"Yeah, and probably that someone will be super pissed and in a position to vaporize our boy."
Ray flipped the Queen out toward the table; it skipped and made a rough landing in Finn's drink. "Yep, nuke him from orbit, it's the only way to be sure. Listen, right now this is taking about as much bandwidth any other broadcast that a teenaged kid would dump on the web."
Ray jerked his hand away from rescuing the Queen as the door swung back open and Finn slid a heap of steaming ribs unto the table. "What’d I miss? What's Bandwidth?” He lifted his glass, squinted, and set it down. He pulled the ribs back to his side.
"Hartley's Law. The maximum data rate of a physical communication link is proportional to its bandwidth in Hertz. Net bit rate. Throughput…"
Tonic was laughing, Finn was not, "You can't use the term in the definition." It was clear that Ray was enjoying himself, which made sense, as he was on the verge of a major career move.
"Think of this broadcast as a sandcastle. A little one. To move it from one beach to another, you have to break it all down, shoot it through a pipe, and then reassemble it. That's cool enough. But assume that other people are using the same pipe to move their sandcastles around at the same time. The more sand, the more bandwidth… pipe size, you need."
"Wonkavision," Tonic added helpfully, "it could change the world."
Ray nodded eagerly, "Exactly. Exactly. Now… in order for someone to view this broadcast, they have to access it. To view it, they have to reassemble the sandcastle on their beach right? Following?"
"We'll see in a minute."
"Well, the more people who view it, the bigger the pipe will have to be… this is all really simplified," Ray reached for a rib and again Finn pulled them away. "The point is, eventually someone will notice that he's using the pipes if they start to clog up. This broadcast was so insignificant that he had to give us the time and location. If he really drops it in on YouTube and people start to watch… it could get big. Exponential. Two, four, sixteen, two–fifty–six, sixty–five thousand something… four billion... it goes fast once it starts getting mailed around. Thing is, he could use the world's computer power to transmit it. See?"
"So what's the problem?" Tonic asked. Finn pushed the ribs back over.
"The problem is that he's going to have to hide himself. And a lot of people will be looking. Not just you guys…"
"But people with a vested interest in their security."
"Right."
"Well, he’s willing to give everyone all the fucking time in the world to get up to speed on this… meaning that he’s awfully confident that it’ll fly. Will it?” Tonic asked.
Everyone thought that it would.
“Alright then,” Finn said. "Write it up. You've got about forty–five minutes."
Ray was already typing, "Okay.”
Forty minutes later the ribs were gone, and Finn was still trying to understand how to move a sandcastle… but Ray's information was organized and ready to go.
Finn flipped open his phone and dialed. “Hey Sandy, you ready?” He nodded and pointed to Ray who fiddled with his computer for a few seconds and then popped the ENTER key once. The story of the decade was on the way to the Washington Post. His stomach churned. It was just information, and he wouldn’t get much in the way of official credit – but it was the way that careers were born.
“It’s on the way, thanks. Yeah… it’ll be good. You aren’t going to believe it.” Finn hung up, and looked at Ravish Ramadeep. "Well you work for us now Ray. You good with that?”
“Better than working for Hack.”
“I’ll take that as a compliment.”
“Please do,” Ray said. “And… thanks.”
“There’s no thanks in baseball Ray,” Tonic said. “Sandy is gonna to blow a gasket when she figures all of this out, and the I’d bet a nut that the Post will run it hardcore just as soon as they can call everyone in. There are going to editors all over the country who wished they didn’t hit the snooze that last time. You, my friend, just broke something big.”
“Thanks,” Ray repeated.
Tonic waggled a finger.
“Well, I owe you then,” Ray conceded.
“Oh yes, yes you do,” Tonic agreed. “That’s the whole point Ray. You’re a pretty fucking nice guy. You can take a hit from a tweaker, and you’re crazy smart, but in the end my dot–not–feather friend, you owe us. Now get to work on your next story. Try to call him at a low point."
Ray fished the queen out of her bath and dropped her back in the middle of the table.
Chapter Thirty–Nine
Tempo
The Federal Bureau of Investigation's stomping grounds covered over three and a half million square miles. And, because of the FBI's public resolve to protect the population within those borders, they were generally looking over their shoulders at not only the domestic threats, but the remainder of the Earth's population as well. If the 'new' world of global terrorism weren't enough, the Bureau was also tapped to protect the United States against espionage, cyber attacks, organized crime, violent crime, white collar crime, public corruption, and protecting the civil rights of its three hundred and fifteen million residents. It was, all in all, a rather daunting task for a roster of just under thirty thousand folks.
By in large they were a quietly efficient group with families and friends and neighbors who knew very little of what they did after they pulled out of their driveways in the morning. That the majority of their work was from behind a desk might have come as a surprise to a populace all too familiar with the notion of agents in sunglasses speaking to their sleeves, but the intricate nature of the crimes with which they were confronted required thinkers, not simple gun slingers. Thinking was something that they were very, very good at indeed.
So tonight, two techs were skipping their yard mowing so that they could stay in the office, sift through some stir fry, and take a look at a broadcast that they'd been tipped on.
"Well that's interesting," she said after a full two minutes of silence and blank screens.
"Think we can finger it back to him from here?" the other tech asked as she abandoned her chopsticks and pulled up a keyboard.
"Try a traceroute and just see… but I doubt that it's going to be that easy."
She was already shaking her head. "Nothing. Redirect." She tapped again, still shaking her head. "Yeah, we'd better call in and get more food. This isn't … whoa."
"What?"
She pushed up her glasses, running a finger down the screen, "It didn't just redirect, it totally disappeared."
"It can't. Configure it for more hops."
"Yeah, okay… it must be broken…" she punched a key and watched, the data flickering across her glasses. Her companion leaned in to watch as well, squinting.
"Poof. There's zero ping here… right there the route just times out."
"It's unreachable. No host. Well, no surprise there but … it's everywhere and ends nowhere. How's he doing that?"
"No idea," she scanned a list of IP addresses on another screen, "but the last IP dumps in Maryland."
This earned a smirk. "Lovely."
Chapter Forty
Tumid
“Irving?”
“Who’s this?” Hack slowly opened one eye to see if the throbbing in his temples would return if light were added to the fragile equation.
“It’s Ray.”
“You little sonofabitch!” both eyes came open, ignoring the ache.
“I’m sorry.”
“And by sorry you mean that….that you figured out that….that you couldn’t do this on your….own….right?” Hack took a drink and looked around for his vile of cocaine. He found it in his drawer and proceeded to scrape out some lines as he continued to curse.
“Right. I should have called. It was a mistake.”
“You’re fucking right you should’ve called,” he inhaled sharply. Again.
“Listen, I have some stuff for you. I don’t know what to do
with it, but it’s important. I thought you might be able to use it somehow.”
“Let’s hear it.” Hack fumbled for a pencil.
Ray explained just as efficiently as ever, repeating back the parts that Hack couldn’t at first believe. “You’re serious? Suuure about this?” he slurred.
“I was there Irving. They were from the NSA, and they were serious as a fucking heart attack man. I dunno, maybe we shouldn’t use it… I mean, this is a big deal right? Faking? Jesus. It’s scary shit.”
Hack had him repeat it all again and then hung up with a threat. Call back with more or be fired.
The story was done in twenty minutes, and added to the fact sheet for the column–he'd have to try to confirm some of the facts of course, but this was about as inside as he could get without being found out. In his bleary state it all sort of made sense, even with the blatant typos, and there was the impulse to simply go with it because pretty soon someone would scoop him on this fucking thing. Time ticked, but he would wait… wait until morning.
… until two days ago. It has been discovered that these killings were, in fact,, exceedingly well–planned fakes. An unnamed and high=ranking ssource within the investigation itself, confirms that while teh initial findinggs of the case were assumed to be routine and accurate, a more thorough investigation has led law enforcement officials to the belief that Seth and Jennifer Meek orchestrated their family's violent 'demise' as part of a plot to evade increasing media scrutiny concerning their media scrutiny concerning their connections to online gambling…
* * *
It was the drool in his eyelashes that finally woke him. Hack sat up straight, whipping a trail of spit up across his desk and streaking his computer screen. He’d been dreaming about Ray again, feeling the kid’s nose gristle under another punch.
He groaned, wiped his face, and looked for something to drink. The fifth he’d been holding when he’d passed out lay on the carpet under his chair, a fallen soldier bleeding into the shag. He picked it up and drained the last quarter ounce.
The two front windows were dark, the blinds tight, and the two plants on his desk long since dead; and as Hack stumbled out of his office and into the toilet, he realized that this was his life in a nutshell. The light and life were nearly gone, blotted out, dying – scrubbed away like so much gunk in a skillet. It wasn’t fair. Tomorrow though... tomorrow could be different. This story, what was it again? Would break it all open and he’d be Irving Hack once again, on the covers, on the air, and on top.
He stepped into the bathroom and flipped on the light. The radio by the sink came on as well, but it was another commercial, not the news station that he relied on to coax a bowel movement on the rare occasions that he’d actually ingested something solid. The clock on the radio said 1:40. He’d only slept a few hours. Good.
He just managed to get the toilet seat up before he began draining away a long day's drinking. He leaned into the wall and sighed. The commercial ended but it took a few seconds before he had a reason to listen.
…an unbelievable and unprecedented new chapter in the Seth Meek story that we’ve been covering all week. Details are still sketchy, but our sources at the Post told us to expect the story in its entirety with the morning edition…
Two minutes later Hack realized that he was standing in a puddle of his own piss.
“Son of a bitch,” he said, already backing out of the room. Hack pulled on a pair of pants, struggled to button them, gave up, and grabbed a shirt, foregoing his customary bow tie. Cell phone, fifth of something, wallet… he gathered his things and was looking for his car keys in the kitchenette inside of ten minutes. Son of a bitch! The bigger the story got, the more his anger toward Ray boiled. It was perfect. He’d finally been in position to reel in the big catch, the one fish that would have made him famous for the right reasons and now … now that goddam kid is going to take it all away from me. He duped me.
He raced down the stairs, his head still swimming in anger and booze – the combination served to mute any danger and drive him out unto the street.
It was dark, not the bright afternoon he’d expected.
“What the fuck?”
1:55…at night. He’d been drooling on his desk since that morning. In a rage he kicked at a trash can that turned out to be the newspaper vendor. It didn’t yield to his foot, but it did–ever so graciously–pop open to provide him with the last paper of the day. He cursed all the way to his car while coming up to speed on the Seth Meek saga.
The fifth was gone by the time he got to the office, but he had another there for emergencies. He’d need it before he drove over to Ray’s house and hauled the little motherfucker out into his yard for an ass kicking that he would never, ever forget.
It was just too much to take. Far too much.
Chapter Forty–One
Tableau
Ray groped for the telephone in the dark, found it and brought it to his ear only to hear a dial tone. He sat up in bed, blinking away the dream he’d been enjoying, and searched for his cell phone. Private Caller. At least Hack had stopped calling.
“Yeah?” he said, then cleared his throat and tried again.
“Where are you Ray?”
“Jesus Spencer, it’s late man,” he whispered as his wife stirred beside him. If she woke up he’d never get back into his dream… worse yet, if he woke up one of the twins, they’d be up and then his morning would begin before night could officially take hold. It was about to begin anyway.
“This is Seth Meek, where are you Ray?”
“In bed,” he heard himself say before he could orient himself further.
“You have two minutes to get to the car in front of your house if you want in on this.”
“In?” Ray was already out of bed, ignoring his wife’s snorts of protest.
“I want you to be a witness to the trial, you have one minute and forty seconds before the car leaves. I’m not kidding.”
“What’s going on?” his wife complained from the pillow.
“Alright, I’ll be there.”
“Don’t bring anything but your clothes Ray. No phone, nothing. Just you. Hurry.”
His wife was sitting up now, “Ray! What’s going on, get back in bed it’s three-thirty in the morning.” Across the hall a baby cried. Then in stereo.
“Damnit Ray!” she cursed, threw back the covers, and stomped out.
He hopped toward the door, pulling on pants, still talking into the phone. “I’ll be there, I’ll be there…”
“Fifty seconds,” the line went dead.
Ray grabbed at a shirt on the dresser, spun off of the doorframe, and called to his wife, “Sorry, sorry… I have to go in. I'll make it up to you…”
He sprinted for the door, struggled with the lock as the seconds ticked by, and wrenched it open. A well traveled yellow cab sat across the street, a tail of exhaust wrapping back around it in the wind. It took less than ten seconds for him to reach the rear door. The lock popped and he slid into the back seat, barefooted and just then pulling his shirt over his head.
There was a greasy, translucent plastic partition between himself and the driver. “No phones,” came a voice from the front. Ray glanced to the rearview mirror for a glimpse of the driver, only to find that it had been removed, leaving a scar in the sun tint where it had resided.
“Oh shit, yeah…” he was still clutching his cell phone.
His window came down halfway unbidden, and after a quick glance, Ray tossed it back toward his yard. It skipped off of the pavement and disappeared. The window rolled back up.
Chapter Forty–Two
Tedium
Hack watched. For the past hour he’d been sitting down the street listening to the radio. He didn’t see the irony in tapping his foot to Fortunate Son. Nor did it strike him as ominous that this particular Credence Clearwater tune was followed up by another… Bad Moon. He was well oiled now, indignant. Fuming. He’d not yet mustered the nerve to charge up to Ray’s door and
beat him down. Soon though he promised himself.
He grabbed the steering wheel and pulled himself up as Ray suddenly appeared on his step bare–chested, ran across the street and all but threw himself into a cab. Fuck. He hadn’t even seen the cab pull up. It pulled back out into the street after just a couple of moments of pause and accelerated down the block.
“Son of a…” he said aloud as he fumbled to find the keys in the ignition. It was already running. The car lurched forward and stalled. He ground it alive again and slammed the pedal to the floor. Where Ravish Ramadeep would have to go in a cab at three in the morning eluded him, but it wouldn’t for long. Maybe the kid would make it easy and pick up a hooker or buy some blow or something. He had plenty of reason to celebrate, the little shit. He was on the inside with the cops that were working on the fucking story of the decade. Jesus Christ. I put him there!
He came around the corner, passed the gas station… and found the cab he was looking for. "Not too close,” he whispered. “I’m gonna bury you motherfucker.”
* * *
“Please lie down on your stomach Mr. Ramadeep,” the driver said again and Ray obeyed. His mind began to catch up to his body, and the first twinge of fear took hold. He’d stepped into an evil screenwriter’s script, and it occurred to him that he might rather have just continued with his dream. “There is a hood on the floor, please place it over your head.”
The car turned in a gentle arc off of his street and then straight up toward the gas station on the corner. He imagined it in his mind, mapping their route for as long as he could. Two more turns, and one long stretch of highway scrambled his navigation, and from there on out he was left with what might have been an hour or more of time to think about what he’d done. Where he was going.
Back home his wife was surely awake now, tending to babies and cursing her runt of a husband. He felt for her, truth be told. The upside, of course, was that if this was what he thought, he would be on the brink of a career jumpstart that couldn’t quite be equaled. The downside… well, eventually his wife would settle the kids back down, go downstairs, and find that his car was still in the driveway. This would cause some confusion, and that would lead to a telephone call… one that would ring through and be answered by their frozen lawn. From there he could only speculate, but it would end, he was sure, with a noodle peeling. Theirs was not a happy life since the second twins were born. It wasn’t too happy prior to the first twins, especially after he’d dropped out of law school. Now, with four kids, there just wasn’t much time for happy. This wouldn’t help.
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