The Codex File (2012)

by Miles Etherton

  Trevellion whispered threateningly, closing his hand over the man’s mouth.

  “Well you’re not going to be able to jerk off anymore with just three fingers. And if you don’t start talking quickly you won’t have anything to jerk off with because I’ll cut your dick off and fucking feed it to you.”

  Removing his large hand from the man’s mouth Trevellion stood back and looked at the man’s bleeding hand.

  “Alright, alright,” Langley panted. “All of our developmental state network and intranet projects are stored and archived on a suite of secure remote servers. I can access all of it from my machine here. We don’t keep hard copy files at ACE Solutions. It’s not company policy. It’s part of our push to the paperless office and meeting the needs of the Freedom of Information Act.”

  Sweat continued to pour down Langley’s reddened face. A thin smile crossed Trevellion’s.

  Bending over the desk Trevellion deftly pressed the ‘On’ button of the elegant tablet computer. Within seconds an array of software options filled the uncluttered desktop.

  “Where am I going from your desktop? Via the VPN link?”

  As the man nodded Trevellion noticed the duct tape across his eyes beginning to work itself loose. It was probably the fat man’s sweat that had loosened it he thought.

  Motioning to his accomplice Kennedy quickly slapped a fresh piece tighter across the man’s eyes.

  Sliding his index finger across the glossy screen Trevellion tapped the VPN icon.

  “User name and password?” he demanded.

  The fat man flinched in anticipation of being maimed by the meat cleaver again.

  “Er, ‘ace497#dl’ and ‘home794#fv’,” he spluttered.

  Carefully keying in the details, the screen seamlessly changed, displaying two further options:

  1. Connect to ACE Solutions Email services

  2. Connect to ACE Solutions corporate LAN

  Trevellion grinned maliciously as his eyes scanned the screen. Within moments of selecting the second option the rapid VPN broadband link had connected to ACE Solutions LAN.

  A fresh menu of user options quickly appeared. In the corner of the screen the company’s logo, a neatly defined sphere, was smoothly rotating. Along the bottom of the screen were six buttons.

  Trevellion glided his finger silently over ‘Advanced user options’ and softly pressed the screen.

  His expectancy quickly faded and he sighed with annoyance as a further dialogue box popped-up. A cursor flashed eagerly in the centre of the screen.

  “What’s the PIN for Advanced user options?” he barked threateningly.

  The fat man’s resistance had been cut away as rapidly as his finger and thumb as he divulged the password. More waves of nausea swept through him as Trevellion entered the code.

  Trevellion’s gaze carefully scanned the new on-screen options:

  1. Upload information

  2. Copy information

  3. Help

  He smiled wickedly as his finger gently pressed for the second option.

  ‘Please specify destination drive and directory’ a further dialogue box insisted.

  Trevellion’s hand hovered over the on-screen keyboard. The fat man’s hand continued to ooze blood that dripped onto the dark blue carpet.

  Pulling a high capacity flash drive from his jacket pocket, Trevellion slid it into the USB port before turning back to Langley.

  “How much data is there on your LAN?” he demanded impatiently, casting a glance at the antique clock above the monitor.

  Langley jumped a little, stirred from momentary unconsciousness.

  “I don’t know, er, three or four terabytes I suppose,” he panted.

  Fuck it, Trevellion cursed silently. It wouldn’t all fit nicely onto one of the drives.

  Dismissing the slight irritation he typed rapidly, watching as the small red light on the flash drive flickered. In less than five minutes countless technological secrets of ACE Solutions were confined to his drive. The whole operation had been far too easy. And with a couple of finishing touches everything would have gone to plan.

  Inserting a second flash drive into the USB port to complete his data theft he slipped the usurped information into his suit pocket.

  In front of him the screen had returned to its previous options. With a wry grin he selected the ‘Upload information’ option.

  As the FTP application opened on screen, Trevellion again turned to the bound, fat man.

  “OK, it’s nearly over now,” he said almost soothingly. “I just need your FTP username and password for your company server.”

  Langley replied slowly as a stream of sticky sweat slid between his swollen lips.

  Trevellion typed quickly on the command line, a slight grin crossing his lips as he accessed the heart of the system. And the area where they would wreak most long-term havoc.

  Now he’d confirmed Langley’s login details were authentic he’d pass the details on to his technical specialists. From there it wouldn’t take them long to wipe the server clean of all its data and render it unusable. With their skills, no-one would ever retrieve the lost information. And with all of the ACE Technologies’ backups simultaneously being destroyed in a further covert operation, it would put the companies R&D pipeline back years. Just as they’d planned.

  Reaching into his jacket pocket he pulled out a fresh flash drive, inserting it into the USB port. Irrevocably formatting and scrambling the hard disk with a virus would suffice for Langley’s own computer he thought maliciously as the drive flashed up an option on screen.

  One of his team had developed a particularly nasty virus that ensured no-one would ever retrieve any data from this machine, no matter how technologically gifted they were.

  Clicking the ‘Run’ option on screen the storage device began to whirr as the hard disk began to be disassembled by his program.

  Rising from the seat Trevellion reached into Kennedy’s holdall, pulling out a paintcan aerosol. In less than a minute the walls were daubed in jagged, black words.

  ‘Fuck the Net. Reclaim the World’

  His stocky colleague grinned as he stood menacingly behind his prisoner, poised to strike if required. Trevellion looked down at the bound, fat man who was shaking in his chair.

  Langley sensed the strangers’ attention had returned to him.

  “Please don’t kill me,” he whimpered as he heard the meat cleaver slide slowly across the surface of his desk. “Why are you doing this? What have I got that you want so badly?”

  “A piece of the future,” Trevellion replied quietly.

  Kennedy roughly slapped another piece of duct tape over Langley’s swollen lips. Trevellion smiled as his colleague slowly raised his right arm.

  The meat cleaver tore through the fat man’s left wrist, severing the hand. Langley’s arm shot free, flapping about uncontrollably, arterial spray staining the carpet. The severed hand remained attached to the armrest, the duct tape keeping it in place.

  Langley howled in muffled pain as his lips split as he fought the duct tape.

  Trevellion watched silently, careful to stay out of the arcing arterial spray as the fat man’s restrained body thrashed about in the chair.

  One more glint of the cleaver and Langley’s other hand was severed with equal clinical precision.

  How long does it take a man to bleed to death?

  He watched as Kennedy also stepped back from the dying man, the widening pool of blood spreading further across the carpet.

  By the time he collected the flash drive from the computer Langley had stopped bucking in his chair. Unconsciousness had taken over.

  Trevellion grinned. What a nice neighbourhood this was.

  CHAPTER THREE

  Digger curled his stubbled top lip into a grimace, snorted nosily, and spat on the ground in disgust as he read the newspaper article. They were coming. He knew it. They all knew it. Even Moley had said so before, and he wouldn’t bullshit them.

  The
last time Moley had gone into the town to get some food and supplies for the group he’d seen it on the front page of one of the newspapers. And not one of the crappy tabloids mind, which was always reporting alien abductions or royal bleeding rubbish that no-one cared about.

  No, this had been one of the quality rags. One that was always moaning on about whether Britain should fuck Europe or get fucked by it.

  The words of warning had spread through the camp quicker than flies on shit. The suits that were going to destroy the countryside yet again were coming. One more road carving its way through woods, hillside and the ‘natural land’ as they called it.

  They’d already ploughed on through Winchester and Newbury. Concrete monstrosities for ignorant fuckers whose only interest was to make a quick profit. If the countryside got in the way, fuck it. That was tough bleeding luck and the ‘natural land’ was bled dry.

  But no more. They’d put up good fights in Winchester and Newbury. Kicked a few of their arses in the process. But this time they weren’t going to get their money-making way.

  Digger sniffed the cool morning air and ran his grimy fingers across his stubbled chin. His fists clenched and unclenched as he thought about their imminent arrival. This time they weren’t playing by the rules.

  Sure, in the past the suits from the government had quoted by-law violations. They’d even re-written the Criminal Justice Act they’d been so desperate to get rid of them. But this time it was different. Now the rules had gone out the window.

  What the fuck do we know about the internet anyway? Or care about it?

  Yet, Moley had seen it all in that rag. As clear as day. Two important bastards from some rich computer companies had been killed and they were getting the rap for it.

  Flicking open the pages of the tabloid Moley had picked up for him, Digger paused briefly to study the buxom blonde on page three. His eyes burnt with rage as he reached the offending page. The story wasn’t just in the quality rags.

  ‘Anti-Net activists implicated in gruesome murders’ the headline read.

  His eyes quickly scanned the text, coming to rest on the fourth paragraph.

  ‘In both cases police have confirmed that the murder scenes exhibited the words: ‘F*** the Net, Reclaim the World’. At the murder scene of Colette Robertson police revealed that the message had been daubed in the victim’s blood. Police have said…’

  Digger looked up, scowling, before hurling the pages away.

  “It’s a bleeding setup,” he murmured, surveying the countryside before him.

  Their camp was situated in a forest on the edge of Brookwood Heath, a previously protected site of special scientific interest with a vibrant and diverse eco-system. But that status had gone out the window thanks to a Government u-turn and chasing the pound signs that UKCitizensNet would bring. Parts of the open heathland, much of their forest, and countless habitats were going to driven out once the bulldozers came.

  Looking around the camp of platforms amongst the trees, his resolve to do all they could to stand in their way hardened. He looked back at the newspaper and the executives who’d been murdered and scowled again. What the fuck was going on? Their agenda had sod-all to do with the internet. Sure, their war-cry was ‘Reclaim the World’, always had been. But ‘Fuck the Net’ as well?

  This time the suits from the government had a new plan to get rid of them.

  At Winchester and Newbury there’d been a fair amount of support for their cause. Who really wanted a road instead of the countryside?

  But, if the suits pinned a particularly brutal set of murders on them then all sympathy would be wiped out. With no public sympathy the pigs would have a free hand to use whatever strong-arm tactics they wanted to get rid of them.

  He thought about the tabloid article once more, looking down from his high tree perch at the scattered pages below. They were building a link road to a new headquarters that was to be built for a company developing semantic web technologies.

  “Digger, the bastards are coming.”

  Moley’s warning broke his concentration as it echoed through the trees. On the horizon he could see a gathering of vehicles heading in their direction.

  Right where the fucking road would go.

  Behind him the chatter of voices and boots thudding on the ground filled the air. He watched as the rest of the group climbed the forest’s trees to their well-constructed lookouts or down the numerous tunnels they’d dug.

  Turning to watch the approaching hordes his eyes widened in surprise.

  No, this is wrong.

  Instead of the normal police vans hotly pursued by a mass of hungry hacks looking for a story, were a strict formation of army lorries, two tanks, and a long black limousine.

  Where’s the fucking press? Who’s going to record our fight to protect the countryside?

  He looked again at the formation of army vehicles. For the first time since he’d chosen the life of an environmental protester, more than 20 years earlier, butterflies began in his stomach and he felt himself gradually perspiring, his breathing becoming heavier.

  The bastards could do anything to them. And without the cameras no-one would ever know. The government suits could hide behind the Official Secrets Act and no-one would ever know what happened.

  This whole area must be pretty fucking important.

  The procession of vehicles ground to a halt at the edge of the trees.

  “Wankers,” a female voice bellowed from a nearby tree.

  It was Harmony, a veteran of conservation causes.

  An officious-looking officer climbed down from one of the lorries and looked up at Harmony’s lofty position.

  “Take that bitch down first as a warning,” Digger heard the officer order.

  Two further soldiers leapt from the back of the lorry. Carrying a bulging army rucksack they approached the base of Harmony’s tree fifty feet away. Digger squinted to see exactly what they were doing, but the early morning sun blinded his vision.

  Within a minute the soldiers returned to their lorry, uncoiling a long length of something he couldn’t quite identify. His mouth dropped as the soldier raised the detonator plunger.

  “No,” Digger murmured. “Harmony, get off the tree, use the ropes. They’re going to…”

  A sudden orange flash and deafening explosion filled the forest. Thrust backwards by the force of the blast the sound of groaning and splintering wood sliced through the air. Harmony’s tree swayed for a few long seconds before crashing down in front of the army congregation.

  Harmony. Oh fuck it, no, Harmony.

  He looked down from his tree perch and into the swirling cloud of smoke hanging over the fallen tree. He couldn’t see her. He couldn’t see a thing. All he could see was more soldiers rushing into the smoke, punishing batons raised.

  Digger’s eyes closed and he bowed his head as the dull thuds echoed through the trees.

  To his left more branches began to sway and creak under pressure. Within seconds, Moley swung onto the lofty tree perch. Tying the rope around one of the sturdy branches he turned to Digger, his eyes wide with fear, brimming with angry tears.

  “Harmony……” he finally managed to blurt out.

  “I know,” Digger replied quietly. “The bastards killed her.”

  “Harmony,” Moley said again, shaking his head.

  Digger placed a comforting arm around his shoulder. Moley wasn’t the most articulate of their group. But he was a damn good tunneler. Probably the best they had.

  Digger looked into his stubbled face, his eyes wide with fear, his dreadlocks hanging limply around his chin. Behind the grimy exterior from days in the tunnels, was a frightened young boy.

  It was easy to forget Moley was only 19. He’d been with them for four years now. A runaway and reformed intravenous drug user from the inner city of Birmingham. All he had wanted was to ‘Reclaim the World’ from a blood-sucking, poisonous establishment. Never mind all the ‘Fuck the Net’ bollocks. Their concern had always be
en the countryside.

  Surveying the scene below, the fear he felt gave way to anger as his fists tightened once more, his scowl returning.

  Behind him he could hear the startled voices of his friends amongst the trees. But what was in front of him concerned him more. Five teams of soldiers, all with the now familiar army rucksacks, were approaching the edge of the woods. And for the first time since he had chosen this life, he prayed.

  Sebastian Tate and Vincent Trevellion sat in the soft leather seats of the black limousine. The sound of explosions and batons subduing the protestors, one by one, bounced gently off the reinforced glass.

  They needed the land and the protesters were trespassing on purchased property. The most recent amendment to the Criminal Justice Act, which Dr Marcus McCoy had rapidly pushed through Parliament, gave validity to this punitive action should it ever come to light. Not that it would. They’d ensured the media hadn’t got a whiff of this particular ejection.

  Tate gazed through the black-tinted windows protecting their identities and smiled. This wouldn’t take long he thought as another tree fell into the forest in a cloud of smoke.

  “How useful has the new data been?” he asked finally.

  “It’s been useful. Particularly one project the Robertson woman was working on. It’s filled in a few blanks in our own semantic web projects. I doubt she knew the full potential of what she had, all other things considered. SW Technologies probably envisaged it as some neat application for people too stupid to remember their passwords, online personal details and digital footprint. Instead, as we hoped, we’re looking at a far more powerful, next generation app. The possibilities are very promising.”

  Tate smiled from behind the rimless glasses, always peering intently over the top when someone else was speaking. Straightening his black silk tie gently, he considered Trevellion’s information.

  “And Langley’s data?”

  “Interesting in places. Not too much that our own people didn’t know though. There are a few things which round off a few rough edges, one might say.”