by Tarah Benner
Jared takes a deep breath. “He’s not going to use me to get into those servers.”
“He will,” I say, wishing there was a way to make him understand.
“No,” says Jared, more firmly this time. “Because you’re going to destroy them.”
For a few seconds, no one says a word. I’m still trying to figure out if I heard Jared correctly.
“Every piece of data in the cloud has redundancies,” he says slowly. “We have servers in Beijing, Mumbai, Sydney, London, Paris — even Seoul. All of our clients’ data lives on at least two servers. In the case of a potential breach, it’s our policy to take the vulnerable hardware offline.”
“Offline?” I say, looking for clarification.
“Destroy it. I don’t care,” says Jared. “Just so long as it’s no longer functional. It’ll take Mordecai time to access any of the other servers remotely. He’ll need to persuade Zephyr to give up his biometric credentials, and by then —”
“We’ll be able to free the hostages,” Maggie finishes.
I let out a sigh of frustration. The plan sounds great when you say it like that, but executing it is going to be more of a challenge. “We don’t even know where they are.”
“Mordecai would want to keep the hostages close,” says Maggie. “We find him, we’ll find the hostages.”
“Great!” I say, feigning enthusiasm. “We don’t know where Mordecai is either.”
“I do,” says Maggie, sounding slightly surprised.
I give her a blank stare, and a flush of color sneaks into her cheeks. “Porter showed me the Workshop when I visited Tripp’s office on Elderon.”
“The Workshop?” I say, still very confused.
“Maverick headquarters,” says Maggie. “That’s where Mordecai is now.”
24
Maggie
“You’re sure about this?” Jonah asks.
I nod. “It’ll work.”
Jonah gives me a serious look. “It has to work.”
I shiver. We’re huddled in the corner of Zephyr Morgan’s office, which is freakishly, spotlessly clean.
A desktop is perched in the center of his desk, and cone-shaped brass lamps cast a warm glow over the wood. There’s a long cream-colored couch and two chairs for visitors but no other furnishings in the room.
It isn’t the starkness of Zephyr’s office that gives me the chills. It’s my close proximity to Jonah. He’s standing so close behind me that I can feel the heat radiating from his body. The scent of sweat mixes with his normal citrusy smell, and I breathe it in without meaning to.
A warmth like honey pours into my abdomen, counteracting the chill on my bones. I sense his every movement behind me — the way his uniform clings as he shifts his weight, the bristle of arm hairs against his rolled-up sleeve.
Heat rises to my cheeks, and I try not to think how his hard body felt pinning me against that wall. His soft lips and solid chest, his hand pressed into my cheek . . .
“It’ll work,” I say, my throat suddenly very dry. “Mordecai has an ego. He wants us to report on the attacks.”
Jonah lets out a resigned sigh, and I know he’s thinking about the reporter who was shot.
She was killed because she got too close, I tell myself, logging into my Optix account via Zephyr’s desktop. The Optix network is still down, but I can access the data stored back on Elderon.
When I pull up my account, I see that I have a dozen unread messages. Most of them are from Alex, sent before the network went down.
Where are you?
What’s going on?
Any news? The entire station’s on lockdown.
Maggie . . . Talk to me.
Are you fighting with the Space Force?
You still owe me a story.
I already have my fake story ready. I recorded it from the hallway inside Vault with the company slogan stretching along the wall behind me. I thought it would make a dramatic backdrop for my piece on the chaos unfolding in Silicon Valley.
There’s nothing special about the actual reporting. I stick to what I witnessed myself, leaving out our fight with the bots and the conversation with Mordecai.
The story has to be convincing. Mordecai will be watching our accounts, scouring them for any activity that hints at what we’re planning. Knowing him, he’ll probably watch the entire video. He’s the type of person who gets off on seeing himself in the news. The part not intended for public consumption — Alex’s message — will be hidden in the metadata.
“Explain to me what you’re doing again,” says Jonah, leaning closer to look over my shoulder.
I swallow and try to focus, which is hard when I can feel his breath on my neck.
I’m in the file-sharing portal where the press corps files stories for editing and publication. On one side of the screen is a still from my story. It’s just me in the center of the frame speaking into the camera. On the other side is the story’s metadata: time stamp, location, and a jumble of keywords to make the video searchable.
The press corps has a tagging system we use to organize clips, and Alex is a stickler for tagging. All people, cities, organizations, and pull quotes are supposed to be tagged. “Silicon Valley,” “Vault,” “Mordecai Blum,” “Mountain View, California,” and “United States” are already attached. They’re hidden inside the file itself, visible only to someone double-checking my work.
Among the keywords I embed a message to Alex.
Tripp Van de Graaf - Find
Strom Van de Graaf - Hostage
Maverick Enterprises - Need back door
Communication - Not secure
When I’m finished, my message divides itself neatly among the decoy tags — each squeezing in to arrange itself in alphabetical order.
I hit save and wait for my video to upload to the cloud. Even three hundred miles away, Alex should be able to access it instantly.
I’m counting on her critical eye to identify my message in the jumble of nonsense. She always combs through my keywords to find what I missed, and bot Armageddon or not, Alex will be working.
Unless the bots have taken over Elderon. Unless everyone I know is dead.
I shake these thoughts out of my mind and refocus on the task at hand. I can’t let myself think that way. They have to be alive.
While we wait for Alex’s response, Jonah and I head back to The Brain. He’s got a crowbar slung over his shoulder — ready to do what needs to be done.
Jared gave us the passcode before he left. It’s all we need to make sure Mordecai can’t get his hands on that data.
When we reach The Brain, the servers are still glowing at their steady, calming pace. It’s almost as though the fight with the bots never happened. The room is still pristine.
For a moment, Jonah stands in the doorway, looking at the huge blinking blue orb. Who knows how many petabytes of data are stored on those servers — how many people’s lives those files represent.
Jonah takes a few swings in the air as if he’s warming up for a game. I take a deep breath, and he looks over his shoulder. He’s got this mischievous twinkle in his eye that I haven’t seen before — a look that says he’s going to enjoy this.
Jonah pulls on a pair of safety goggles — another score from the janitor’s closet. He takes the first swing at The Brain.
The crowbar hits the servers with a deafening clash of metal, and I jump back automatically. His strike is met with a brilliant flash of sparks, and a few dozen lights go out.
Jonah jerks back to avoid getting shocked, his face glowing with boyish excitement. He swings again, and the crowbar shatters the corner of one of the cubes.
I grin and let out a chuckle that seems to release me from my prison of darkness. It’s exhilarating to watch. Jonah swings into the server, and The Brain answers with another burst of sparks. It seems to be fighting back against Jonah’s assault, and damn it looks satisfying.
Jonah’s back muscles clench as he winds up for another swing, and I
watch his body give in to the force. Shards of plastic are flying everywhere, sticking in the walls and covering the floor.
Halfway through, Jonah stops. He pushes the goggles off his face and cocks an inviting smile.
I grin and take the crowbar. The metal is warm where his hands gripped it, and I take a few test swings before bringing it down on The Brain.
The crowbar hits a server with such remarkable force that it slips out of my hands and careens off the structure. I jump as it clatters to the ground, and Jonah lets out a loud belly laugh I’ve never heard from him before.
I release the breath I’ve been holding and bend down to pick it up. This time, when I swing, I keep my shoulders loose, ready to absorb the impact.
The business end of the crowbar collides with plastic and silicon, and I see the hard outer shell crack. Pieces of plastic fly in every direction — even pinging off my glasses.
I grin. It doesn’t matter how old you are. Breaking shit is fun.
Jonah and I spend the next fifteen minutes beating the servers into pieces. When we’re finished, only the dented shell of The Brain remains, and Jonah brings in a sledgehammer to finish it.
Soon all that’s left is a pile of twisted metal and innumerable shards of plastic. The Brain is no more.
For a second, we just stand there admiring our handiwork. Jonah is panting from the effort of busting apart the chunks of metal, and the front of his uniform is soaked with sweat.
He strips off his overshirt to cool down, and his sweaty gray T-shirt clings to his body. I can see every inch of him — every curve and muscle. His biceps strain at the seams of his sleeves, and I have another flashback of him pressing me up against the wall.
Judging by the heat in Jonah’s gaze, he’s thinking about something similar. He drops the sledgehammer on the floor and heads out into the hall.
By the time we get back to Zephyr’s office, Alex has uploaded a new video. I’m filled with a surprising rush of relief. Alex is alive.
I click on the link to access the file, and Alex’s face fills the screen. Her dark hair is piled up on top of her head and secured with red-and-black chopsticks.
“Well, Jones, you really phoned it in with this one,” Alex grumbles, taking a puff from her e-cigarette. “I’m not even going to touch the deep pile of shit you’re in for stealing a space shuttle and rocketing down to Earth with that yummy Space Force sergeant of yours.”
I flush a little at her mention of Jonah, but he studiously avoids my gaze.
“The hook needs some work, and you didn’t send any footage of the actual hostage snatch. Does this dead reporter have a name? Do we have a statement from her network or a grieving fiancé? Do I have to walk you through this? I know you’re in a war zone and all, but this is some pretty half-ass shit.” Alex takes another drag and closes her eyes in exasperation.
“She always like this?” Jonah asks.
“Yeah. Pretty much.”
I’m grinning. I’m not even mad that she left me high and dry on Elderon. I’m just glad she’s alive.
“Send me something once you’ve done some actual reporting, ’kay? Talk soon.” She takes another huff of her e-cig, and her eyes widen as if she just remembered something. “Oh! And can you ask some of your Space Force lackeys to do something about the bot situation up here? It is seriously out of control.”
The screen goes dark, and Jonah shakes his head. I let out a snort of laughter.
After spending the day smashing bots’ faces in and fielding video calls from creepy cyberterrorists, a good old-fashioned lecture from Alex feels good. I’ll never complain about edits again.
I click on Alex’s metadata tab and almost burst into tears.
Alex, you savvy bitch. My code among the metadata wasn’t lost on her. She tagged her own video with two dozen decoy tags, and I jot down her message on a notepad for Jonah.
Tripp Van de Graaf - On board
Elderon Obsession - Vision boards
California King
Boobs
I cringe a little as I jot down the last two. Jonah already detests Tripp, and I don’t want to give him the wrong idea or more ammunition for their feud.
“What?” says Jonah, reading the keywords over my shoulder.
I rack my brain to figure out what the hell Tripp meant. He knew I’d be the one reading the message. The problem is I have no idea what he’s trying to say.
“What the hell?” Jonah grumbles, clearly annoyed with Tripp.
My face is so hot that it seems in danger of combusting. Leave it to Tripp to send a message that sounds so overtly sexual. California King? Boobs? Part of me wonders if he’s doing it for Jonah’s benefit.
California King could be a reference to Tripp — gag — or it could be a reference to his come-on the first time we met.
Tripp had invited me to come to his suite, in case I wanted to “stretch out” on a California king. But the fact that we’re in California seems like too big a coincidence. It’s got to be a play on words.
A bed. Sheets? Sex? Tripp having sex?
Then, suddenly, it clicks into place. Tripp doesn’t just have a California king in his suite aboard Elderon. He must have one in his house on Earth, too.
“The showerheads!” I cry, unable to stifle a laugh.
“What?” Jonah looks murderous. “Does this mean something to you?”
“On the space station,” I say in a rush, “I went to Tripp’s office to find out more about the Space Force. He told me that when they were building Elderon, he was obsessed with trying to improve the water pressure in the showers.”
“So . . .” Jonah’s face is stony.
“It must have to do with his shower,” I say. “That’s what he’s trying to tell us.”
“What about his shower?” Jonah grumbles. Clearly he’s not thrilled at the prospect of a Tripp-led scavenger hunt.
“He must want us to go see his shower.”
Jonah raises one eyebrow. “That’s a bit of a stretch, don’t you think?”
“California King!” I exclaim, wishing I could communicate better. “We’re in California. Tripp’s home is in California.”
Jonah squints at me for a second. I can tell he isn’t following.
“He must want us to go to his house. It’s the only thing that makes sense.”
Jonah gives me a dubious look. “Are you sure about this?”
“No,” I admit. “But it seems logical. Tripp wants to help us, but we need a secure communication channel. The CXO of Maverick Enterprises must have a fully-loaded house. That’s where he wants us to go.”
Jonah doesn’t argue.
I can tell he’s still mulling it over, trying to think like Tripp. I know he’s frustrated, and I don’t blame him. I wouldn’t be so sure myself if California King didn’t have a double meaning, but I’d throw myself in front of a bot before I’d recount that story to Jonah.
If anyone knows how to get inside Maverick with a lunatic running the show, it’s Tripp. Tripp is the key to rescuing the CEOs. We just need to make contact.
25
Maggie
Getting inside Tripp’s house is easier said than done. Finding his condo isn’t the problem. Paparazzi shots of the exterior have been published in every tabloid and business magazine. It’s getting inside that presents a challenge.
Tripp’s house is in Sea Cliff — one of the most exclusive neighborhoods in the Bay Area. To get there, we have to wind down a perfectly manicured street lined with palm trees, past magnificent gated houses with fully enclosed courtyards and bay views.
It’s morning. We crashed at the motel overnight so we’d look less like burglars trying to break in to Tripp’s mansion, and the sun is just beginning to glisten over the bay.
When we reach the address, we find ourselves on the other side of a ten-foot adobe wall painted white. The place is surrounded by surveillance cameras and a wrought-iron gate designed to keep out unwanted guests.
The house is perch
ed on a cliff overlooking the water. It’s a three-story white stucco monstrosity with clay roof tiles and cathedral windows. Private balconies overlook the courtyard, which is bursting with succulents and a host of exotic plants.
We aren’t expecting there to be a guard. Tripp hasn’t been home in nearly a month. He didn’t mention it in his message, but I’m guessing he hired a caretaker to look after the house.
As an added precaution, we park the car on the street and skirt the length of the wall until it drops off along the edge of the cliff.
There doesn’t seem to be any way in. If I had to guess, the entire courtyard is rigged with motion sensors and alarms that will summon the police if an intruder is detected.
“Any ideas?” I ask Jonah, coming back around to the gate. It’s just wide enough to accommodate a vehicle, and I can see a sprawling green oasis on the other side.
“Not unless Van de Graaf gave you his secret access code,” Jonah grumbles, lifting the cover on the keypad and slamming it closed again.
The keypad isn’t one of the minimalist numeric ones that are installed all over the space station. It’s one of those metal keypads with letters engraved along the bottom of the keys like an old-fashioned telephone.
“Hang on,” I say, stepping up to the keypad and examining it more closely.
No, I think, filled with a sudden burst of inspiration. It’s too easy.
I type in two-six-six-two-seven. Jonah is watching me in confusion.
“What are you doing?” he asks.
I don’t answer. I just close my eyes and hope it works.
For nearly two seconds, nothing happens. Then I hear a loud beep, and the gate clicks open automatically.
“Yes! It worked!” I cry, utterly amazed that I managed to put two and two together.
“How did you —”
I roll my eyes. Only Tripp could come up with something so stupid. “Boobs” — the one word in his message that didn’t make sense — was actually the passcode to his gate.
