The Hacker Who Became No One

by A J Jameson

  The face on the computer screen had arched, furry caterpillar eyebrows and black marbles that dotted the whites of their eyes. Axel had seen the expression before. Had studied it. The quality of a person with a desire to…

  “Do you need an additional indicator?” Little Eye asked.

  Axel knuckled the dryness from his eyes. “Yes. But watch the news and inform me of anything important, please,” he said, and turned off the monitor displaying the day’s daily reports.

  “Sure,” Little Eye said.

  Axel scrutinized the face. Uplifted eyebrows, big white eyes…going, leaving, wanting. Wanting! “Wanting,” Axel exclaimed.

  “Be patient, Axel, I haven’t changed the picture yet.”

  Axel counted the beats of his heart. One, two, three, four, five, six, seven, eight, nine—the mouth changed. It had been closed before. Flat-lined, like a dead person. But now it was opening. Swelling. Gasping. Panic, maybe? Or pleasure. Some people opened their mouths when they felt pleasure. Thick, raised eyebrows. They were thick, weren’t they?

  Axel opened his computer’s webcam. He zoomed-in on himself and inspected his eyebrows. The individual fibers were thinner than those on the simulated face, but each eyebrow overall was thicker. Not to mention the contrast in color. Mine are blonder…well, he did have blond hair, after all. Blonder, and thicker! Was the simulation a man?

  “Axel?” Little Eye prompted.

  “Pleasure!” Axel exclaimed. “Or satisfaction.”

  “Wrong. The facial expression depicts a person with feelings of apprehension. Brows arched in concern. Eyes and pupils dilated. Mouth gasping with anticipation.”

  Axel smacked his keyboard. The webcam monitor zoomed-out from Axel’s eyebrows to frame his entire face.

  “What expression do you see?” Little Eye asked.

  “A failure.”

  “The look of a failure is subjective,” Little Eye said. “What common features can you notice in yourself that you would also notice in anybody else if they were feeling the same way you do now?”

  “Pissed off,” Axel said. Then, “Anger.”

  “Are you angry?”

  “Frustrated.”

  “And what do you see?”

  Axel pulled his attention away from the keyboard (no noticeable damage) and glared at the man with soft features looking back at him. He had long blond hair, pulled up in a bun, and a neck thick as a garden hose.

  “What do you see?” Little Eye asked again.

  “A person with a weak voice.”

  “What are you missing? What helps to strengthen your voice, by analyzing the voices of others?”

  “It doesn’t strengthen anything. It’s just a piece of technology that helps me understand intentions.”

  “And what is my intention, right now?”

  “To be persuasive,” Axel said.

  Little Eye remained silent, and she did so for good reason. He had done it. He had finally done it! “I just deciphered your intention,” he said. “Without the Mood Interpreter.”

  “Very well done, Axel.”

  “Ha.”

  The webcam feed scrambled its pixels, Axel’s face morphing into a news reporter posted in front of a police barricade. The woman held a microphone, her posture hunched, and made a great effort to remain stone-faced as she spoke.

  “…two officers killed, and a confirmed eleven bystanders injured following the second explosion…” The camera panned to show a large portion of the city street, about half a block, caved in. It was the bomb Axel had failed to anticipate.

  The reporter stepped back into frame. “The suspected terrorist attack is under federal investigation, though some experts believe it was a deal gone bad. Authorities still urge people living in the city to stay vigilant and report any suspicious activity.”

  “In other news,” a different reporter sitting at a desk began, his features just as flat as the woman before him, “the serial murderer known as Banshee has struck again. A mother and father slain in their own home, Banshee’s signature puncture wounds found encircling the necks of both victims. They are survived by their six-year-old son, a boy emaciated and showing evidence of past physical abuse on his ribs and other parts of his body. Anyone with information regarding the killer is urged to call our hotline at—”

  The screen fell black. Axel stood up and approached his device bench. Laid upon it were his Mood Interpreter, a gadget that wrapped around his ear like a hearing aid and deciphered the intentions of others; his metal-detecting eyeglasses, their X-ray lenses able to reveal metal objects within close proximity; and his cell-sweeper, a tic-tac sized device that plugged into the charger jack of a cell phone and relayed all personal information within seconds.

  Axel picked up the Mood Interpreter and placed it in his ear. “What do you think about this Banshee person?”

  “Hmm. I guess I don’t think about him, and besides, you have a lot on your plate as it is,” Little Eye said.

  The MI whispered its analysis. Hesitation. Partial dishonesty.

  Axel went back to his computer desk, the three screens displaying their defaults: facial simulator on the left-wing, black screen for the middle, and Axel’s “should-do” list on the right-wing.

  “I warned you of the potential consequences of directly contacting the Cyber Conflict Control Unit,” Little Eye said.

  “The chances of them tracking my signal is one in a million, literally,” Axel said.

  He considered his should-do list. #1 stated that ‘Life is Good (as in a good thing; not quality),’ and that was all the information he needed to condemn Banshee.

  “I am aware of that,” Little Eye said, “but I tracked you.”

  “Well, that makes you the one and them the other nine hundred and ninety-nine thousand, nine hundred and ninety-nine.”

  Banshee wasn’t interested in saving lives. He killed, serial killed, for sport. Or was it a vendetta? The ambiguity frustrated Axel whenever he tried to interpret the fate of Banshee; or tried to understand why Banshee chose such a harsh fate to bestow upon others.

  “If you’re weighing the potential to track down this Banshee character, the answer is no,” Little Eye said.

  Axel glanced at the webcam. It was off. He then gazed at the security camera installed over his front door, just above the hamster tubing. Little Eye was always watching, but how did she know his every thought?

  “You were staring at the should-do list,” she said, reading his mind once again. “That’s your pattern for deciding on whether or not to attack a new target.”

  “Stop that,” Axel said, unsure of his own intentions.

  If she could read his thoughts through a camera, then there was no reason he shouldn’t be able to interpret the facial features of the people around him.

  Sitting at his computer again, his MI turned off, Axel started a bar conversation simulation. A man with a crewcut and well-attended facial hair appeared on the screen. A smile turning his lips, eyes slightly squinted (sincerity?), he offered Axel a drink.

  Except Axel didn’t drink (and he couldn’t, not legally), but more importantly, he didn’t accept gifts from terrorists. “No, I can’t, and won’t. Not with a terrorist, even if I could,” he said.

  The man recoiled, his eyes wide and eyebrows arching…apprehension? And then the man turned away, no longer interested in anything Axel had to say.

  “So…” Little Eye prompted.

  “I picked up sincerity, but then recognized him from the intelligence photos of the terrorists we’d recently tracked. His name is Ren, their computer technician. Dead technician.” Axel considered the news reporter from earlier. She failed to mention Ren’s demise at the hands of C3U.

  “Not Ren,” Little Eye said. “But a man with similar features. A weakness of yours we need to work on.”

  “Facial recognition?” Axel asked.

  “Facial relevance. Creating links between two people of similar physical features. Or applying the actions and intentions of
one onto another.”

  Axel consulted his should-do list. ‘Raise pitch at end of a sentence to indicate a question,’ ‘Laugh at jokes (people sometimes joke when they smirk and their eyes squint)’…

  A joke? “He was making a joke?” Axel asked.

  “No, Axel, he was simply greeting you. Do you now understand why it is imperative that you keep your MI active at all times?”

  “No,” he said, but switched on the MI, anyway. An alarm sounded in the room. “CPU, report cause for alarm.”

  “Incoming call,” Little Eye clarified.

  Axel checked his watch. Mom.

  “Before you answer, I’ll need more funds,” Little Eye said.

  “More funds? I just gave you money last week.”

  “Gave me, no. Afforded me, yes. Must I remind you before every transaction that you cannot give away money that wasn’t yours to begin with?”

  Axel’s MI whispered, Irritation. “I don’t mean to irritate you, Little Eye.” Then, after tapping the answer button on his watch, “Can you hold one minute, Mom, I’m currently negotiating a sum of money to supply an associate. Hello?”

  A new face, a woman with golden hair and blue eyes, emerged on the simulator screen. “Call has been dropped,” she said. “Would you like a glass of tea?”

  Invitational. Genuine. “I will, thank you,” Axel responded.

  “I dropped the call,” Little Eye said, the face with golden hair and blue eyes blurring and fading into nothingness.

  “Why would you drop the call?”

  “I told you to never mention my existence to anyone. Do not refer to me as friend, associate, colleague, Little Eye, or any other noun, pronoun, or proper name. Do you understand me?”

  Humorless. Deliberate. Truthful. “Oh yeah, you did tell me that before, and I apologize for transgressing.”

  “Incoming call,” Little Eye said.

  Axel looked at his watch and accepted. “Hi, Mom. Sorry for hanging up on you, I’ve just been really busy at work. I spend more hours on the clock than off.”

  “I forgive you,” she said, her voice full, confident. “I remember a time not too long ago when your father worked ten hours a day, six days a week. He’d come home, shower, eat, sleep, repeat.”

  “I remember, too,” Axel said, envisioning his mother getting off work and rushing through the chores of cleaning herself up, preparing dinner and setting the table, all in time for when Dad came home. Axel was often enlisted to assist and had about twenty-five recipes memorized by the time he was twelve. “Sundays were always the best. Sitting around, doing nothing, and ordering takeout. Except that one Sunday in the third week of March when we ordered chicken parmesan and they overcooked the chicken, turning it into a brick.”

  Laughter bubbled over the line. “I’m surprised you remember that.”

  “Dad threw the entire plate at the wall and stained the white paint red,” Axel said.

  The memory bolstered his mom’s chuckles into bellows of nostalgia. “That’s right,” she said between breaths, “those stains never came out and he had to paint the wall before we moved…”

  “And he used the wrong shade of paint and had to repaint the entire room.”

  Axel waited for his mother to recompose herself, cracking a smile of his own when his MI relayed, Delighted and Cheerful. “I’m glad you’re happy, Mom.”

  “Thanks for that, Axel,” she said. “And yes, I’m happy. Although, I wish I detected more happiness in your own voice. Is there anything you want to talk about? Or anything you need?”

  “I need fifty-millimeter by thirty-four millimeter, bulletproof and shatter proof glass lenses with a depth of at least six millimeters. Also, do you think I’d fare better with a nine-millimeter pistol, or a forty-five?”

  “Axel…” Little Eye said.

  “Yes?”

  “I’ve muted the conversation with your mother. She’s growing worrisome that the connection was lost. DO NOT mention weaponry or technological gadgets of any kind when I unmute you, okay? Tell her that you don’t need anything, you’re fine.”

  “Hello? Axel?”

  “Yes, Mom, I’m here. I’ve changed phone providers and cheaper isn’t always better. I do not need anything, thank you.”

  “Oh, okay,” she said.

  Startled. Glum.

  “Thanks for the talk, Axel. And if you ever feel like stopping by…” Her voice drifted off for a moment. “Here’s your father.”

  The line switched hands. Axel consulted his should-do list, number three reading ‘Laugh at Jokes (people sometimes joke when they smirk and their eyes squint).’ How will I know? Axel wondered.

  “Hey, Son. Your mother tells me they got you working overtime.” A chuckle. Axel forced himself to giggle along. “Back when you lived with us I couldn’t get you to mow the damn grass, let alone work overtime.”

  Sarcasm. Bitterness. “Sorry to displease you, Dad,” Axel said.

  “No, don’t be sorry over something that happened in the past, especially if you’re working these days. I’d rather you stick up for yourself, yell at me to take a fucking hike, or accuse me for exploiting children for unpaid labor like some of those yuppies infesting your city…” he trailed off.

  Axel missed the MI’s interpretation. His father certainly wasn’t making a joke. Stick up for yourself.

  “I’m working, and I like it,” Axel said. “My job is good for me and I’m good at it.”

  Dad cleared his throat. “I’m fine, Karen. Listen, Son, I’m glad you like your job. It’s just that I know what happens when, like you said, the job is a good fit and you’re good at it. I mean, you know what I’m getting at?”

  Dread. Despair.

  “What I mean is that we’d like to see you. We don’t see you much and you know I can’t drive out there with my damned temper. We have an extra room, it’s wide open country, and it’s slower, they tell me. Not as much overtime.”

  Axel opened his computer’s satellite database and typed in his parents’ coordinates. The results rendered a Lego-sized ranch house surrounded by trees on the left and a corn field (belonging to the neighbor) on the right. “The thought of southerners moving slower is actually attributed to the contrast of clustered populations living in urban areas. Less people mean less competition, which ultimately leads to less stress.”

  A pause.

  “Well, all right,” his father finally said. “The offer’s still on the table, whenever you feel like it.”

  The line cut out. The image of his parents’ house remained. Green grass, brown roads, and a red tomato garden in the back. It did look peaceful. Slower. Even the pepper-sized birds crossing the satellite’s eye drifted like winged slugs.

  “Axel…” Little Eye said.

  The image of the house disappeared. Axel opened his skimming program. “Give me a number.”

  “Twenty thousand,” Little Eye said.

  Axel entered her request, but he didn’t process it. The MI’s whisper had stopped him.

  Embarrassment, it had said.

  “It embarrasses you to ask me for money, Little Eye?” Axel asked.

  “It hurts me to see people get used.”

  “But you can’t see me,” he responded. “I mean, not the real me…the me sitting here in person.”

  “That’s where you’re wrong. I’m one of the few that sees you for who you really are.”

  “A hacker?” Axel asked.

  But she didn’t answer. All would be quiet if Tiny Feet weren’t pitter-pattering through one of the hamster tunnels overhead. Axel processed the money transfer.

  “Thank you, Axel.” Appreciation.

  “Focus on C3U,” Axel said. “Forget about Banshee. Well, don’t forget about him. He takes lives and life is good, which makes him bad. But C3U takes more lives…”

  “And that makes C3U worse,” Little Eye agreed. Dishonesty.

  “Yes. Anticipate their next target and fill me in tomorrow. I’m signing off.”

  �
�Okay, goodbye.”

  Axel displayed the news channel center-screen. After an hour of listening to a missing person’s description, the location of a multi-vehicle accident on the highway, a corporate CEO’s methodology in a money funneling scheme, and the dwindling numbers of a wild species now placed on the endangered list, a reiteration of Banshee’s brutal murders and the number to call with any information regarding the killer’s whereabouts finally aired.

  Axel noted the killer’s signature puncture wounds that encircled the victim’s neck. To stifle the screams? he wondered. He then hacked into the local police database, searching for any relevant cases.

  C3U was dangerous, sure. But something about these killings—the sickly child survivor— just didn’t add up. And Axel wanted to get out of the house and into the action…like those in C3U, he realized. And if his gathered intelligence was correct, they preferred nine-millimeters over forty-fives.

  Yeah, he’d get himself a nine and track down this Banshee person. If only to question the killer’s morals on life.

  Chapter 3

  Eduardo carved another slice of watermelon fruit cake, topped with strawberries and pineapples, and handed it down the line of operatives seated at the long table.

  “Why don’t you let Zyta cut the cake?” Ivan asked. His jeans and blue T-shirt looked bizarre without the daily addition of a wig or facial prosthetics. “I mean, it’s her birthday, after all.”

  “Oh no, please, continue Eduardo,” Zyta replied, her eyes hidden behind loose bangs.

  Eduardo sliced the last piece and passed it into rotation, the triangular slabs of red melon jumping hands from Bravo Squad, to Alpha, Delta, Charlie, and lastly, C3U’s leader, Lawrence. He wore a gray suit minus the tie and jacket. Clanging his fork against his plate, he commanded everyone’s attention.

  “Zyta, it’s been my honor to have watched you grow over the years at C3U. From being the most proficient at reading body language, to breaking and holding obstacle course records in our vehicle test range, and becoming an expert in all things medical and prodigy to our head of the medical center, not only do you contribute vastly to our cause and organization, but you are one of the most pleasant people I have ever been around. I am proud to call you my family.”