Consequence

by Steve Masover

  CHRIS: Yes. I have open-source software that does all that. So … if we’re done, I wonder if it would pay to ask when I might see this document distributed.

  CHAGALL: Not a dime.

  CHRIS: I’ll assume, however, if not used within—what, six months?—that you have aborted and I am free to recreate for other purposes.

  CHAGALL: Do not keep a copy. You’ll see it on the wire soon enough.

  CHRIS: Several cycles back I proposed a public mode of handoff. Safer for me. Post in an obscure public venue, you “find it” and republish. Weakens any possible inference that we had contact.

  CHAGALL: We discussed on our side. Though we recognize this would be safer for you, we need a fresh communiqué to put action on media map with proper gravitas. Your work is very strong. We do not want to dilute it.

  CHRIS: Did not expect to have to make this decision today. Give me a week to consider?

  CHAGALL: Three days? Gives time for e-mail exchange within one week frame.

  CHRIS: I can live with that. I’ll mail to next address in cycle.

  CHAGALL: We ask you to consider contact to-date. The care with which we have conducted all communication. On completion of this last exchange, we will purge all evidence.

  CHRIS: Understood. Your competence is not an issue.

  CHAGALL: Unless you insist on posting early, I will not respond to your final e-mail.

  CHRIS: I’ll try not to feel jilted.

  CHAGALL: Nothing personal, just the nature of the game. Many thanks. You will see your work put to good use. Over and out.

  That was it.

  Christopher sat alone in chatspace. Oddly enough, despite his intended sarcasm, the exchange did feel a bit like being unceremoniously dumped. Twice in ten days if Suvali’s actions spoke more truthfully than her words.

  He contemplated the possibility that Chagall’s plans might be thwarted. It would be impossible to reconstitute the manifesto from memory. And it was good, perhaps the best argument he’d ever written. He didn’t want to lose it.

  Christopher hugged the perimeter walls as he scuttled to the opposite corner of the building. Like a rat, he thought, striking out for the stairway.

  If his screed was disseminated as Chagall promised, he could easily destroy a secretly saved copy. And until Chagall and his comrades broadcast it, possession of the text tied Christopher to nothing and no one. Industrial-strength security had been enough to protect the document as they shot it back and forth over the internet. What harm, he reasoned, could come of holding an encrypted draft in reserve?

  Whether to post early—that was a harder question.

  Christopher didn’t feel confident about setting up anonymous publication on his own. He needed Chagall’s advice to be sure the plant would be truly untraceable. And if the saboteur’s action was imminent, posting in advance could look to police like a coordinated handoff. That would draw more scrutiny his way, not less.

  He resolved to sleep on it. There were still a few days to decide.

  TWENTY-ONE

  The apple-cheeked cashier snickered through a tangle of piercings. “On Aleister Crowley’s warts, I swear: meek little Lady Nodsalot in a balls-out pillow fight.”

  Buzz shook his head knowingly as Casey pushed off the record store counter and crouched to adjust the sound system’s equalizer. When he stood again, stretching, Buzz looked away from the androgynous boi’s pectoral swell. “Must have been a fucking scene,” he said.

  “Puppy fucker!” Casey squealed, lunging with a phantom pillow. “You’re a dirty goddamn puppy fucker!” The CD player paused to shuffle discs. “I feel sorry for her. She’s what, fifteen? She ain’t tough enough to be on her own out there.”

  “It’s the shits,” Buzz said, but his voice conveyed little sympathy. He craned around to check on Jonah, still tapping rhythms on the edge of a listening station. His eyes were closed, his face innocent and rapt.

  “Your pal likes those Indian tunes.”

  “Yeah. Go figure.” Buzz made a bevel of his thumb and index finger and gave a shattering whistle. Jonah looked up and Buzz gestured impatiently.

  “At least he’s not a Deadhead.”

  “It’s like—what do they call that shit? Like when spliff leads to smack?”

  Casey snickered. “Yeah, ain’t it? A gateway drug.”

  Jonah shed his headphones. “What are you guys talking about?”

  “How fucked up it’d be if you turned into a Deadhead.”

  “No way, dude.” Jonah sauntered over and set a Chatur Lal CD on the counter. “Can you guys hold this?”

  “Two bucks deposit, I can hold up to five days,” Casey said, tapping a painted fingernail on a sign stuck to the register. “Store policy. You miss the deadline, Fungible Beats keeps the deuce.”

  Jonah frowned. “Nah,” he said, reaching for the disc. “Guess I better put it back.”

  “Give it here,” Casey said, relenting. “I’ll put it in the play pile. If I’m not around when you come back, say you heard it on the sound system.”

  “Thanks, man.”

  “S’cool.”

  The boys slouched toward Haight Street. “Hey,” Casey called as they pushed through the door. “Look out for them puppy fuckers.”

  Buzz threw him a sign from the other side of the glass.

  “What’s Puppy Fuckers?” Jonah asked. “Some new band?”

  “Some band,” Buzz guffawed. “That’s good, man.”

  “So what was he talking about?”

  “Dude dumped this homeless chick and got a dog, so she lost it. Started beatin’ him with a pillow and calling him a puppy fucker.”

  Jonah snorted. “Bad visual.”

  “That’s no lie.”

  A sleepy-looking teenager stirred in his bedroll on the sidewalk. “Dude,” he called out as they passed. “Yo, Buzz!”

  Both of them wheeled around. “Yo, Jaggery.” Buzz bumped fists with the fuzz-bearded street dweller. “Didn’t see you under all that shit.”

  “Cops kicked everybody off the sidewalks last night, man.”

  “That sucks.”

  Jaggery squirmed his way into a sitting position. “Got a smoke, dude?”

  Buzz produced a cyan packet from the depths of his trench coat and sat cross-legged next to Jaggery’s backpack. The two busied themselves rolling cigarettes. “This here’s Jonah,” Buzz said, without looking up.

  “Hey.”

  “Hey.” Jonah propped himself against a parking meter.

  “Got fire?” Jaggery asked. He licked his rollie and twisted the ends. Buzz handed him a book of matches, then leaned in for a light off the one Jaggery struck.

  “Thanks, dude.”

  “S’cool.” Buzz stood. “You be around?”

  “Yeah, pretty much. Free meal at the church. But after that.”

  “Maybe I’ll catch you.”

  Jonah fell into step with Buzz. Turning onto Clayton they were hailed again, this time from the opposite corner.

  “Heeeeey, fellas, whassup?”

  Tyler Cole. Jonah didn’t need to look to recognize his treacly, TV-host voice. Tyler crossed over, flanked by two more of their schoolmates.

  Buzz leaned against the side of a building and embodied boredom.

  “Hey guys.” Jonah pitched his tone neutrally. He wasn’t friends with any of the three, especially. Nate Williams was in his science class. Everybody knew about Ethan Walrick’s ambition to make it on American Idol.

  “Whassup,” Ethan said, turning on his winningest smile.

  “Hey,” echoed Nate in a baritone deeper than his years. He cast his eyes downward.

  “Is that a joint?” Tyler asked.

  Buzz ignored him.

  “Cigarette,” Jonah said.

  “What a tragic shame.”

  “You guys want to smoke some weed?” Ethan asked. “We’re on our way over to the park.”

  Tyler shot him a withering look.

  “Whatever,” Buzz said, glancing i
n Jonah’s direction.

  Jonah shrugged.

  The boys scuffed their way across Oak Street and into Golden Gate Park’s narrow Panhandle, then screened themselves behind a cluster of trees. Nate and Jonah both hung back as Tyler lit up, toked deeply, and passed his spliff to Ethan. When his turn came, Buzz wolfed down the thick sweet smoke. After inhaling his fill he offered the twist to Nate, who refused it; then, for appearance’s sake, to Jonah; and finally back to Tyler. Tyler inspected the joint from all angles, as if mystified to see how far down it had burned.

  “What do you think of Ms. Sepko?” Jonah asked Nate in a low voice.

  “She’s pretty smart.” Nate shoved his hands deep into his pockets. “Not so much in physics, but okay in bio and chem.”

  “Like when you asked how gravity works in space and she didn’t know?”

  “Uh-huh.” Nate might have been blushing but dark skin masked his embarrassment. “It’s Einstein,” he said. “Space is curved by large masses, like planets and stars, so Newton’s equations can’t explain stuff.”

  “Dude,” Tyler said, “space is curved by excellent weed. You should try the shit.”

  Ethan laughed compliantly. Nate just clammed up.

  “Hey,” Tyler said, gesturing in Jonah’s direction. “How come you don’t get high? You straight edge or something?”

  “Just not into it,” Jonah mumbled.

  “Weird. Both you guys.”

  “Fuck off, Tyler,” Buzz said jovially as he passed the joint. “They ain’t weird, just different from you.”

  “Damn,” Tyler exclaimed. “Little Arjuna’s grown up to be a diversity consultant.” He spoke Buzz’s birth name in three disdainful syllables.

  A silence like slow motion fell over the group. Tyler took his hit and passed the dwindling roach to Ethan. Jonah looked at the ground.

  Buzz cleared his throat loudly, and hocked a slimy mass inches from Tyler’s Air Jordans. “Watch yourself, bitch.”

  “Speaking of bitches,” Tyler said, exhaling, “how’s your mom? Still shacked up with that ex-con—what’s his name?”

  “Shut up, Tyler.”

  “Vince. That’s it, big ol’ Vince, the brooding bully. What’s it like living with an ex-con, Arjuna? Ya’ think Vince is a booty bandit? He ever get all tripped out like he’s back in Soledad, come looking for your tender ass in the shower?”

  Jonah didn’t see Buzz move until Tyler was bent over double, gasping and retching into the mangy lawn. Then Buzz faced each of them in turn, staring down any inkling of challenge before it could form. He slipped something short and cylindrical into his coat. A siren sounded north of Fell Street.

  “We’re out of here,” Buzz said to Jonah. Tyler was struggling for breath. Everyone else stood frozen in place. “Now,” Buzz commanded.

  Jonah had to run to catch up. “Where are we going?”

  “Away.”

  “What the fuck happened?”

  “What the fuck happened is Tyler thought he had a free pass to play biggest-asshole-on-the-street.”

  “But—”

  “He was wrong.” Buzz looked over his shoulder and cut over to the north side of the park. Jonah scurried after. “It’s a long, boring story,” Buzz said finally, as they headed up Lyon. “Me and Tyler.”

  “That stuff he said … ?”

  “He don’t know shit. Me and him haven’t spoke three words at a time since fourth grade.”

  “That thing in your pocket—”

  “You didn’t see it.”

  Jonah took a moment to digest this. “Tyler’s not really hurt, right?”

  “Nah. Not this time.” When they came to Hayes, Buzz looked impatiently up and down the street. There wasn’t a bus in sight. “Up a couple more,” he said, half to himself. They kept walking north. “We can chill over on Polk Street.”

  Jonah followed uneasily. If Tyler were hurt … He thought better of asking anything more. If they were lucky, the 5-Fulton would come bearing down on the corner just as they did.

  TWENTY-TWO

  April 2004

  Romulus parks his van on a side street at the border of a modest commercial district. The night is dim and drizzly, ideal conditions for piggybacking off open networks: no one is watching what little there is to see.

  He is not looking forward to a chat with Chagall. Romulus has grown uneasy about how little the demolitionist explains. Need-to-know is a powerful argument under the circumstances, but at the same time it’s surreal to engage in only half of a project week after week. From early in the year they have prepared independently, overlapping solely to develop a political line that is now, in the eleventh hour, being drafted as a communiqué that neither of them controls. Their target date is three weeks away. Chagall continues to demand that Romulus deliver a brick-and-mortar contribution to their conspiracy, and time for hedging has run out. If he admits his physical bulk, his lack of stamina, his dread of capture, Romulus is certain he’ll lose the little influence Chagall still concedes.

  He smooths rough edges in the hoard of e-mail addresses amassed since midautumn. Like straightening a deck of cards, the simple, repetitive task calms him. Romulus has gathered tens of millions of addresses from spybots and crawlers and worms, from list merchants, from internet forums and social networking sites. At this stage he is winnowing out malformed data and expired domains, scrubbing administrative accounts, eliminating duplicates.

  As he scans console logs, a dialog pops up on the third monitor in the van’s array, silently blinking for attention.

  CHAGALL: Site visit successful. Documents you provided were accurate and useful.

  He reads, switches keyboards, and types.

  ROMULUS: Target is attainable?

  Only after he encrypts and sends does Romulus recognize he has fallen immediately into the tone his building slayer sets, terse and challenging. Chagall is a far more domineering partner than he sought or expected. A bully, almost. His skin crawls as Romulus anticipates his marching orders.

  CHAGALL: Its vulnerabilities can be exploited. What’s your status?

  ROMULUS: Distribution channel is on track. I’ve harvested 40M unique addresses so far. 50M possible by the time we send.

  CHAGALL: News sites?

  ROMULUS: Confident of only one on A-list, the domains are well protected. Success with two or three top targets would be a coup, as discussed. Splash and secondary coverage is the real goal. Hacked pages won’t last.

  CHAGALL: Right. Am ready to coordinate on-location task.

  Romulus bites his lip. Someone is approaching up the sidewalk. He can hear voices, male and female, and just ahead of them, the aluminum jangle of dog tags. They come to a halt beside the van.

  “C’mon, Tuxedo,” a man’s voice urges.

  “What’s he doing?”

  A female voice, younger, petulant, perhaps a teenage daughter. The dog growls, then erupts in a curt, menacing bark.

  “Enough, Tuxedo.”

  “Quiet, Tux!” the daughter commands. “I bet it’s a cat.”

  He doesn’t dare type. The dog sounds like a barrel-chested brute. Romulus imagines the animal’s jaws, and notices he is sweating copiously. It’s a matter of time until the beast smells his fear leaking from the van.

  CHAGALL: Problem?

  Finally the trio moves away down the sidewalk. The dog growls malicious regret. Romulus types.

  ROMULUS: Slight disturbance. All clear now.

  CHAGALL: Certain?

  ROMULUS: Yes. Let’s discuss manifesto next. Location task after.

  Romulus reaches for a roll of paper towels. He mops sweat from his forehead.

  CHAGALL: If you insist.

  ROMULUS: Again I question the wisdom of bringing in a third party. Religious undertone distracts from core message.

  CHAGALL: Writer has demonstrated openness to guidance. Draft is strong. Some religiosity meets intended audience on their own ground.

  ROMULUS: I need to know more about this invisible par
tner. To evaluate risk. I have concluded our writer is not one of the individuals I put forward. My suggestions would not have presented this “religiosity” problem.

  CHAGALL: I do not see it as a problem. I will not respond to speculation about writer identity. As before, if there are concerns we agree on, I will communicate direction. Risk is nil. Once text is acceptable the author is irrelevant. It is you who retains power to betray our agreement and send a message I have never seen. We’ve been over this ground endlessly. Let’s return to location task.

  Romulus shakes his head in the dim solitude of his van. Chagall thinks he’s stalling. Yet everything depends on the trustworthiness of each actor, on rigorous care to remain undetected. Romulus has a handle on the nature of the demolitionist he recruited himself. He has no clue whether or how the unknown writer might botch up their operation. Maybe it’s just as well that Chagall didn’t recruit his candidates. The risk—to all of them—is now on the saboteur alone. In any case, Romulus can’t turn Chagall a degree off course.

  ROMULUS: Go on.

  CHAGALL: Good. Overview first. Closed-circuit cameras monitor building entrances. UTP cables route to multiplexer in a basement utility room, from there to security desk in lobby. From security, repeater links to kiosk at periphery of construction site, where guard is currently stationed. Picture that?

  ROMULUS: Yes. Assume you need to divert signals?

  CHAGALL: Correct, on a single door. A device spliced into the circuit will record camera signal for a defined period. Device plays back recorded loop when remotely commanded.

  ROMULUS: I could produce such a device.

  CHAGALL: Producing such a device is not an on-site task. And it already exists. It only needs to be placed.

  Romulus feels a sudden urge to move his bowels. He clenches and types.

  ROMULUS: I’ve said before, I’m not a cat burglar.

  CHAGALL: Guard walks building perimeter, then through the facility itself several times per shift. When guard leaves the kiosk, intruder can approach unobserved. Intruder is off camera when flat against building. As guard returns to kiosk, intruder enters. Waits for next walkthrough to withdraw.

  ROMULUS: Are cameras recording?