by JT Kalnay
“Why’s that?” Tim asked.
“I’ve had some weird telephone bills and some strange network logs at work. The sysadmin thinks someone stole my passwords by looking through my window at work.”
“What have you done about it?” Tim asked.
“What do you mean?”
“I mean did you put a network sniffer on your system to see where the load was coming from? Did you run a watchdog program to see if there were any processes running that you didn’t start? Did you reformat your hard disk and re-install all your software from shrink-wrapped read-only media? Do you physically disconnect your machines from their network connections or phone lines when you’re not using them? Did you look for spy ware, run any spy bots, anything? I mean, what have you done about it?” Tim asked.
“Uh. Actually, nothing, I guess,” Craig answered.
“So then what do you me to do about it?” Tim asked sharply. He inched forward, shrugged his shoulders in dismissal and sat forward on the edge of his chair. His angry face reflected in the mirror that ran the length of the bar.
“I don’t want you to do anything,” Craig said. He wondered from where this sudden hostility had arisen. He took a hit on his beer and wrinkled his eyebrows. The two men sat quietly for a few awkward minutes, Craig staring into nothing, Tim watching him in the mirror.
“You know Craig, for a smart guy, there’s some things you aren’t very smart about,” Tim started. He extended a finger and poked Craig in the shoulder.
Craig took another hit on his beer and waited for the rest.
“I mean, would you go down to the docks and bang a hooker and not use any protection? I don’t think so. But you’ll log onto the net and play video games all day, or you’ll send email half way round the world to, where is it, Turkey? And yet you don’t even think about doing anything about protection. One time I was complaining to my dad, may he rest in peace, about having to spend a hundred bucks to get my car towed and have the battery cables replaced because they had gotten so corroded they fell apart. You know what he told me?”
“What?” Craig asked.
“He said ‘tough’. No sympathy, no understanding. Just ‘tough, it’s your own damn fault.’ He told me if I’d checked my cables and put one of those little green felt washers on the terminals nothing would have happened. So if you’ve got computer problems from unprotected surfing, then I’m sorry, but I’ve got no sympathy for you. It sounds harsh, but it’s your own damn fault. Now if you want to talk about something interesting, like that source code or your pretty mountain climber girlfriend or something, I’ll talk about it with you. But forget about regaling me with the woes of the cyber infected.”
“Fine,” Craig said shortly. He sat back on his stool and folded his arms. “I guess I won’t bring that subject up again,” he said.
“If you protected yourself right it would never have happened in the first place,” Tim answered, simply unable to let it go. He raised and drained half his Utica Club.
“Hey Tim. Ease up on the kid okay?” the barkeep said.
“Sure.”
A few uneasy moments passed between the two. Eventually Craig cracked.
“So how should I protect myself?” Craig asked.
“I’ve got a really good book on it,” Tim answered. “I’ll bring it in and leave it here at the bar. You can borrow it, but I want it back,” Tim said. “I’m going to be out of town for a few weeks.”
“Thanks,” Craig answered. Craig picked up his beer and finished it in one pull. Still holding the mug he pushed away from the deeply lacquered bar, and dropped a twenty into the ring left on the scarred surface. “Keep it,” Craig said.
#
“Jesus Tim. Think you were hard enough on the kid?” the barkeep asked.
“Yeah. Yeah. I know.”
“Like you always say, it’s not your fault if they don’t look after themselves.”
Chapter
April 15, 1994
San Francisco, California
A million stars danced in the nighttime California sky, framed by the skylight in Craig’s home office. Supertramp drifted lazily from the CD player on his side table. Craig heard the gentle but tired footsteps of Stacey in the living room.
“Are you going to work on that code all night?” she called from the other room.
“No. I’ll be there in a minute,” Craig answered.
“Okay. Not too much longer,” she said.
Craig turned back to the code. He leaned in close to the terminal and put his finger on the screen. A large greasy finger print remained where he lifted his finger. A look of consternation rode his moonlit face.
“Craig?” Stacey asked from behind him.
“Yeah?” Craig answered without turning.
“Craig?” she asked again.
“Yeah what is it? I’m right in the middle of …” he started, and then he stopped in mid-sentence. His mouth fell open an inch, then he swallowed hard. Stacey was standing with her back to the wall of his office. She had one long leg bent at the knee with her bare foot pressed back against the moon-drenched wall. She was wearing her most diaphanous nightgown, which concealed nothing and focused all thoughts. He swallowed again. His eyes traveled up and down her body. The sheath clung to her firm breasts, which strained against the light fabric.
“Are you going to work all night?” she asked in a pouty little voice.
“No,” Craig said. He got up from the chair and crossed the room in a heartbeat. He put his palms against the wall and slowly leaned in to kiss her. He pressed himself lightly against her.
“Oh my God,” Craig breathed. He felt himself rising against her. Then Stacey was unbuttoning his 501s. She took him in her hand, then whispered in his ear.
“I’m going to bed now,” she said.
“Me too,” Craig replied.
“What about your game?” she asked, pointing to the workstation.
He tripped the on/off button on the power strip on the floor and gathered her up into his arms, kissing her all the way to the bedroom. “What game?” he asked.
#
The two young lovers lay still in the quiet moments after their lovemaking, spooned loosely together. Stacey’s fingers traced a pattern on Craig’s forearm.
“Since we got back from Colorado it seems like you’ve been spending more time with that code than with me,” Stacey said. “Is everything okay with us?”
“Yes.”
“Are you sure?”
“More than sure. I’ve never loved you more.”
“And you’ve been spending a lot of time at the bar too,” Stacey said.
“Sorry.”
“Are you really sure you still love me?”
Craig could not believe what he’d just heard. Not once in the two years he’d known her had he seen such a moment of weakness. His mind began racing, wondering what, if anything could bring his girlfriend, his lover, his best friend, to make such an out of character statement.
“Craig?” she asked.
“Yes I still love you,” he said softly. “And after going up high with you in Colorado, seeing you there, in that place, where you were more you than any other time I’ve ever seen you, I love you even more. I know that I’m loving more of you all the time. Every time I find out something new about you, like I did on that mountain, I love you more.”
Stacey spooned herself in tighter and gently drifted off to sleep.
Chapter
April 23, 1994
San Francisco, California and Ancirik, Turkey
Craig cracked his knuckles over the keyboard of his Sun workstation. Loud pops echoed around the gray room. Chill evening air drifted down through the skylight that Craig had teased open.
“I have been looking forward to this game with Jack all week,” Craig said. He typed a few quick commands.
Stacey fixed an earring while looking over his shoulder. “Yes you have. You’ve been very good lately. So have fun,” she said. She pecked him on the c
heek, brushed away a lingering lip stick mark and stepped to the door.
“What are you going to do?” Craig asked. “I don’t think you can go running in that outfit.”
“You know what I’m doing. I told you yesterday. I’m going out with my girlfriends, who I have pretty much abandoned since I moved in here with you.”
“Ladies night?” Craig asked, without looking away from the computer.
“Right on babe. I’ll be home around one or two, unless I get lucky,” Stacey teased.
Craig got up and walked over to her. “You are the most amazing woman in the entire world,” Craig said. “I am so lucky to have you.”
“Oh yeah?” Stacey asked coyly.
“Yes. You are beautiful, and smart, and hot, and good in…”
“Craig! Just go play your game. I’ll see you later.”
“Alright. Bye. I love you.”
“You do?” Stacey asked.
“Yes.”
“Are you sure?” she asked.
“Sure.”
“More than anything or anyone?”
“Even more than that,” Craig answered.
“Okay then. Bye,” she said as she left the room.
Craig’s eyes followed her as she went, then slowly drifted back to his computer. “So let’s see if Jack is ready over there in Turkey.” Craig started up a network browsing session to find who amongst his buddies were logged on. In a minute the list was displayed on his screen, with blinking links. “Alright. He’s on. So let the games begin,” Craig said.
Within minutes Craig had a network version of the game poised to launch that included three friends, one of them a first timer, set to play along. “Jack? What machine are you on tonight? It seems slower than usual,” Craig typed on his keyboard.
“I’m on the maintenance machine,” Jack replied from Turkey.
“What’s up with that?” Craig asked.
“The good stuff is getting set for some mission tomorrow, so I can’t get at it for another two or three hours.”
“Okay. We’ll make my machine the master alright?”
“Go ahead.”
Craig immediately began reconfiguring the session. “Hey Jack. Since we have a Marauder newbie, why don’t you give him the beta on how we team up?”
“Sure. Here’s how we like to take on this bitch when we have more than two of us. You ever play dungeons and dragons? Or Diablo? Well that’s how we’re going to do it. One of us will be the leader, we take turns, and the others follow. We all take on different roles and try to maximize our character’s unique traits. Then, when we get into a life or death situation, we all try to focus our unique attribute to overcome the conflict. One time we almost killed the bitch. So follow our lead, keep your head down, and good luck.”
After all that, Craig disappeared into the computer. Images swam into his head. His fingers flew over the keyboard. As the sounds of the struggles exploded out of the system he ducked and dodged as though real cobwebs were reaching down his back, and as though real rats were crawling between his feet. After an hour and a half the party had been reduced to just Craig, but he had the Marauder cornered.
“So now it’s just you and me,” Craig typed.
SO IT IS.
“This time it will be different,” Craig entered.
DOUBT IT.
“I don’t.”
WHAT MAKES YOU THINK YOU HAVE A CHANCE?
“Because I’ve changed, but you haven’t”
HOW DO YOU KNOW THAT?
“Because I’m tracing your threads. I have your code profiled and I know how you think.”
SO?
“So I know how you cheat. And when you start a new thread, I’m going to stay with the old thread, and kill your spawning process. And you’ll die too.”
YOU THINK I CHEAT?
“Yes.”
YOU THINK THERE ARE RULES TO ALL THIS?
“Yes.”
THIS GROWS TIRESOME.
A hand grenade floated out of the darkness. Stone chips exploded out of the walls of the underground passageway in which Craig had cornered the Marauder. Another blast followed. Craig’s character was hit in the chest and thrown backwards against the wall. Blood poured out of the dozens of gaping, ragged holes in his chest. A shadow emerged out of the darkness at the end of the hallway.
AND JUST WHEN WE WERE GETTING TO KNOW EACH OTHER.
“Holy shit,” Craig typed in the chat window he had opened to his friend Jack.
“Holy shit indeed,” Jack replied. “What just happened?”
“I got smoked.”
“I noticed. But it’s never done that before,” Jack entered.
“I know! It’s never just come right out and wasted anybody. Not its style. Usually you end up killing yourself somehow,” Craig entered.
“It said the game grew tiresome,” Jack typed. “What was that all about?”
“I don’t know. It said that right after I accused it of cheating.”
“Craig. That is way too weird. I know it’s impossible, but I swear that thing has a team of psychic super humans at the other end. And they are always just one step ahead of us. And you, my friend, pissed them off.”
“Want to try that method again?” Craig asked.
“Sure. But not right now. The sun is coming up over here and I’ve got to get to work.”
“Okay. Next week. See you man.” Craig closed out his chat window. He sat pondering the ravaged corpse on the screen in front of him. “I have never seen it go ballistic like that before,” Craig said to himself. He tilted his head to one side in concentration.
Later, Craig looked towards a noise at the front door. It sounded like Stacey fumbling with her keys.
Craig laid down the phone and went to the front door. He looked through the peephole and saw it was Stacey. He opened the door and she practically fell into his arms.
“Stacey? How did you get home?” Craig asked. A taxi tooted from the curb and sped off.
“Friends got me a taxi,” Stacey slurred.
“Let me get you to bed,” Craig said.
“I was hoping you’d say that,” Stacey said.
“I’ll bet you were.”
“You’ll never guess who I saw at the club,” Stacey said.
“Mikey? The guy with the crush on you?”
“Nope.”
“Who?”
“Guess again,” Stacey demanded.
“Arnold Schwarzenegger?” Craig guessed.
“Nope.”
“Who?”
“Stan.”
“Stan who?”
“Stan. The Fish. The Walrus. Stan Maxwell. You know, our boss?”
“Really? What was he doing there?” Craig asked.
“You mean asides from getting wasted and trying to get laid like everybody else there?” Stacey asked.
“Not like everyone else I hope,” Craig said.
“I dunno,” Stacey said, she leaned into him.
“Nice,” Craig said.
“And he was really drunk. Worse than at work. And he said something really weird to me. Like where’s your husband, and how’s the old ball and chain, and how I’ll be happier soon, and everything.”
“Weird.”
“Very weird.”
Then Stacey stepped out of his arms and started towards the bedroom. By the time she had crossed the deeply carpeted living room she was half naked. She stood in the doorway to the bedroom and looked over her bare shoulder at him.
“Get in here,” she ordered.
Chapter
April 24, 1994
San Francisco, California
The two lovers heard the newspaper flop against the front door and watched the paper girl ride down the street on her BMX bike. Stacey slowly rose and retrieved the paper. When she got back to the kitchen, she spread the newspaper on the table. Her bloodshot eyes opened wide.
Stacey put down her muffin and looked at Craig. “Craig? Don’t you know somebody that works for the Air Forc
e in Turkey?” she asked slowly with her hangover-thickened tongue.
“You know I do. You know him too. Remember Jack? Who loved you from afar for so long he missed out? We hooked up playing Marauder last night and played for a few hours before you got home. And this is weird. This morning, when I got up to go running, my machine was still connected to his in Turkey. I was sure I logged off. That’s the second time that’s happened. Remember that big phone bill we got? I hope we’re not going to get another. I don’t know how I could have forgot to log off.”
“I do,” Stacey said. You were so anxious to get me you forgot and left it logged on,” Stacey teased.
“Very possible,” Craig answered, a smarmy grin spreading across his muffin crumbed lips.
“Anyway. That guy you know is in Ancirik right?” Stacey said.
“Yeah,” Craig answered.
“And you were playing with him last night?” she asked.
“Yes,” Craig answered a little more slowly.
“You have got to read this,” Stacey said, sliding the paper his way. Craig took the paper and began reading.
April 24, 1994
Ancirik, Turkey
Assembled From Wire News Reports
Two U.S. Air Force Blackhawk helicopters were shot down by missiles fired from two Turkish Air Force F-15s patrolling the no-fly zone over northern Iraq today. Twelve airmen were killed. There were no survivors. Air Force officials explained that an AWACS plane vectored fighters to intercept the helicopters when IFF (Identify Friend or Foe), radar and radio failed to identify the helicopters. Air Force officials refused to confirm or deny reports that the helicopters had not filed a flight plan. The flight recorders have not yet been recovered since the helicopters went down inside Iraqi territory. Iraqi officials are on the scene and are refusing access to “American aggressors.” The State department confirms that negotiations are underway with Iraqi diplomats concerning the return of the downed Airmen.
“What’s Jack do over there? He’s not a pilot is he?” Stacey asked.
“No. He’s a civilian contractor for the Air Force. He’s called a ground service engineer. Whatever that is,” Craig said.
“I hope he didn’t ground service any of that stuff,” Stacey said.
