Assured Destruction: The Complete Series

by Michael F Stewart

  After class my leg cast garners six new signatures; I didn’t even know I had six friends and now proof of them is written in indelible marker. Before my run-in with a certain Estonian criminal element and my subsequent arrest by the cops, I didn’t really fit in. Now, I’m a minor celebrity.

  Ellie watches as one of her hench-chicks signs a big smiley face on my fiberglass cast, then she stomps out with a toss of her blonde head, hair bouncing like in a TV commercial. She has a beauty regimen I have to respect, if never aspire to.

  I’m late as I hobble into physics. Everyone is silent at their desks.

  “Janus, Janus.” The teacher rushes up to me and guides me into the nearest free seat. “Here you are.”

  She hands me a sheet of paper as I sit.

  Physics is normally pretty easy for me, but the text on the sheet looks as if it were written by an ancient Greek scribe.

  “What’s this?” I ask.

  “Pop quiz,” she replies and then points to her eyes and then the page. “You have forty minutes.”

  “But I haven’t been to class in weeks,” I say.

  “No one has had as much time to study as you have.” She does the eye-to-page thing again, but it doesn’t matter. I probably could have done more homework while convalescing. Whether I have forty minutes or forty days, I still don’t understand the weird diagrams and notation.

  “This isn’t fair,” I grumble from my chair and she shushes me.

  I totally bomb the test.

  At recess I search for Hannah and find her chatting with friends. She’s even smiling, not like someone ready to cut her wrists. Since my evening plans have changed, I need to do some police work now, so I head to the computer lab to check email. I’ve computer science class next so Chippy, my teacher, doesn’t think twice about it.

  “Muh.” He sounds a little like a grumpy cow. “Good to have you back, Miss Rose.”

  “Thanks, Mr. MacLean.” I pause. Recently, I learned that I made Chippy nervous. And despite being old fashioned, he does have our safety at heart. “It’s good to be back.” And it is. School, for all its petty infighting and hormone-driven drama, is familiar, dependable—I need something I can count on.

  I login to the computer and set to work, opening up Frannie’s webmail. Frannie has a reply from a spammer but it’s odd. It’s a bank demanding that Frannie login to fix a *security threat*.

  Dear Customer:

  Your Secure login details seem to have been compromised. Please login to the secure link below, and verify your security details to avoid an unnecessary suspension of your account. We may call you to verify any information, and such calls may include computer-generated speech.

  To login and verify your account click on the Security link.

  Why would the spammer reply with more spam?

  I check the subject line again and it’s definitely a reply to my email. I take a harder look at it. It’s not from Frannie’s actual bank, of course, it’s someone who … I’m so thick sometimes …

  It’s someone who wants her Banking Information! The spammer is showing me how it’s done. He’s answering the question of how to crack someone’s bank account by sending me a template. In hacker terms it’s called phishing, using the victims themselves to cough up the information the hacker needs. I slam my fist on the table so hard the keyboard jumps.

  Chippy frowns and I wave a meek apology.

  My mind’s whirling. What if each of the victims received a bank email like this asking them to login to a fake site? Once they did, the spammers would have their info and could do whatever they want with their accounts. I have to tell Williams and Haines. I am redeemed!

  I imagine their response: We want you back on the case, Janus, and we’d like to give you a cool handle. Something like Hack Queen or Neo.

  A ping notifies me of another email to Frannie’s account—it’s another spammer reply. In it is a URL:

  Darkslinger.net.

  That’s it. Just the website address.

  I shoulder-check for Chippy but he’s engrossed in his computer screen, probably updating his gaming blog. I type the name of the website into the browser and up comes a blue screen. It freaks me out—blue screens are never a good thing in the computer world—but I see that it’s just made to look like a blue screen. There’s a spot to enter my username and password. Other than that, there’s nothing. No identifier, nothing that would show the purpose of the site. I click the link to register and set my username as Blackcat, which of course is taken so I change it to Blackcat57. And I’m in!

  The site appears to be a big forum. I’ve a private message from a moderator.

  Dear Law Enforcement Officer, aka Spook,

  We do nothing illegal on this site and we advise our membership to do nothing illegal. This is merely a place for the transfer of knowledge, a stop on the highway to self-fulfillment. If you are not a traveler along this road, then we ask that you turn your narcing ass around and expunge yourself.

  Dear Hacker,

  Do nothing illegal on this site. If you do, your account will be suspended. We follow a strict code of ethics and advise you to read the Hacker Code of Ethics sticky before participating. You will note that you are locked from most areas of this forum. You are a newbie and while we welcome you, we have also been hassled by Spooks (see above). If you participate in the forums available to you, you will eventually gain membership to the rest of the site.

  Happy hacking.

  Darkslinger Mods

  Am I hacker? I create iPhone apps. I can code a bit and have a mean streak when it comes to using Photoshop, but I’ve never really done a lot of real hacking. Maybe it’s something worth trying on? I see the allure of Darkslinger: a whole forum of people like me.

  “So cool,” I whisper.

  I back out of my messages to view the list of forums available. It’s a hacker’s Disney World. Buffer overflows, email injection, hactivism, clickjacking, FTP bounce attacks, Stuxnet, RFID hacks, DDOS.

  I don’t understand the half of it, but I want to, oh how I want to. And I will. It’s like cracking the binding on a dusty old spell book and reading arcane language promising to augment your powers, create wards of protection, and destroy your enemies.

  I skip the Hacker Code of Ethics sticky and open a thread for introductions.

  Here newbies talk about their skills and most recent exploits. One guy—so obviously a guy—wrote about how he found loopholes in some videogame to give his game character perma-health. *Yawn.* Another new member defaced a Department of Motor Vehicles website after—you guessed it—failing his driver’s license test.

  After reading the last few comments on the thread I wonder what I should post. I need to move quickly through the Darkslinger hierarchy if I want to reach the good stuff in time to help with the investigation. I’m sure the info I need is here. Why would a spammer have sent me to the website if not to learn about how to do illegal hacks? Luckily, I seem to fit right in—I’ll crack Darkslinger faster than a quantum computer solves a four-digit pin.

  I type blah, blah, blah—looking forward to meeting everyone. It’s way too early to talk about carding, especially after that welcoming message about spooks. So how do I ingratiate myself to other hackers? I share. In the text box, I reveal how I executed my most recent exploit—how I hacked the password on the laptop—and then I hit post.

  It’s not long until another member replies. A string of LOLOLOLOLOLOLOLOL posted by Sw1ftM3rcy. At the bottom a little animated emoticon bangs its head against a table.

  My hands hover above the keyboard. What’s happening? A minute later I have another message, Blackcat57 < Skiddie. Then Script Kiddie haha; Script Bunny; Skiddie :P. And then another private message, but it’s too late. Before I can read it, I’m sitting in front of a blue screen with a request to logi
n. I type in Blackcat57, followed by my password.

  The response: You are expunged.

  The bell rings for class. Chippy’s lowing calls everyone to their seats. Sweat spontaneously beads on my forehead and upper lip. What if Sw1ftM3rcy is right? I’m so naïve. I am no Hack Queen. I’m a Script Kiddie. A Skiddie—and I just promised to use my pathetic skills to save a life.

  Chapter 9

  Hours of community service remaining: 1992

  <> Heckleena tweets.

  @Heckleena What they really need is a warm hug and a mother who loved them, Hairy replies.

  @HairySays Hug my pirate and she’ll spill your guts.

  *hugs*, Frannie jumps in.

  I imagine Heckleena disemboweling her and it cheers me.

  During math class—something I’m actually still good at—I cut out a piece of leather, a similar sized piece of felt and pull a stretchy shoelace from my shoe. When the class is over I have a pirate patch for my mother. Another productive lesson. If I were better at sewing, I’d embroider a skull and crossbones on it, but for now my mom will have to make do.

  Before heading out to meet Hannah, I call home.

  “Ah hoy, thar matey!”

  “Janus?”

  It’s Peter. I had expected to speak to my mother, but Peter’s at the cash.

  “Oh, hi,” I say.

  “Your mom wanted a sick day,” he says. “Sleeping now. She’s doing fine.”

  I wonder if she would tell me if she wasn’t.

  “You have time for all this?” An edge creeps into my tone. We need the help, but he’s trespassing on family without my approval.

  “I saw your notice on the door; you should have called,” he replies lightly. “I’ll look after everything. There’s not much to it. See you later.”

  Not much to it.

  “Let her know I phoned, please.”

  “Will do, bye-bye now.” He hangs up.

  It’s all too weird.

  I shake my head as I throw open the school doors and search for Hannah. My breath catches. Karl’s hair shines in the sunlight, bleached by the chlorine he soaks in daily.

  “Ready?” Jonny asks, making me stumble. He’s jogging on the spot, hands covered in spackles of paint. He’s been cutting class to tag something.

  “Sorry?” I ask, trying desperately to keep focused on Jonny.

  “I’m driving you home, remember?”

  I grip his arm. “So, so sorry, Jonny, I forgot, but I’m doing that thing with Hannah.”

  “That thing.”

  “Yeah, the one I can’t talk about.”

  He’s smiling as he shakes his head, but it’s a strange, fake smile.

  “Sure,” he says. “I’ll just jog back to your place, grab my bike, and pedal home.”

  “No, take my car,” I say, but I already know the offer is hollow.

  “Hannah can’t drive, so how are you getting to her house?”

  “I dunno, bus, crutch. I don’t know where she lives.”

  “I’m not far. Can you walk a couple of blocks?” Hannah comes at me from the side and I don’t know how long she’s been listening.

  “I’ll drop you off,” Jonny says.

  I’m about to protest, but then I think maybe he wants to help.

  “Okay,” I wink, “I’ll let you this time.”

  “Your car awaits, madams.”

  “Ouu, I like this!” Hannah bubbles.

  I eye her. There’s an I’m-not-a-suicidal-person spring to her step. I follow the two out. When she takes the front seat of my beat-up Pontiac Bonneville, my annoyance with Hannah redoubles. I swallow it. To be honest, the back seat is easier with the cast, but still, she could have asked.

  A few minutes later, Jonny parks at a red brick town home. A slick of ice nearly sends me on my head but the crutches save me. Once steady, I give Jonny a wave of thanks.

  “Call me when you want a pick up,” he says and drives away.

  “Oh my god, he’s like your mom,” Hannah says, her laughter grating away my last ounce of goodwill.

  I whirl on her.

  “Listen, this morning you were about to slit your wrists and now you’re all sunshine and rainbows. What’s up with that?”

  Maybe she was putting on a brave face because Hannah crumbles. I never learn.

  “Your help …” she pales. “Your saying you’d help …”

  Now I understand. By agreeing to help her, she suddenly thinks everything will be okay. It’s the same naïveté that caused her the trouble in the first place. But her trust in me is unfounded; a certain Sw1ftM3rcy clarified this just a few hours ago.

  I sigh. “I don’t have a magic wand or anything, right?”

  She sniffs and nods. I hate to pull the wool from her eyes, but my plan isn’t guaranteed, in fact, it seems dumber and dumber the closer I come to her porch.

  Once inside, she recovers some of her spirit. “Wanna see my room?”

  “Is that where your computer is?”

  She nods.

  “Everyone’s still at work,” she says as she pulls me through a hallway of old family pictures. There’s one of Hannah where she looks like a little Chinese sausage. The little boy beside her is some six or seven years older. Oddly, I recognize him from somewhere. Just a whiff of familiarity, but it’s not entirely surprising that I’d have seen him around.

  Cheep, cheep!

  At first I figure it’s a funny ringtone.

  “Oh, come see something so cute,” she says.

  Cheep, cheep, cheep! The chirps originate from down the hall.

  I think we need to get down to business, but Hannah assumes otherwise as she bounces to the end of the hall and disappears into a side room. She’s Tigger to my Eeyore. At least until such time as I poke her with my pin-on tail.

  I stand at the entrance to what is obviously a boy’s room. Trophies with gold-painted figures kicking toward the ceiling line the walls. Clothes blanket the floor. Three pairs of highly polished black boots are ranked beside the door frame. A computer blinks pictures of a bikini-clad woman, and the wallpaper is a clash of primary colored geometric shapes. The dim lighting is the only thing keeping me from vomiting. Hannah is tapping the glass of what looks like a bar fridge-oven. Except, under a mellow glow, eggs bake inside rather than pies. Eggs and the fluffiest, cutest, oh-my-but-i-have-to-squeeze-it chick I’ve ever seen.

  I cry out, totally overcome by girlie hormones.

  “Cutest!” I press my face to the glass and the chick wriggles from its powder-puff head through to its tail.

  “Isn’t it?” Hannah says.

  And all I can think of is how I have to meet her karate-champion brother. A boy who is a black belt and also raises baby chicks is totally a boy worth knowing.

  “Can I?” My fingers grip the handle to open the incubator but Hannah shakes her head.

  “No, my brother doesn’t like it when I open it. It’s sort of like popcorn. You can’t take the eggs off the heat or they won’t hatch. Wanna see my room?”

  “Oh, yeah, let’s smoke out the creep.” I swallow my lust for her older brother.

  Hannah’s into cutesy animals too. We cross the hall into Hello Kitty paradise.

  After a second I realize, however, that all of the images have been—adapted. One pink kitty hefts a shotgun. Another a bloodied knife. Hair bows are replaced with skulls and crossbones and horns. Hello Kitty Freddy Krueger, Jason, Hannibal the Cannibal, these are very naughty kitties. For the first time, I begin to wonder if there’s more to Hannah than meets the eye. I even begin to wonder if she can take care of her problem better than I can.

  “Do you
have any tape?” I ask.

  She frowns but produces a roll of masking tape from her desk. I tear off a piece and place it over her webcam.

  “What’s that for?”

  “Blocks the video feed.”

  “But it’s not on.”

  “And how do you know?”

  I’ve stumped her for a second but she recovers.

  “Because the light isn’t on,” Hannah says.

  “The light turns on when your computer tells it to. If someone controls your computer, then they also control that light as well as the camera.”

  “Oh, creepy.”

  “I know. Tape’s a low-tech solution.” I sit on her bed and haul my casted leg up on it so that the blood filling my foot can begin to redistribute. “Let’s get started. Show me what he’s sending you.”

  “I have a transcript.”

  I take the ream of paper and start reading.

  Hiya, Hannah, has anyone ever told you that your eyes are like liquid gold?

  I stare into hers and she blushes. “Well …”

  They look pretty much your typical brown. Instead of saying anything, I just continue reading.

  I bet people say you’re pudgy, right? You know some guys think that’s beautiful? I think you’re beautiful. Send me another pic? Please?

  “These are texts?”

  She nods.

  You’re pretty daring, Hannah, I’m embarrassed to say this, but I think I’m falling for you.

  That’s about all I can handle without hurling for so many reasons.

  “I just want it to stop. If I don’t reply, he just keeps sending me messages until I do.”

  “All right, I want everything, every communication you’ve had from him.”