck?” They were both the same height, with Eastern faces, but Jayna had extra-fleshy breasts and hips.

  “You told me to dress up. Just said, make sure it includes a wig.” Which was blonde.

  “Please tell me you have a cloak or something.”

  She shrugged and sipped from a technicolored drink.

  “Right. Plan’s off.” I wish I had M-pat’s knack for planning. She glanced around for someone else to switch with.

  “I brought a coat,” Jayna said. “It’s over on the rack.”

  “Well why didn’t you say so? Go to the basement supply room and I’ll meet you in an hour. Brin
g your coat.”

  Kiyoko told her ride and quasi-roommates, “I’m meeting this totally hot guy later. I’m feeling lucky, so don’t wait up.”

  “Okay, ho,” was the gist of the typical reply, sometimes accompanied by a look of surprise.

  When an hour had passed, Kiyoko descended the stairs to the basement bar, passed the bathrooms and a smooching couple in the hallway, and into an unconverted old classroom.

  Inside next to the blackboard, Jayna huffed. “Took you long enough. Had to fend off a couple of live-at-homes who wanted the space.”

  “Sorry.” She locked the door and pulled off her helmet. The costume exchange took a while to get everything properly fitted. “You make a cute samurai cat,” she told Jayna when they looked presentable.

  “And you are one hot warrior elf,” Jayna said.

  “Thanks. I don’t usually play blondes.”

  Kiyoko called a taxi. “Driver’ll meet you in the parking lot,” she told Jayna after she switched off. “Take the back door.”

  “Okay.”

  “Sorry you have to leave early. And that you sacrificed a costume.”

  Jayna tilted her mouth into a ‘meh,’ then hugged her. “Good luck, Princess Kiyoko.”

  Kiyoko put on Jayna’s trenchcoat and waited half an hour. She took the side exit and followed the cracked sidewalk north. No sign of the Watcher. Hope Jayna doesn’t get in trouble.

  It was still early, and cars streamed by. But a couple of dark-clothed predators eyed her from across the street. Her blood turned to cold sludge.

  Kiyoko felt through her purse and found the pepper spray Waylee insisted she carry. M-pat had taught her some vicious self-defense moves too, but these men were pretty big. She walked faster.

  The predators matched her pace, and cast glances in her direction. At some point they’d cross the street and make their move.

  Kiyoko pivoted toward them and whipped out her comlink. “I’m calling the police, assholes,” she shouted. She pretended to type a number and put the comlink to her mouth.

  The men turned and walked off.

  An approaching car, an ancient Chrysler, slowed. It stopped beside her. The passenger window opened, and the male driver leaned toward it. Too dark to see his features. “Hey girl, goin’ my way?”

  She recognized the voice. M-pat. He cracked open the door.

  She hopped in. “Does your wife know you’re out picking up elf maidens?”

  He laughed and off they went.

  “You weren’t followed, were you?” Kiyoko asked as they turned onto U.S. 1, headed to Paulo’s chop shop in Putty Hill.

  “Girl, please.”

  One of the garage doors opened when they arrived. They drove inside, then Paulo hit a button and it closed behind them. He waved, and they got out. She kept Jayna’s coat fastened.

  M-pat’s black electric Honda sat to the right, and beyond that, a 17-foot cargo truck with Boroborinsky Brothers Moving and Shipping decals. “That’s your ride,” M-pat said. “I took out the GPS, retagged it, and had it painted and decaled.”

  A shaven-headed punk ran out of the office. He looked familiar. It was Dingo, sans hair! He bowed and twirled his fingers. “Princess Kiyoko. I tremble in your exalted presence.”

  “You may rise, knave.”

  They hugged. “You have elf ears,” he said. “And what’s with the trenchcoat?”

  Kiyoko pulled off the ears and shoved them in a coat pocket. “What are you doing here?”

  “Prepping your ride. Like it?”

  “If it’ll make it to the border, I love it.”

  “It was in pretty sad shape when M-pat brought it here, but now it’ll take you wherever you wanna go. And I did the decals. Like ‘em?”

  Boroborinsky Brothers? “Why are you still in Baltimore?”

  “It’s temporary. Saving up for my exodus north.”

  “Is Shakti here too?”

  His eyes drifted down. “We… uh… had a falling out. A differing of life strategies, if you will.”

  “That’s too bad. You’ll never find another catch like her, you know.”

  “Yeah, I know. Hold on, I got somethin’ for you.” He ran back into the office and returned with a stuffed black garbage bag.

  “Garbage? How thoughtful.”

  “No, for real.” He untied the top. The bag was full of clothes and shoes. “Goodwill throwaways. Normally you’re about as incognito as a peacock among pigeons.”

  She hugged him again. “Why Dingo, I believe you actually just complimented me.”

  M-pat opened the hatch of his Honda and rolled back the security cover. “Got all your stuff here. Guaranteed it’s more than you need.”

  One of the duffel bags contained her immersion suit, minus the frame and treadmill. “I thought you were selling this.”

  M-pat pointed a thumb at Dingo. “No need. Your ride prep was free.”

  Awesome. “Where’s Nyasuke?”

  He pulled a cat carrier out of the back seat.

  Kiyoko ran over and unlatched the carrier gate. Her soulmate poked his head out and meowed. She pulled him the rest of the way out and held him close. “Oh, I missed you too, my little nyan-nyan.” She turned to M-pat. “How long as he been in there?”

  He looked about to laugh. “Oh, he fine.”

  Kiyoko went into the bathroom and changed out of Jayna’s slutty elf costume, donning a yellow gown and golden wig from her bags. The color of Imperial China, prestigious, beautiful, and auspicious.

  Paulo and Dingo whistled when she emerged.

  She curtsied.

  Paulo brought out a bottle labeled “Cachaça 51” and passed out small paper cups. He poured a shot of clear liquid into each one. It smelled like turpentine.

  “I don’t drink,” Kiyoko said.

  Paulo looked at her as if she were an alien. “Then one cup is all you need.”

  Sure, whatever. Kiyoko lifted her cup, preparing herself. Hope I don’t get in a wreck, or worse, end up sleeping with Dingo.

  Paulo raised his cup. “Boa sorte. Good luck.”

  The cachaça tasted as bad as it smelled.

  29

  January 14

  Cedarville State Forest

  Waylee

  In the back of the converted school bus, Waylee awoke in silent darkness before dawn, too excited to sleep. Charles had recruited an engineer at MediaCorp to help them get their message on the air. They could make this work. She could feel it.

  She couldn’t believe how quiet this place was at night. The stillness of winter, Shakti called it. The air in the bus was stuffy, with undertones of oil and dust. Waylee slid out of her bunk and threw on the nearest clothes that resembled hers.

  Pel stirred in the bunk above and rolled over. She’d ravaged him in the bath house last night until the shower water turned cold and the winter air chilled their flesh. In the lower opposite bunk, Charles lay motionless beneath his blanket and sheet, face planted in his pillow.

  Waylee tiptoed to the front of the bus and eased onto the forward-facing couch. Her computer sat on the faux-wood table. She turned the power on.

  Next to it, Big Red hummed softly and displayed a black and white image of a narrow, leaf-covered road enveloped by tall trees and dense shrubs. Pel had placed an infrared camera at the campground entrance and set up a motion detector program to warn them if vehicles or people approached.

  Waylee opened her video program, looking forward to another editing session. It was like combining journalism and music, objectivity and art.

  Charles had set up an “asymmetric backdoor” to the MediaCorp intranet, which he claimed was virtually undetectable. With a little help from Pel, she dug up some more gems. The company recorded all their board meetings. During one of his bombastic orations, Luxmore told the others, “MediaCorp is about more than just moving electrons around, providing information for its own sake. We’re about providing the right information, information that will shape the world.”

  That’s d
efinitely going in.

  Waylee opened a Comnet portal on the computer and ran a search for Beatrice Baddelats. She’d make a great ally. The more she knew about the woman, the better.

  She tagged a few articles for later reading, related to genealogy and charity work with a children’s hospital. The good stuff wouldn’t be public, though, so she moved her search to intranet forums.

  Her diaphragm seized in mid-exhale. Yesterday, the board impeached Ms. Baddelats “for interacting poorly with others and failing in her fiduciary responsibilities.”

  Waylee checked the video recording.

  Ms. Baddelats thanked Bob Luxmore for his long service, but said it was time for him to focus on his CEO duties, and let someone else take the chair. Shoulders back with confidence, she nominated one of her fellow board members, Morris Rodriguez, for the position.

  “I decline the nomination,” he said.

  Her jaw dropped. She looked around the table, but no one would make eye contact. Chairman Luxmore motioned that Beatrice Baddelats be removed from the board, effective immediately. The vote to impeach was, except for Ms. Baddelats, unanimous.

  Big Red beeped. Pel’s motion alarm. Waylee swiped a finger against the black screen perched on top.

  The screen woke up and displayed the campground entrance in grainy black and white. Something big and light gray passed out of the frame.

  Pel shot out of his bunk, grabbed jeans and a flannel, and dashed forward, eyes wide with panic. “Someone’s coming.”

  Dawn had yet to arrive. Not likely a ranger or forester. Pel threw on his jeans and backed up the camera footage. Looked like a moving truck.

  Weird, but better weird than police cars.

  A pair of amped-up headlights roamed the campground, bright white LEDs cutting through the skeletal trees. Cold sweat oozed from her skin. “I’m waking Peter,” she said.

  She hurried out the bus door. Frigid air tore at her skin. A few feet away, Peter’s tent door unzipped. In the trees beyond, Shakti remained a lump in her Brazilian hammock.

  “Expecting someone?” Waylee asked Peter as he emerged.

  His lips trembled. “No. We should hide.”

  The headlights caught their bus. Too late.

  The truck paused, then entered their loop.