Assured Destruction: The Complete Series

by Michael F Stewart

  I sigh, wrap my arms around me, and climb the stairs.

  “Oh,” the man says when I stick my head up from the stairwell. “The sign said open, so…”

  “Sorry, someone should be here.” He stares at me. “Anime convention,” I explain my clothes and makeup.

  He has dropped a box off near the cash. A computer cord hangs out of the top.

  “It’s some computer peripherals, speakers, mice, keyboards, cords…” He flushes the red of his plaid shirt.

  “Sounds good, that stuff’s all free,” I say. The government pays us by the pound to collect most electronics, but there is a cost for the destruction of hard drives or batteries.

  With that he pushes his way out the door. As he showers the wall of the warehouse with gravel while skidding out of the parking lot, I tramp over to the box and flip it open. Peripherals indeed. The box is half full of Duracells and what looks like a car battery. The guy had been well dressed, didn’t appear to be starving or otherwise afflicted with some psychiatric illness, so why lie and drop off a pain in my ass? Is there a dark side to all of us under the right circumstances? I hear Gumps’s gods laughing.

  I shake my head and am about to climb downstairs when I recall why I am up here in the first place. Where is my mom? I remember how pale and sad she appeared earlier.

  I don’t bother with the elevator, which takes forever, and instead hop up the fire exit steps. By the time I’ve climbed the first flight I’ve pictured my mom having fallen and broken an arm. The calf of my good leg burns from the sudden activity. At the top of the second flight, I’m sure she’s lying in a pool of blood. I throw back the door and scream.

  “Mom!”

  She lounges on the couch, reading from her Kindle. Her free hand holds the right side of her face. If she had the use of her legs she likely would have jumped when I screamed. As it is, the Kindle flies a few feet and lands at the other end of the couch.

  “Jan,” she says. “You’re home early.”

  “Yes, and we have customers wandering in clearing out the cash and leaving non-recyclables behind.”

  “Really, Jan, I took out the cash float before coming up. Will you take over the store for me?”

  I scowl. “You scared me.”

  The weight of her slender body barely dents the pillows. Her thin, brown hair frames an ashen face.

  “And now you’ve scared me; we’re even,” she says. “Peter will be here soon.”

  “I’m supposed to be working on a case.”

  “Here?”

  I nod.

  “Can you bring it up to the cash? Someone should really be there.”

  This is weird. My mom has never left the store open without someone there. I peer closer. Her right eye, usually a sharp green, is tearing a little and she’s sort of looking over my shoulder rather than at me.

  “You sure you’re okay?” I ask.

  “Uh huh, yes, Jan. How’s work going?”

  “Not bad,” I lie.

  She nods and slumps back on the cushions.

  It’s only at the bottom of the stairs that I realize she didn’t say anything about my clothes again. Something must be really wrong. I’ll have to talk to Peter about it.

  I fetch Black Mamba, its power cord, and a second laptop so that I can search for ways to hack the former and take notes. Another two customers interrupt before I can start the exploit; one woman has a few hard drives destined for destruction and a man carts in a series of monitors, which I wheel to the back and dump into a half-full bin. For forty-five bucks I destroy the hard drives by running our shredder, Chop-chop, which chews them to pieces before I finish writing out certificates of destruction. The scents of machine oil and cut steel hang fragrant in the air. Then I’m back to Black Mamba.

  Black Mamba used a Windows 98 operating system, which appears, after a Google search, not so tough to hack; I could reboot the sucker in Safe Mode and still have access to the files, but that would be too easy. I go with an alternative that lets me play with Registry Keys, something Microsoft doesn’t think we should know about so hides from us. Whatever. After fiddling with it for fifteen minutes and rebooting a couple of times I’m in and, well, pretty freaking proud of myself! I’ve never actually needed to hack a computer password, and this time—I’m clean on the side of good. I’m a Jedi knight and the force is strong within me.

  “Hiya, Janus,” Peter says as he enters. Despite his age, he fills the room with a charge and a six-plus-foot frame and barrel chest. “Quite the outfit. New marketing campaign for Assured Destruction?”

  I laugh and it feels good.

  “My mom’s waiting for you upstairs.” I pause. “Is everything okay with her? She wasn’t working when I came in.”

  “Your mom’s tired, Janus. This,” he waves his hand around, “it takes a lot out of her. You know—” his lips thin as they press together, all humor bled out of them—“the business doesn’t make very much money for the amount of work it requires.”

  I swallow hard, knowing that it’s my community service hours that have led to my mom having to do more around the shop. A month ago it was me complaining about not having a life and failing classes because of the store. Life is now more interesting, but definitely not easier.

  “We can handle it,” I say.

  He shows his chunky teeth. “How’s the case? Stolen credit cards, was it?”

  I am happy to change subjects, but now wonder if I should have mentioned the case after my conversation with Williams. Tell no one. But that was before anyone had said anything.

  “I’m off it,” I say. “Really messed up. Thought someone had installed a skimmer at the bank and started scaring everyone off who came to use it.” I throw up my hands. “Sergeant Haines looked like he was ready to eat me.”

  “Were you wrong?”

  “Yes, actually, and Haines explained why.”

  “So you’ve eliminated one option and learned not to jump to conclusions without proof. Have you researched the other types of credit card fraud?”

  I stand with an eyebrow raised. “Didn’t you hear? I’m off the case.”

  He shrugs. “Sorry, it’s part of being a hacker I suppose. I like to solve things. Thought you did too.”

  If this guy’s a real hacker, then I’m the President of the United States.

  Peter strolls around the counter with a quizzical smile. He never drops eye contact even while the elevator drones down, gapes open, and swallows him whole.

  I’m surrounded by wingnuts, Heckleena tweets.

  @Heckleena I happen to have the benefit of context, a tweeter named Peter Pumpkineater replies. His bio reads, Tweeting my downloaded consciousness. He’s only got twenty followers. I make twenty-one and am connected to my mom’s boyfriend. He better not Facebook me.

  So, Peter thinks I should stay on the fraud case. But why would he care? Or is he merely trying to play parent. Buck up there, Janus! You can’t stop trying just because Sergeant Panties says so. That doesn’t sound like Peter.

  Shadows have lengthened and the sun shines into my eyes through the windows. The hair on the back of my neck does a little dance.

  It’s nearly closing time and despite the thrill of adventure a new hard drive always sends through me, I’d rather not profile a killer in the dark.

  Chapter 6

  Hours of community service remaining: 1995

  <<@JFlyTrap Careful. People tend to take on the characteristics of those with whom they associate,>> Hairy tweets.

  On the screen, Word files clutter Black Mamba’s desktop. I can guess why this guy got caught. Into the second laptop beside me I type disorganized. It’s a first impression and those count. I really do need to change my clothes.

  There may be a lot of files but there’s not much to them. Each is l
ike a sticky note. One line in it like:

  Don’t forget to pick up the dry cleaning.

  Henny needs some celery root or something or other.

  Doctor’s appointment at 3pm Friday, June 3rd.

  The creep used documents like a To Do list. I add: Low IQ? in my notes. Followed by: partner? Named Henny, but celery root required? Could be a bunny rabbit …

  I open the hard drive’s file tree and decide I need to be systematic about my approach, sifting through visible and then hidden files, although I already can’t imagine Black Mamba encrypting anything. Should I review by file type? Date? Or just folder by folder? When I created profiles on Shadownet I normally started with pictures but that doesn’t sound professional. I shrug and sort everything by date.

  I needn’t have worried. There really aren’t that many files once I move past the desktop. It’s like the computer was barely used. I scan the temp file and find all sorts of junk. The Internet cache is full of crap too. I see news sites, gambling, a few gun forums—looks like he researched handguns a lot with an emphasis on Glocks. I haven’t found anything I’d call incriminating. He writes fan fiction for a couple CSI TV shows, but who doesn’t?

  The only pictures I can find are of cats, but I do discover some webcam videos in the recycle bin. I bark with laughter when a man of about fifty stands in a sequined dress, feather boa, and a blonde wig, using his hand as a mock microphone and belting Girls Just Want To Have Fun. After watching the webcam karaoke and reminding myself what this man has done, I write in the profile.

  Cross-dressing and low self esteem socially awkward. Likes handguns, potentially owns or is looking to own a Glock. May prefer blondes as victims.

  The video replays in my mind. Putting it altogether actually produces the profile of a time-bomb. I shiver and decide to save the rest of my analysis for when the sun is high. After all, if Hairy’s tweet is right, the longer I spend with Black Mamba, the more likely it is that I will become a killer.

  Shadownet awaits, and it’s nearly cat feeding time. If the door jangles I can hear it from the basement, so I hobble down the steps. My hand slides along the cold steel railing. In one corner a big cast iron boiler struggles to heat the whole place, rumbling and hissing like an old steam engine. I’ve lived down here so much that the sound comforts rather than haunts, interlaced as it is with the hum and whirr of my server. Wet seeps from a fissure in the wall, oozing across the floor and down a drain. I haul the rat’s nest of computer cords away from the water, closer to the ring of computers in the centre of the room. Finally, I ease back into my captain’s chair and survey the screens.

  When updating everyone, I usually work from left to right. First is Hairy. Hairy rose from the hard drive of a boy in my year, real name Harry, and his avatar is Chewbacca. I click Chewy away and bring up a chess game Hairy started playing against some Russian kid while I was in the hospital. The Ruski’s kicking Hairy’s ass, but he’s learning. They each make one move a day. I don’t know if that constitutes the slowest game of chess ever, but I do know that Hairy just put him in check.

  On Tule’s terminal, aka Ellie Wise—the most popular girl in my high school—I tune into her blog: Bringing Tacky Back. On it she talks about leg warmers until I want to throw up, but I do wonder how they would look over my cast. Ellie used to be my best friend in elementary school until I grew up and she refused to.

  Is Tule’s blog about me seeing what it’s like to be totally shallow and having the world revolve around oneself? Or is it really about me exploring a feminine side I long ago poisoned, hacked, and buried? Maybe a bit of both, although, I can’t say that I’m at the height of fashion at present. What I do enjoy however is mashing superhero costumes with haute couture and creating new dresses in Photoshop. If superheroes can’t bring tacky back, then who can? Just for fun I dress Batman in a Wonder Woman-style outfit and add some Caribana chic. It’s not fair that female superheroes are the only ones with revealing clothing. Posted!

  Frannie’s hard drive is actually that of a punk rocker whose music I’m getting into. Her keyboard’s a bit sticky as if someone spilled Coke over it. What’s important to Frannie, however, isn’t what she types, but what appears in her inbox. Frannie’s favorite past time is responding to spam. Having joined the police force, I see all those ridiculous emails with a new eye. For instance, she just received an offer for a data entry job from PayPal.

  Get paid to Process Credit Cards. This is a Work at Home job Opportunity.

  Sounds like a scam, right? Like they want your credit card information? It’s not the case. This is for real. They want to turn Frannie into a money mule and have her process stolen credit cards through her account. She could actually earn some money from this, but it’s helping carders launder their funds. Crazy. I wonder if my carding criminal is doing something like this. But how is he stealing the cards in the first place? Peter said to research the field. What better way than to use Frannie?

  I scan the spam. Responding to it places Frannie on a million spammers’ lists. Gambling, drug offers, lottery wins, Nigerian widows, everyone wants a piece of her. I choose a retro Russian bride offer and ask the spammer how they might go about grabbing someone’s credit card information. I hit send, and then I think, hey, why not spam them all back? One of them is bound to give me an answer and there’s a sort of irony to the plan. For the next hundred emails I copy and paste the same request and hit send, flooding the inboxes of spammers around the world.

  Pleased with myself, I move on to Heckleena. A black bar where the pixels don’t light runs down the middle of her screen. I’m running out of time, but Heckleena always has something to say, just never anything very nice.

  @tripsalot16 If you think the Dominican Republic is a deal, check out the cheap hotels in Haiti. #dontforgettheothersideoftheisland

  @sillygirl98 If Twitter accounts had IQs your profile pic would be a Tickle-Me Elmo. Credit to Haines for that one.

  I’m laughing as I roll my chair over to the next terminal, but as soon as I see the image of my mom standing on one foot as she dances for my father, I sober and push back from the desk. It’s my dad’s terminal. The picture was taken a long time ago. There’s stuff on his hard drive I’ve never looked at. Emails that I bet will point to why he left without a word, following a big fight with my mom. I’ve promised myself that I’ll wait until my mom trusts me enough to explain. It’s hard not to investigate when it’s all right there in binary code; especially when my mom’s upstairs and can’t stand without support, let alone dance. A lump sticks in my throat.

  My dad’s hard drive is an emblem. It’s a symbol of everything we’ve lost, when we had a home, a bungalow in a residential neighborhood with friends, a house that didn’t smell of stale coffee, and a roof that never leaked in a storm. A time when we used to go out for dinner at restaurants or for family movie nights. And if friends visited Assured Destruction, it was to race around the warehouse in lawnmower engine go-carts as my mom frowned and berated my father about safety. Then working at Assured Destruction was for allowance money and not to eat. A couple of years back I even managed to purchase my iPhone from the leftovers.

  I haul myself up, leaving the rest of Shadownet for later, and climb the stairs to feed the stray cats that yowl at the back of the warehouse. I run my fingers through their fur and listen to throaty purrs, which somehow fends off a good cry that’s desperate to surface. I snap the deadbolt on the store door and take the elevator up. On the way, I text Jonny: Miss u, crzy busy—sorry.

  My mom’s propped up in her chair at the table, hand gripping a glass of red wine. She stares into the kitchen, the former staff cafeteria. Our home is converted from the warehouse’s top floor offices. If you look closely you can still see the markings on the carpet where cubicles used to rest. Our bedrooms are old executive suites. My mom’s says President, and I sleep in the space formerly occupied b
y the Vice President of Sales. The fluorescent lights render the living area cooler than it is, but we’ve done our best to warm the place up with throw rugs, table lamps, and an overstuffed couch and armchair.

  As soon as I arrive I know Peter’s in charge of dinner this evening. It smells wonderful. He always overdoes it—still wooing my mom, I suppose. To celebrate my return from hospital, he forced my mother and me into the office downstairs while he spent two hours creating a theme from some old TV show, The Love Boat, upstairs. ‘Captain’ Peter Moore then invited us to his Captain’s Quarters—our home drowned in nautical decor. I would have been bored, but he pulled three huge live lobsters out of a pot and suggested we race them. Thinking about it now, I realize that my mom was too quiet that night as well.

  From the speakers, Michael Buble is crooning about new dawns.

  “Let me guess what’s for dinner,” I say. “Filet mignon, wild mushrooms, and a side of scalloped potatoes?”

  “You’re on for tomorrow night.” Peter rumbles from inside the kitchen.

  “You know I can only cook one thing,” I say.

  “You mean dial one thing,” he replies.

  My mom’s still silent.

  “I’m a modern woman,” I say.

  “Don’t forget you’re a student too,” he says.

  I frown. It’s something a father might add. “Yeah.”

  “Your mom tells me that you might have to repeat the semester if you miss more classes.”

  I turn to Mom, but she’s gazing out into space, gripping her wine like it’s keeping her upright.

  “There’s a lot on my plate,” I say.

  “Indeed,” he pauses. “Any closer on the fraud?”

  “Top secret.” I’m only half joking. “I’d tell you, but then I’d have to kill you.”