Sleep State Interrupt

by Ted Weber

  Dingo looked over at M-pat. “Yo, uh, Luke.”

  “’Sup?”

  “Someone sold us out. Some farm girl.”

  M-pat jumped out of his seat. “What? Who?”

  “Relax—they think we’re in Atlanta. Not here.”

  M-pat looked from screen to screen on the wall, breath bursting in and out. “Should we cancel?”

  Never seen him so agitated. “Dude, it’s like ten minutes to kickoff. Let’s finish the job and then get out of here.”

  M-pat sat back down, stinking of sweat. “You sure they focusing on Atlanta?”

  He wasn’t sure, actually. “Lemme call Pel.”

  “’Kay, you take care of it.” His voice trembled. “I gotta lot to do. Lemme know what he says.”

  * * *

  Kiyoko

  Kiyoko sat on one of the mattresses in the back of the Boroborinski Brothers moving truck, immersion helmet and gloves on, and a blanket pulled over her legs. The day was cold, but the ‘scrubber fans’ Pel installed in the truck to keep them from suffocating made it even colder. At least it didn’t bother Nyasuke, comfortable in his fur coat.

  Kiyoko had parked the truck in the sprawling lot of a shopping mall near the MediaCorp campus. Waylee and the others would park on the opposite side, change masks, and cross through the mall to get to her. Then they’d head south. Word on the Comnet was, Homeland had an army of Watchers and agents on the Canadian border.

  That morning, Charles had tied the suit into a Wi-Fi signal from the mall and disguised her location. She had a lot to keep track of, and put some of it, like the model plane and chatboxes, on standby.

  On the right side of her vision, the Super Bowl feed showed pre-game yammering. Boring. Along the bottom, she monitored the rotating microcamera on top of the truck that gave a panoramic view of the parking lot. Equally boring. But she reserved a transparent portion on the left to watch Nyasuke sleep and stretch on the mattress. Yay cat!

  The number 69 flashed red in front of her. That would be Dingo. As if. She touched the number with a virtual finger.

  Her decryption program gave her a thumbs up. “Moshi moshi,” she answered. In the old days she might have added bakatare to greet Dingo, falsely saying it was a term of endearment. But mere morons didn’t risk their lives for others or come through when you really needed them.

  “Someone sold us out,” Dingo’s disembodied voice announced.

  Kiyoko lurched up, startling her cat into attention. “What?”

  “Girl named Amy, apparently. Must have called the reward hotline and told them about the Super Bowl op. Homeland’s on alert, waiting for us in Atlanta.”

  “So they think we’re in Atlanta?”

  “I talked to Pel and Waylee. You know how to fake your location, right?”

  She sighed. “Yes, I know all that.” She’d learned a fair bit from Charles, and everyone’s coms had caller ID spoofers that routed through anonymous servers and added a fake origin.

  “Can you call in a tip saying we’re in Atlanta?”

  “Sure, I’m on it.” She’d make up some burner number and pick a base station there as the origin. Charles will be proud of me.

  “Thanks. We’re all slammed here.”

  Uh oh. “Everything okay?”

  “Yeah, so far. Smell ya later, girly girl.” He ended the call.

  Kiyoko navigated to the “Select by Map” option of her spoofing program and picked a 5G cell tower near the Georgia Dome. She let the program generate a burner number, then dialed the reward hotline.

  “U.S. Department of Homeland Security,” a pleasant male voice answered. “How may we help you?”

  Her instincts told her to hang up. But she soldiered on. “I’m calling about the reward for Waylee Freid, Pelopidas Demopoulos, and Charles Marvin Lee. I’m looking at all three of them right now.”

  “Can you tell me where you are?”

  She brought up a map display. “I’m at the Vine City MARTA Station. They came out with some others and they’re standing there talking… oh, they’re all separating now, going different directions.”

  After a pause, she heard, “Can you tell me your name, please?”

  Her brain froze. “Kelly. Kelly Green.” Oh, what a stupid name.

  “Well, Ms. Green, please stay where you are. We’ll have officers there shortly. Could you describe yourself, please?”

  Crap. “What about the reward? When do I get the reward?”

  “When they’re apprehended. Now, what do you look like?”

  What’s totally anonymous? “I’ve got brown hair, brown eyes. I’m 5 foot 3, dress size 4. I’ve got a Giants shirt on.”

  “Well, thank you, Ms. Green. Someone will be there shortly.”

  Kiyoko hung up, hoping she hadn’t botched the call too badly. What would Homeland do when they arrived and couldn’t find Kelly Green?

  42

  Game time

  Waylee

  Tania Peart disguise on, Waylee pulled her supercharged Mustang GT up to the MediaCorp gate and stopped the music playlist. She’d been supercharging herself with Dwarf Eats Hippo’s most energetic tracks, plus some old Rage Against the Machine and Orange 9mm. No pot necessary, although it might have reduced the hurt she felt from Amy’s betrayal.

  The car didn’t look that fancy on the outside. After M-pat and Dingo stole it a few days ago, they’d painted it boring blue. But the engine was something else, the pride and joy of a redneck street racer. Pel thought she could get 220 miles per hour on it, a lot faster than anything the cops had.

  She had a big leather purse between her legs, stuffed with guns, a radio, handcuffs, duct tape, and other employee protocol violations. Pel had installed a satellite repeater in the trunk. Charles, disguised as a 22-year-old IT technician named Rodrick Boxer, sat beside her. Ironic we need masks to unmask the plutocracy.

  Both Tania and Rodrick had the day off, but worked in the broadcast data center. Waylee had received a J message on her data glasses from M-pat, signifying she could go wherever she pleased as long as he could see her through a camera.

  “Wasn’t expecting anyone else to come in ‘til after the game,” the unsmiling bald guard at the gate said.

  Waylee/Tania pressed her fake badge against the card reader. Since they could go anywhere once they controlled the security room, it was just a piece of plastic with a photo and text laminated on top, no electronics inside. The indicator LED turned green anyway. Thanks, M-pat.

  “I’m not a football fan,” she said. “I am a double pay overtime fan, though.”

  Behind the plexiglass, the guard pointed at Charles/Rodrick. “And what about him? Why are so many people ride sharing today?”

  Waylee shrugged. “He’s working too.”

  Charles nodded and passed his badge. Waylee held it to the reader. “I’m not his supervisor or anything so it’s cool if we fraternize, right?”

  The guard smirked. “You mean bump uglies?”

  Charles posed for the camera. “Shit.”

  Waylee turned to look at him. The masks concealed some of the subtler emotional cues, but his eyes were wide, staring out the windshield and up toward the sky.

  The traffic light turned green and the gate slid to the side.

  She kept her foot on the brake. “What’s up?” she asked him.

  “Watcher.”

  Here? Fuck you, Amy. She scanned the sky ahead.

  A dark wheel-shaped object studded with antennae flew a slow circle about a hundred feet above the buildings.

  Other than that, the campus seemed quiet, though. No guard vehicles with flashing lights or snipers pointing rifles from the rooftops.

  She patted his hand. She’d gotten the smiley face. But the Watcher must have arrived after M-pat, Dingo, and Pel went inside, or they’d have mentioned it. They probably didn’t know it was there. She couldn’t turn around and leave, though; that would arouse suspicion for sure.

  “Is there a problem?” the guard said over the spea
ker.

  “No problem.” Waylee eased the Mustang through the open gate and headed for the six story broadcast building. Best to continue with the plan, and modify as needed. She’d do whatever it took to get her video on the air, but also whatever it took to make sure her friends escaped.

  Once they arrived, as promised, all doors opened for her.

  Every nerve in Waylee’s body tingled when they entered the data center. Murky blue-lit walls of processors stretched into the distance, alive behind millions of green and red eyes.

  Do not go quiet into Luxmore’s night.

  Rage, rage against the machines’ false light.

  Charles stood and stared.

  “So this is where our souls go when we’re in the Comnet,” she said.

  He looked around. “This is just to handle some video feeds. This place is like a shoe box compared to what they must have for BetterWorld.”

  “How do you know where anything is?”

  “Doesn’t matter. It’s all virtual.”

  A silhouette emerged from the gloom cloaking the end of the nearest machine corridor. The figure strode toward them, soundless. Then it resolved into Pel/Nick Smith.

  Waylee and Shakti once watched this cheesy Bollywood movie—she couldn’t remember the name - in which two lovers ran toward each other through a field of flowers. This was the cyberstructure equivalent. Neither Waylee nor Pel actually ran toward each other – they walked. Nor did they embrace when they met at the midpoint. But even playing it cool and behind a mask, Pel’s eyes cast a bond stronger than steel.

  “There’s a Watcher outside,” she whispered in his ear.

  His eyes widened. “So they didn’t buy Kiyoko’s story?”

  She thought about it. “It doesn’t seem like this place is on alert. I think the Watcher is part of Homeland’s overall mobilization. It ignored us and we had no trouble getting in.”

  “I’m still afraid,” he whispered, “your video might backfire, do more harm than good. Are you sure we want do this?”

  She replied loud enough for Charles to hear. “I thought we resolved this. Have faith.”

  Charles shook his head. “I can’t believe you’re arguing now. Let’s get this done.”

  Waylee agreed. “Yeah, what he said.”

  Pel nodded and smiled. “The majority rules.” He cast his eyes down the corridor. “If you’ll follow me, I’ll show you to the administrative consoles.”

  Waylee opened her big leather purse and handed Pel the stun gun she’d brought in for him. She pulled out one of her own, plus a Heckler & Koch pistol M-pat had given her. She wasn’t any good with a gun, but its only purpose was intimidation. She eyed Charles. “Take the rear.”

  Pel snickered. “That’s what she said.”

  She sighed. “You really ought to work on your repertoire.”

  They followed Pel through the machine hive to an unmarked glass door with long windows on either side. Three people sat inside at computer consoles, a prim-looking Asian woman, a fortyish Latina with short hair, and a young bearded man with brass-framed data glasses. The Asian woman looked up.

  Inside, someone, maybe everyone, was listening to the Super Bowl in progress.

  “Dolphins start at their own twenty yard line,” an announcer said. “First time they’ve had the ball after stopping the Giants at midfield and forcing the punt. Three wide receivers…”

  Pel/Nick entered the room first and stood by the door.

  “And Armstrong hands off the ball to Leggett… He’s stuffed at the line of scrimmage for no gain.”

  Waylee/Tania followed Pel in. Charles entered behind her but remained in the doorway. Everyone stared at them.

  Waylee nodded at the technicians. What now? She looked around. Eight consoles sat in two rows, each topped by large curving glass displays. Half the consoles were on, each with multiple portals open, including video of the Super Bowl. The Latina and bearded guy, seated at the second row of consoles, returned their eyes to the game.

  “Ten twenty two, ten twenty two…” A whistle blew. “It looks like Mosby moved prematurely,” the announcer said.

  “Yeah, he’s a little too anxious,” his co-announcer said.

  The Asian woman stood and crossed her arms. “What are you two doing here? You’re not scheduled for today.”

  “Helping out,” Waylee said.

  “False start, number 76, offense,” a referee shouted.

  The woman’s eyes narrowed. “Both of you? No, that’s ridiculous. You work when you’re scheduled to work.”

  Pel moved to the side and palmed his stun gun. He glanced out the spotless window.

  Waylee’s stomach tensed. “They called me up and asked me to come in.”

  “Who did?”

  “Hut hut…” “And Armstrong’s fading back to pass…”

  “Fuck it,” Pel said. “Knew she’d be a hassle.” He raised his stun gun and shot the woman. She crumpled to the floor.

  “Johnson’s got it over the middle…”

  The other two technicians jumped to their feet. Charles ducked out of the room. Waylee scrambled for her stun gun. It wasn’t supposed to go this way.

  The bearded guy grabbed a metal stapler on his desk and hurled it at her, then dashed to the right, away from her and Pel. Waylee flinched but the stapler caught her under the left eye, the sudden pain surprising her.

  “He breaks one tackle, still going…”

  Waylee ignored the pain. It would have been worse without the padding Kiyoko had fattened the cheeks with. She ran after the man, who was headed for an open doorway on the right side. It smelled like coffee in there. She tried to aim the stun gun but her hand wouldn’t stay still.

  The man reached the doorway. She stopped, leveled her gun and pulled the trigger. His limbs stiffened and he dropped, head smacking against the door jamb on the way down.

  “And down at the forty yard line. First down, Miami.”

  Eyes wide, the remaining tech raised her hands. “I just work here. I got a family.”

  “On the floor,” Waylee said. Someone’s begging me for their life? “I won’t hurt you.”

  “And Armstrong’s moved the Dolphins down field with a twenty-five yard gain.”

  The windows had no blinds so they’d have to hurry. Waylee ran from tech to tech, slapping on handcuffs. She and Pel dragged them into the adjoining kitchenette/lounge, where the bearded man had been headed, and fastened socks in their mouths with duct tape.

  “You okay?” Pel asked her when they finished.

  “Could have been worse.”

  “Your face is torn.”

  “How’s it look?”

  “Painfully obvious.”

  Waylee slapped a hand to her aching cheek and felt a loose flap of latex. Fuck. She looked at the employees on the tiled floor, trembling and stinking of sweat. “Stay chill, and you’ll be free in less than an hour.” They hadn’t killed anyone, but a lot of people were hurt and terrified. These techs, the guards, especially the employees taped up since early morning, they were just regular people doing their jobs.

  The government would call it “collateral damage” and say “the ends justify the means.”

  Did it?

  * * *

  Charles

  Slipping back into the data room office, Charles felt like the biggest pussy-ass bitch on Earth. I won’t ever run away again. Gotta stand tall like M-pat and Dingo.

  He couldn’t get used to Pel’s new face. At least it didn’t have a big rip like Waylee’s. The fake MediaCorp admin ushered him to a console. “Have a seat. Everything’s set up.”

  Masks worked both ways, and hid his shame. Charles took the driver’s seat. Game on! Do this right, and people would talk him up for centuries. Biggest hack ever. Fuck up again, and their lives were over for nothing.

  The console had all manner of command shells, network maps, and video feeds open. Three of the feeds displayed the game.

  Pel turned the volume down on all the monito
rs so they could concentrate. He rolled a chair over and pointed to the left video on their console. “That’s the data channel transmitting the Super Bowl from the control studio.” He pointed to the other two. “Those are the echoes from the Comnet and satellite uplinks, so the technical director can verify what’s being sent out.”

  Charles examined the transmission data. The signal was double encrypted, more than their usual layer. He showed Pel. “Looks like they’re expecting us.” We should have locked that farm girl in a closet or some shit.

  “Same as with the Watcher,” Waylee said. “They’re covering their bases. Are we still good?”

  “Encryption makes no difference. We ain’t trying to change their signal, we’re replacing it.”

  Other portals on the monitor displayed lists of running processes and scrolling lines of commands. “That’s IT traffic between the studio and the data servers,” Pel said. “The one on the bottom is our friend Hubert.”

  Hubert hadn’t been on the broadcast system since the game started. Doing something else, or maybe in the bathroom taking a dump.

  “’Kay, Waylee,” Charles said, “let’s see your video.”

  A huge grin stretched across her torn mask. She reached into a pocket and handed him a memory stick. He plugged it in to the console computer and copied her video to one of the servers out in the big room somewhere.

  “Don’t send it yet,” she said.

  “I know, we gotta spoof the return signals.”

  “But also, timing is everything. I want to break in someplace that won’t piss people off too much. Maybe during a time out or when the refs are jabbering. Or when they go to commercial, that would be perfect.”

  “’Kay.”

  Charles plugged in a data stick of his own, a toolbox of hacking utilities and scripts. Pel had already done the hard part, figuring out where everything was. The rest was like putting a puzzle together.

  The Chinese supervisor’s monitor beeped. Pel rushed over to it. “Says unauthorized software detected on your console.”

  “Shit.” They’ve got hyped-up intrusion prevention systems. His screen froze and wouldn’t accept commands.