 
## Flicking

### A Thriller About Pirating Movies

#### Lukas Oberhuber

© 2014 Lukas Oberhuber
> This book tells the story of the downloading of movies and the hackers that have changed the face of the Internet as well as the forces arrayed against their illegal activities. The details are accurate in every way, though names have been changed and incidents modified to protect the parties involved and streamline the narrative.

## Midnight

Federica sat upright, sheets tossed to the foot of the bed, heart thumping in her neck. Something strange. Noise? What _kind_ of noise? Did she hear someone in the living room? She should call out Babbo's name. No, too dangerous. She rolled her bare feet onto the wooden floor, threw on the tank top she'd pulled off during one of her earlier flops and scanned the room for a weapon.

She could picture Babbo and Mamma Casso, her parents, lying spread-eagled on their bed in the next room, the slow decline of middle age erased by sleep, their top sheet shoved to where tired feet could no longer push it.

For what felt like the last few hours, Federica had flipped and flopped, the breeze hardly touching her heat drenched body. Why hadn't her parents invested in an air conditioner? Then maybe she could have dropped off. Too bad they were used to the glowing heat. It was simple as that. All she had to do was listen to their deep breathing to prove it. She, however had become soft, needing chilly London weather to be able to doze off...

The sound of a truck provided distraction, motor running in the late dark before melting into the background of her mind. She could sense the heat still shimmering above the asphalt outside. A slatted blind rattled shut further down the tree-lined road.

Her thoughts wandered as she scratched the prickly backs of her knees, twisting to her other side. She seriously needed to get some rest. She squeezed her eyes shut. Too bad that first she had to find a way to stop thinking about things like whether she actually wanted the MBA she'd worked all last year for at LSE.

She wiped the swelter from her stomach, fingertips coming back wet. Maybe she should have stayed here in Milan.

The hours dragged. Federica had tried to find a position where her arm didn't get pins and needles from the weight of her head and her jaw wasn't mashed into a too solid pillow. She thought about year two. It wouldn't be that hard; she'd expected more, actually. She realized she had better not tell Babbo about any disappointment, though, or should she call him Hugo now that she was grown up? In any case, she had to make the loans worth it.

Her fingers found a tiny itch below the ribs. Annoying. Everything itchy. She flipped again, ending with her head hanging over the side of the bed. And Cieran. What about Cieran? Of course she loved him. They'd been together for a long time. But maybe she should keep away from _ragazzi_ , boys, even him. She pulled back and jammed her head into the pillow again. No more work for her brain, she ordered. The body needs sleep. _Grazie._

She tried one more technique. She loosened every muscle she could find, using the slow breathing technique from her yoga classes near Marylebone, until her whole body drooped, her mind slowed and cleared of thoughts. Sleep finally wrapped its arms around her. Silence.

It all seemed a long time ago. Now, with her heart beating hard in her chest she needed to focus. She stood frozen in her bedroom, the heat forgotten. Wait, another sound. She strained. There, again! Footsteps, and from the living room, not Babbo and Mamma. No one had passed her door, so it couldn't be them. Could it? Had her brother come home unexpectedly? Was Mamma wandering because she couldn't sleep? A night watchman (how could he get in?), a dog, a thief, a bird flown in the window? Grandmamma's ghost (not seriously), Babbo having a cigarette, the wind? A thief? It was a thief. He could be armed. Knife? Gun? A stick, fists, brass knuckles? No, knife. The thief had a knife.

She desperately needed a weapon. In the street-lit darkness, she spotted the clothes hook she used to hang blouses high up in the wardrobe. Not heavy, but if she swung hard...

A key scraped in the apartment's armored front door, most likely the first lock. How did the intruder get inside with the door still locked, she wondered? She'd better check. She tiptoed into the hall, squinting into her parent's room. Both still there. That proved it, something was very wrong.

"Wake up," she whispered, "there's someone in the apartment." She shook Babbo by the arm. Nothing. " _Cazzo,_ " she swore. Time was running out. She'd have to do this herself; she couldn't afford to make more noise.

She snuck back to her room. Because of a sharp turn in the hall, she couldn't see into the living room without going in. _Merda_ -shit, she thought. She had to calm down. She couldn't let her nerves screw up. She'd have to do what they taught in wilderness training: deep breath, deep breath. Her mind had to stay sharp, her adrenaline under control. It was probably some stupid drug fiend who wanted cash for the next fix. One whack and he'd run away.

But she couldn't convince herself. What if she ran out and smacked him while he was focused on the door? There was still another lock to open and clearly he was fumbling with the keys.

No, crossing the living room would take too long. He'd have too much time to turn. And then...

She waited, hiding behind the frame of her door, clothes hook poised. Silence, and so much of it. Nothing. Unbroken darkness. Her breathing rose in her ears like ocean waves crashing through the back of her throat. She tried to convince herself the fiend couldn't possibly hear her. The waves and rasping breaths were all in her mind. She had to keep focused, _basta_.

The walls scrolled towards her until she nearly screamed to end the silence. She'd almost given up, convinced herself all was clear, when a face poked into the room.

Without thinking, she swung, everything moving in slow motion. The hook traced a graceful looping arc. The face's eyes widened and the head began to turn away. Too late. The metal pole struck the bridge of the nose with a crack. Blood spurted into the dark room. The face, instead of screaming and disappearing as she expected, fell forward with a grunt, followed by a man's body, his cheek landing first with a crunch. Oh god, he had a gun, not a knife. A huge gun.

Shots echoed through the apartment in rapid succession. She couldn't tell quite where from. There must be more of them, she realized. She hid behind her door once more, clothes hook ready. Either she stopped them, or she and her parents would all be dead.

" _Chi siete?_ " her father shouted from the other room. " _Cosa volete?_ " She heard a spraying sound, followed by a high scream and heavy breathing. Babbo must have got the bastards with the pepper spray he kept by his bed. "NOOO!" her father screamed. It felt like hours, during which Federica forced herself to stay hidden. A rapid burst of gunfire snapped the word off. Federica choked back a screech. Where was help? Couldn't the neighbors hear? More shots. Oh god, Mamma?

Three blurs rushed into Federica's room. She swung the pole, muscles obeying fractions of a second late, leaving only the last head in her sights. A gloved hand shot out, freezing the clothes hook harmlessly in the air, halfway through its arc. A rifle butt punched into her stomach, knocking her to the ground.

" _Che cazzo sta succedendo?_ " she shouted, doubled over, arms and legs flailing, stomach burning.

He pointed a pistol at her chest. "What's she saying?"

One of the other men shrugged. He didn't know.

"What's going on? What have you guys done?" she heard an American voice yell from somewhere in the apartment. "What the fuck?"

"Who are you?" she screamed in English.

"Ah, you speak our language."

"Please, take our money. It's ok. We won't do anything." But the gunshots put doubt in her mind.

"What the hell is happening here?" the voice shouted again.

"We want only you," the black gloved man laughed harshly, leaning over and tearing at the thin fabric covering her breasts.

"Don't," Federica pleaded, her fists glancing off his arm.

"Look at him," the other man said, pointing at the body on the floor. The man turned, shaking his comrade.

Calm. She needed to keep her mind clear. Find a way to survive.

"This is not good," the man said, his face contorting.

"Hold your fire, goddamn it," the voice yelled, closer now. "We're here for the server."

She had one chance: get help. After all, they only wanted a server, whatever that was. Federica opened her lungs and screamed, nothing else existed, pure fear and anger. The sound echoed into the courtyard outside, shook the adjoining windows and first penetrated, then cut short the neighbors' dreams.

"Goddamnit! It's too fucking late now you morons," the voice shouted from the hall, "shut her up."

The gloved man stood up, turning back to Federica, and pointed his pistol. She would scream until every window in the place shattered if that's what it took, her back arching from the floor. The man's finger seemed to slip and slide over the trigger of the pistol, trying to hunt for a place to pull. It must be broken, or jammed, Federica thought. His gloves were probably too slippery to grip and now he couldn't pull. That would give her time to twist quickly, leaving him to shoot splinters into the floor.

A flash of light blinded her, chopping off her shriek. As her eyes adjusted to the darkness, she could see the men looking down at her. He missed, she thought. He fired and missed!

"Get the truck ready," she heard someone shouting from the hall, and moments later a large diesel motor gunned in the street.

She had to scream again. That would be the first thing to do. Afterwards, she'd twist quickly. Cieran would be impressed with how calmly she was handling herself. Ok, now she should scream. Now.

Somehow, her lungs would not breath in. Nothing.

"Got you, you bitch. Now you can't do any more harm to..." The man's words distorted into some language she'd never heard before. Why would he speak in gibberish? He knew she spoke English...

She tried to focus on what he was saying. Well, in fact it didn't matter, did it? First she would twist, before he could shoot again, then she would run. But her arms and legs wouldn't move. Nothing moved. Why? Wasn't this exactly the wrong moment for her strength to give out? Frustrating. There was definitely an explanation for this crap, but what could it be? What?

It came to her: she must be hit. That was why she couldn't move. Weird. Very very weird. Her arm tingled, went numb. Her lips tingled all over, the pin pricks spreading to her tongue. Her tongue went numb. What the hell was a _server_ she wondered, and why would they come here for that? Her vision felt like a filter had been thrown over it, contracting into a pinhole. After a few moments the pinhole disappeared as well.

She failed, Federica thought.. she had failed her family _._ Please, let them forgive her. Her thoughts faded away, first to a babble, then blank.

## Chatter

    IRC LOG: INTERCEPTED 12-SEPT 11:15 UTC

    Ruutor:     has anybody hear nothing
                about code?
    Nil8:       u mean cuz deep node 5 is
                down?
    Ruutor:     yup
    Nil8:       dunno. might be sleeping
                still. it's early. do you
                know where he's based?
    70mm:       east coast
    Albu:       third deep node to go down
                this year. anybody worried?
                yet?
    Ruutor:     I don't run a deep node, so
                no.
    Albu:       sure whatever.
    Ruutor:     the admins are secret. You
                know not to speculate on this
                channel
    70mm:       we're only talking, ruutor
    Albu:       yeah, take it easy
    Ruutor:     people we know are missing.
                doesn't worry u?
    Albu:       All kinds reason: off to
                university, getting married,
                police on tail, you know all
                this.
    Nil8:       but we have to be careful.
    Ruutor:     remember fps and gaffer. i
                don't think they were
                planning to leave. cell
                neither.

    ENCRYPTION KEY CHANGES. LOGGING TERMINATED

## Dropped Connection

The ringing came from the common room, jangling Dorian out of sleep. He glanced at his bedside LED, five thirty am. How could someone call at this time, especially over the internet? He should have muted it. He crawled out of bed, hair spiking wildly, and stumbled into the common room. He answered, first securing the communications channel with a quick encryption, then vadering his voice with the filtering software.

"Could you turn that fucking thing down?" his roommate yelled from the bedroom.

"Shut up. You can sleep when you're dead." Dorian kicked the door to the bedroom with his heel. It slammed, shaking the small dorm room. He turned to his computer. "Why you waking me up like this?" he said to the caller, call sign '70mm'. Because of the vadering, he knew 70mm would hear a rough growling voice instead of his deepening but nasal timbre. They could talk all day and no one would ever be able to know who was really speaking, that's assuming the interested party could crack the advanced encryption that covered the call in the first place. No, this call would be secret.

"Nobody's seen your server for six hours," 70mm's vadered voice growled. "Thought you'd like to know, being as _Superheroes: Going Nuclear_ comes out in a week or two. Right?"

"Fuck, you're joking. My internet connection is totally unreliable. And _Superheroes_ will be huge. We need to be first."

"Who's your service provider?"

"Ha. Not telling you nothing. You know enough to connect to my servers, and that's too much already."

"Gonna be tough to win the pixes race without a server."

"I'll get it. I'm backed up. Filed."

"Didn't want my competitor to go down because of a hardware glitch," 70mm laughed.

"Thanks."

"No probs."

Dorian pressed the end button. He shook his head, why couldn't he get a decent internet connection for his server? Now that he was in college, he didn't have time to be tracking down outages all the time. Absently he pulled yesterday's t-shirt off the back of his desk chair, slipping it over his shoulders. Sure, servers go down all the time, he thought, but a text message should have notified him instantly. Maybe it was time to go cloud, but then they could track him too easily.

He went to the bathroom to splash water on his face, the old taps creaking with the effort. He glanced at himself in the mirror, seeing a face that looked much younger than his nineteen years. Wide eyes, unlined forehead, an uncomplicated smirk. He'd always thought his teeth stuck out just a little bit, though. He squeezed his lips over them and went back to his desk.

At this time of day, his server wouldn't be sending much traffic, he thought. As 70mm had said, _Superheroes_ hadn't come out yet, so all he had on the server was a set of older movies that had been seeded around the internet. No one had to download those movies from him anymore. And most people had already downloaded the movies anyway. Which all meant his server probably wouldn't have crashed just like that. Ok, never say never, but normally. And even if it had crashed, a text message would have arrived. In fact, the server was probably sitting there quietly, waiting for instructions, and doing absolutely nothing, which is exactly what computers did when they weren't told to do anything.

So where was the text message? He'd get an email too, so that was the next place to check.

Subject: Server not responding on port 80, 20, 24, 443, etc

Damn! So it _was_ down.

His fingers flickered over the keyboard as he typed out commands, trying to get a connection.

In one way it was funny, though. Here he was, trying to connect to his server, the same way he'd done many other times. But fundamentally, this was exactly the same thing the NASA people would do when they'd lose connection with a Mars probe and they'd spend weeks trying to regain communication with the damn thing. Only they'd get a headline, and he wouldn't. But, there was a pretty big difference he had to admit: their server would be flying through space, millions of kilometers into empty space, while his server, in an emergency, could be restarted by someone pushing a button, as long as you could reach that someone and tell them where to go and which button to press.

And that was the even more funny thing. 99.9% of problems could be solved by someone switching the damn thing off, and switching it on again. In the end, computers were still really simple stupid things. When he compared them to a person's brain, it was even more obvious. Who ever considered rebooting a person's brain? Sure, they tried electro-shock therapy, but look where that got them. Rebooting a person's brain was pretty much the same thing as killing them. It just didn't work.

His fingers sent a variety of messages to the server, trying every possible angle, even as his brain mused. No response. He sent a message to the remote power switch he'd had attached for just this situation. Usually, that worked perfectly if the server itself wasn't responding. But none of the messages got a reply. He only had the cell phone connection left. Again no response. The whole investigation took less than ten minutes and left only two possibilities: either the power was out, or the computer was gone.

Both required someone physically showing up halfway across the world in Milan at his parents' apartment to tell him what was going on. And he had classes to go to. He couldn't be worrying about that.

He called his parents apartment, just in case. No answer. Were they out? His dad's cell phone. Again, nothing. Then his mom's and his sister's. Only voicemail. Where were they all? In a movie? Or were they on a quick vacation? But in that case their phones would still be working. It was twelve noon over in Italy, six hours time difference. And everybody answered their phones there.

He stood up, microwaved himself a cup of instant coffee, and stared at the red pennant next to the door: _Harvard_. When he'd first got in last spring, his heart had beaten like a tambourine. The world had brightened by two shades. He'd done it! Made it! He'd proved wrong, all of those jerks at school who liked to make fun of his geekiness. Showed them up. But now, a few weeks later, it all felt like a fact of life. An inevitability, or at least a non event. And frankly, he was surrounded by piles of other people who'd gotten in too, and for some reason they all thought they were the smartest person in the room, and he suspected, though they'd never admit it, that they'd all been teased mercilessly for being geeks wherever they grew up too. Yes, he did go to Harvard thank you very much. But it was one of those things he'd already gotten used to. Great, but used to. And then ordinary, like everything.

Ok, not everything. Not the movies. Dorian loved movies, and he loved putting them on his server so they would appear on the peer to peer networks. The thrill of beating his friends, the other Deep Noders to the punch, that would never stop. And then having the Deep Noder release group be the first in the World to get a movie up. The kudos, fantastic. And they'd only ever had to put out one PROPER release, when they'd blown the audio sync on _Batman Begins_. He wondered if there was even one other release group that had a record that good.

And imagine those stupid studios trying to stop it all. Like they even could. Movies were meant to be available, and Dorian was the best at putting them out there. Winning the race, that was fun. It never got boring. Being the first to encode the movie; getting the best pixes; first to make it available for download. And _Superheroes_ would be no different, even if it did have the stupidest blockbuster plot ever.

Apparently, _Afterglow,_ the 'living comet', so the trailers said, went crazy after being cursed and turned himself into a nuclear weapon. Taking the 'leader of the free world' (would that be the president?) hostage, he threatened a detonation over a 'major city'. Fortunately, _Broken Wind_ , his off-again on-again girlfriend, a half Native American, half Chinese beauty whose superpower was to harnesses the elements, felt she must stop him, even though it might mean killing him. Cue much footage about devastating moral dilemmas spliced into the non-stop action. But then, who cared about the plot? these movies were fun! And Dorian would get them to the masses first, before anyone else.

He glanced over at the boxes still stacked in the corner from moving in a week earlier. He'd unpack later, it wasn't a priority. Federica would laugh and say nothing had changed. Even now, she'd say, here at Harvard, he couldn't find the time to unpack a few boxes. He smiled. He sat back down at his computer, absently rubbing his hand over his jaw where it ached, probably from grinding his teeth in his sleep. When had he gone to sleep? Two? Too late, that was for sure.

The phone rang as a shaft of sunlight shone in one of the dormer windows a few hours later.

"Hello?" Dorian answered.

" _Pronto?_ " a voice said in Italian.

" _Si, pronto,"_ Dorian replied, slipping into his native Italian. "Who is this, please?" He vaguely recognized the voice, but not enough to place it.

"This is Aunt Claudia." Her voice sounded strained. "Dorian my child, my dear, dear child."

"What is happening?" he asked. "Why are you crying? Has uncle...? No..." Were Aunt Claudia and Uncle Tomaso arguing again? It happened a lot, but they never called him about it, that was for sure.

"I can't tell you."

"You called me, Auntie," he soothed. "Of course you can tell me."

"I shouldn't have to."

"You have no choice, now, do you? You've called me. Now tell me what is wrong. I'm sure it's not that bad. You'll be alright. Everything will be alright."

"It's not me. Dear Dorian, it's you."

"Me?" Dorian didn't understand.

"You. Your family. Hugo, Cassandra. Your parents for gods sake. Even little Federica."

"What do you mean? Are they hurt?" His stomach knotted.

A long pause. "No. Much worse."

"How?" he demanded. The line was silent. "Tell me now." God, he needed to know. They were in Milan. Had something happened there? Weren't they having a quiet weekend? But there had been no answer at their place.

"They are no longer with us," Auntie said.

"Not possible," he spat. It didn't make sense. "I can't believe it. They're hurt in a hospital, maybe?" He swallowed. "No. Nonsense. I spoke to them two days ago. All of them." He wavered. The room spun. Cotton stuffed itself into his ears. "Mamma? Babbo? No, I can't. It isn't." They weren't gone. This was one of those jokes that... It made no sense...they were still here. He had to be dreaming. He grasped the desk, trying not to fall. "You can't tell me like this." He held on with all his strength. "What happened?"

"My god. My sweet little dear. Such a horrible tragedy."

"Please! Tell me!"

"Oh dear. How can I?" Aunt Claudia said. "They were shot. Thieves, bandits. All of them shot. Probably _Extra-Communitari_ who wanted money. I tell you Dorian, immigration is destroying this country. They'll kill us all if we give them a chance."

Dorian watched the room around him fall apart. He shook. He could not hear. Bees seemed to swarm around and through him. He throbbed. He ripped. He couldn't live another second. Stop this trick. He knew it couldn't be true. It couldn't.

Wait. He'd fly to Milan right now; wake them up. Never a problem. They needed a shake. At least he would do something.

His eyes wandered sightlessly around the room.

He leaned forward at his desk and typed an address into the browser with his free hand, the phone hanging limply in the other. He watched, glazed eyes, as a travel site appeared on his monitor. Damn it was slow. Boston to Milan. Today! Return flight? He couldn't think about that now. Just give him the flight. The screen swam before his eyes. Fuck it. He would try later.

It couldn't be. It simply wasn't possible. His body slumped, the energy seeping out. Federica, Mamma, Babbo. He pictured them laughing around the dinner table at the seashore. Then the picture vanished.

His head fell back for a long time, his mind empty until he noticed a receiver lying alien in his hand and pulled it slowly to his ear.

" _Pronto?_ " he said.

"Pronto."

"Auntie? What are you doing on the phone?"

## Accounts

Something wasn't right here. Andrea shifted in her chair, her eyes blurred by the long rows of financial codes in front of her. First of all, she pointed out proudly to herself, Melbox didn't have offshore accounts, and secondly, why didn't the account explain what it was for?

"Marco," she called over the top of her cube. "Do you know about an account Beehive? Is that a subsidiary of ours that you've ever heard of?"

"Hang on there, hun. I'm on the phone."

Marco never answered a question when it was asked. For reasons no one could explain, he liked to wait, think things through and then reply, even on trivial questions such as Andrea's. "I need to ponder," he would say when pressed, but recently he'd taken to pretending to be busy, extending to the point that he would fake incoming cell phone calls when they were out for drinks at the TGIFridays down on Melrose.

Andrea kicked open the bottom drawer in her desk, the 'candy bar connection', and scanned the contents with her keen blue eyes. "Frighteningly blue eyes" a stupid boy she met at Citywalk told her once. That was before she grabbed his nuts and asked "are you frightened now?" She needed some energy, Andrea thought, looking at the rows of plastic sealed goodness in the drawer by her foot. She picked up a Bounty, stripping the wrapper off and stuffed the first third into her mouth.

"So what's this 'Beehive', pumpkin?" Marco peered over the cubicle wall.

She chewed slowly, savoring the chocolate. Marco always showed up when she'd gotten her mouth full. She tapped her slim fingers at the screen and swallowed as Marco slid next to her. "See this here. It doesn't make sense. It's registered as Beehive SA in the Bahamas. It's a fully owned subsidiary with accounts and everything. There's money going in from the rest of the company, but no revenue coming back out to us. All it does is suck money." She looked at Marco questioningly.

"That is weird."

"Not to mention," she said, grabbing hold of his arm playfully, "that the account doesn't appear on any of the test servers, which means that someone must have installed it specially. Probably without us being told." Andrea loved to dig into the various and minute mysteries that cropped up constantly in the financial systems of Melbox Movies. "Maybe it's a secret new feature film we're funding?"

"You know I can't tell you about our secret movies." Marco looked uncomfortable. "Not that that stops me." He laughed, his large frame moving up and down in sharp jiggles. He rubbed his chin, and unconsciously, Andrea rubbed hers as well. "No," he said slowly, "this is a new one." He turned to go.

"Don't you want me to investigate?" Andrea asked, her hand playing with her jet black hair in a gesture that men had told her was alluring.

"Naw. Doesn't look important. What are we talking about, couple thousand dollars. No need. Get your ass on the SAP upgrade issues for the video division. They are riding me like a pony at a country fair."

"Ok boss."

That night, as Andrea walked from the pre-fab offices where the IT department sat, in the middle of Burbank, California, she thought about the mysterious account and its significance. She could track it down in her spare time. Figure out what's going on. That would be fun. Maybe she could find out about a cool new flick.

Her steps passed a street that looked like Brooklyn, New York around the turn of the century, all brownstones and gas lights, after which she passed a Russian village, post USSR judging by the rusting corrugated roofing. She walked past two sound stages which, by the swarm of activity around them, looked deep in the midst of filming. Years ago, right around the time she realized that she'd never actually be an actress, she'd instinctively stopped noticing the sets all around her, maybe as a protection for her dashed dreams, not that she could have possibly admitted such a thing. Her path ended at a used BMW convertible which she opened with a flick of her key chain, driving into the balmy but darkening Los Angeles evening.

"Get the _Superheroes_ account set up for Europe, Africa, Japan, split China into Mandarin and Szechuan, don't ask me how to spell it, and then the rest of Asia," Marco barked. His face had the compressed look of an oyster pulling back into its shell, or that's the way Andrea thought about it. He wore that face whenever he became severely stressed, and clearly, getting a movie ready for release and distribution was exactly that kind of time.

"What about India, Australia and the Middle East?" Andrea asked.

"I don't know. The rights department didn't mention that."

"We want to get it right—I should say correct—the first time," she said.

"I know, I know. Don't ask me why we only get called at the last minute. They know the release date months in advance and still, here I am punching in the details on a blanking deadline."

"That would be me doing the punching in."

"Sure."

The rest of the day Andrea felt like she never took a breath as adjustments and modifications to the financial systems had to be made at a moment's notice to handle the financial flows. _Superheroes: Going Nuclear_ would hit movie theaters that weekend. The prediction inside the Melbox offices had been that this movie would have the biggest grossing opening weekend in history, and there was no way that Marco would allow for the financial IT group to be the people who couldn't calculate the results. Andrea double checked the distributor database, the movie theater database and the film distribution system, making adjustments as she saw issues, this being at least the tenth blockbuster where she'd been through the drill. The excitement always made her happy, as people rushed around and the place buzzed. It was the long periods of inactivity, when movies were in post-production, and her job consisted of upgrades and minor feature additions, when Andrea longed for more.

"I've got five or six directors who totally want to work with me. They're only looking for the right part. I'm working with my personal trainer too, so that I'll be ready."

The boy across from Andrea had spent the entire dinner explaining his acting career, the technique, the pleasures, the agony, and dreams. False dreams, she corrected in her mind. Even now, as she cracked the crust on her crème brulee with her spoon, Andrea wondered if he remembered her name.

He was cute, that was for sure, blonde, tall, tan. She especially liked the dimples on his cheeks when he smiled and the curve of his neck, a feature she had ample time to appreciate as he blabbed, err, pontificated.

"Could I have another Margarita?" she asked the waiter. "Straight up, on the rocks, no salt. Thanks."

"Did I mention the time I..." Andrea had stopped listening.

By the time she climbed into her car, she felt slightly tipsy. She shouldn't drive, should she? Ah, no, she was fine. No way was she going to spend another minute with that blowhard. What did she see in him anyway? She pressed the button to open the top, shifted into gear and drove.

## Milano

Dorian leaned forward in a cluttered office near the Stazione Centrale, just north of the Duomo, near the center of Milan. His chair creaked as he glanced at the drooping beige-green walls. Across a desk piled with stacks of paper and files, sat a man who had introduced himself as Ispettore Davide, leafing calmly through a document. He wore an impeccably tailored suit, garnished with a perfectly folded handkerchief that poking out of the breast pocket. His clothes failed to hide his craggy face and a tired bored look. Dorian opened his mouth to speak, but the Ispettore held out his hand to stop him. Dorian slouched back.

Exhausted from a cocktail of jetlag, alcohol and thoughts, Dorian's world felt like a knot. He'd reviewed the last few days hundreds of times, every permutation worked over like an intricate embroidery. Glimpses of sleep had been no more than mental calculations with eyes closed. His head throbbed behind his pupils. The pieces didn't fit. He throbbed with fury. He could have been dipped in a solution of anger. But one thing confused him: he didn't feel sad.

"How may I help you?" said the Ispettore, finally looking up. His voice was soothing and sonorous, Italian tinged with a Milanese accent.

"An explanation is all I'm looking for," Dorian said. He had to keep it simple.

"Difficult for me to do," the Ispettore shook his head slowly, "as the regulations are quite stringent on the information that should be imparted during an active investigation."

"Tell me, Mr. Davide, how could this have happened?" Dorian's voice rose. "No one has been able to explain anything to me. My parents had the strongest door ever. They had it fitted after the last robbery. Like a safe. The company promised it couldn't be broken down. Impossible they said. Impossible. Understand? But still someone broke it down. Did the installers do a bad job? Was it weak in some way? Not properly attached? I can sue them so they never do a single _cazzata_ again. And why? What motive? What would someone want with my family? People are not killed like this in Italy anymore. We are full of pride because we are a civilized nation. Who is so crazed as to do this?" His hands stabbed the air. "I want to kill them. I want to find and show them what they showed Babbo. That's it."

As Dorian spoke, the Ispettore leaned forward, gradually slowing the torrent of words.

"I am furious," Dorian said and paused, taking a deep breath. "So tell me then, what's going on?" This detective was just some piece of shit cop. What did he know about anything? Dorian shoved the thought out of his head. This was not the person he needed to be angry at.

"I know you are coming to grips. With your loss." The Ispettore gestured, weathered hands spread wide. "At this moment you need to grieve. Think of your family. Remember about them and how they were to you, your life. Make your peace with what fate has brought you. Realize that this is the best that you can do, and pick yourself up to carry on another day." He looked at a lone certificate— _Ecellenza di Polizia_ —hung on the wall next to the desk and grimaced. "It is our job. Mine. The police. Our duty, I should say, to search out the evidence, seek out the perpetrators, to look at the various angles that inevitably present themselves in these dreadful situations. We will hunt them down and bring them to justice, even if we have to travel to the far corners of the Earth. Count on our efforts to do what must be done, even if it takes years. This is my commitment to you."

"No." Dorian wanted to scream. "No. I can't do anything with commitments. Facts. Tell me everything. Explain. How did they get in? That is what I'm looking for. Anything that affects me. Tell me all."

"I should not." Davide looked sympathetically, his eyebrows wriggling as he peered at Dorian.

Dorian wished Davide would give him more. He could not live with only this. If the Ispettore didn't, then... He had to stop that thought.

The two men looked at each other, the silence hung in the room like a clinging fog. Ispettore Davide broke the stillness. "Ok. I will tell you." He shuffled papers. "They, the intruders, climbed the balconies, and opened _la finestra_ , the window." He snapped his long fingers. "That simple."

"Not the door?"

"Only later. Nothing was stolen, though there was a great deal of damage to the apartment. I did notice stray cables in a closet as if something had been ripped out, but I think that came from earlier, not related to this intrusion. Otherwise, bullet holes. The terrible aftermath." He stumbled over the words, hitching a thumb inside his trousers. "Your sister injured one. We found blood which doesn't match your family."

"She did?"

"With a clothes hook, based on the forensic evidence which tends to tell its own story."

"My god." Federica, his big sister, had fought for her life with a stick. His vision blurred. "But who do you think this was? Such a bloody, fucking, killing of my family!" Dorian wanted to jump over the cluttered desk and choke the Ispettore. No, the man was doing his best. _Calma!_

"We know almost nothing. We are analyzing the evidence and looking for motives, but frankly the elements don't make sense." The Ispettore sighed. "We are at the stage where the evidence comes to us. Something small can become big later. We only have our instincts to go with now, nothing more. But we must do the hard work."

"That's it? You have nothing? How is that possible? How often..."

Davide interrupted Dorian for the second time with his hand. "We have no suspects. I have told you what I know, now I must ask you some questions." He stood up and came around his desk, pushing aside one of the smaller piles of documents. He sat down on the edge, first removing his expensive jacket and laying it carefully elsewhere on the desk. He towered over Dorian. "Do you know of anything, however small, that might help us to understand what happened? An acquaintance of your father, a chance comment, some worries your parents had. Anything?"

Dorian tried to calm himself. He thought back. He needed to remember conflict, arguments. Yes, he could barely remember, but it was there: his parents arguing, many years ago. He could hear them rather than see them, their urgent voices radiating from the kitchen. He knew they were arguing from the tone, not the volume. He must have been twelve, since he'd been coding that video game.

The late afternoon sun had cut through the warm dim light of the bedroom, as if entering between the leaves of a jungle. His fingers had flicked across the keys of his brand new computer. He peered at the lines of code. For some reason the routine that made the robot in the game move left and right didn't work. Frustrating. Dorian had been working on that game for at least a week by them.

Every day, when he'd come home, he'd thrown his Fila backpack into the corner. He'd spent the hours before dinner adding features.

His father, Hugo, had come home early that day. A towering bear of a man, Hugo had slipped into Dorian's bedroom, giving him a quick kiss on the top of his head. Dorian could still remember the power of Hugo's hug so many years later. Like a blanket, a warm comfortable blanket. Hugo had quickly patted his head, and disappeared. Dorian had given a brief smile, his fingers never stopping.

Of course it wasn't cool to get a hug from daddy, but still he'd felt warm and cozy inside, at least until his attention had returned to the game.

Something had scratched at him as he typed away. From one moment to the next, the code in front of Dorian had gone from a cool logical stream to a jumbled pile of meaningless text.

"...lose your job. How can you think of that at all?" he'd heard Babbo say. The door to Dorian's room was open.

"But sweetheart," Cassandra, Dorian's gorgeous mother had replied, "that's absolutely, completely stupid. I'm sorry. It _is_ my job to question. And don't you agree that a woman has a right to choose what happens to her body?"

It wasn't the first time that Dorian had heard his mother talk about abortion. It had something to do with a right to choose and babies.

"What does a woman's body have to do with religion?"

"Ha! Now you have said something completely idiotic." Dorian had sensed his mother's arching eyebrows furrow together, her dark eyes drilling into his father. Dorian had felt uncomfortable, on edge; his parents never fought. Their voices, to an untrained ear, had sounded like participants in a typical conversation, if just slightly heated. But Dorian had known his parents' most minute moods and the tension lifted the hairs of his forearms.

"Please," Hugo had retorted. "That is of course not what I meant. You are a professor of religion, not politics. Abortion is politics."

"It is the Catholic Church, _la chiesa_ , that has decided this is political. I have little to do with their decision, as you know."

A pot had banged against the stove.

"Your role is not political, is it? You are to study religion, not to judge." Hugo had sighed. "Never mind. I've lost a deal for a building because of your political meddling. That should be enough warning for both of us."

"Hypocrite."

"You could be hurt. Your views are strident, discordant. I don't want something to happen." Hugo paused. "No, of course nothing will ever happen, but still."

Dorian had heard shuffling. He had wheeled himself over to the door to his room, stuck out his foot. "This country is simply not—"

The door had slammed, cutting off Hugo's sentence with a bang.

Dorian had definitely not felt good that moment. He'd wheeled himself back to his desk, pulled a pair of giant headphones from a drawer and slipped them over his ears, so that his small head had almost disappeared between the two bowls. He'd turned up the music.

A moment later, he'd felt a hand on his shoulder, startling him. He'd looked up to find both his parents leaning over him, his mother's mouth moving. He'd pulled off the headphones.

"What?" he'd asked.

"Darling," his mother had said, "discussions are important. That's what Babbo and I were doing. Discussing. It's important. It's the only way to understand each other."

"But—"

"Don't worry darling, ok?" Mamma had put her arm around Babbo, and kissed him on the mouth, then looked down at Dorian.

Hugo smiled. "It's how we work, son. Nothing more."

"Now where is Federica?" his mother had said. "She promised to help me cook."

She pulled the headphones out of Dorian's hand, and placed them back on his small head.

"Take your time." The words from Davide pulled Dorian back into the present. Davide's figure perched awkwardly over Dorian.

"They had an argument about abortion rights...once?" Dorian said, "but could that really...?"

Would strong views on abortion have been enough to get his whole family killed seven years later? No chance. He couldn't believe it. His mother wasn't the only one, not by a long stretch.

"Anything else?" the Ispettore asked, instantly dismissive.

Was there anything else? What else could there be? Dorian wondered. What had been wrong before their deaths? Ok. So he'd been trying to reach them about the server, and they weren't answering. So they had died before that. Or? No! Wait!

"You said there were some ripped cables?" Dorian asked.

"Oh yes, it was of no consequence. Something remaining from some earlier remodeling."

"But where were they again?"

"I believe they were in a closet. They looked like the connections where a TV might have been attached."

"In a closet?"

"As I told you, it was nothing of importance. Therefore asking me the whereabouts of hypothetical televisory equipment can lead to very little, Mr. Casso."

"No. You don't understand." Dorian's leg twitched. He rubbed a damp hand across his forehead. "Were they fiber optic cables? They were in the closet in the hallway, right?"

"Why are you so concerned about some cables I mentioned only in passing." The Ispettore snapped his fingers and jerked his head.

"It's not the cables. Was there a black server in there? I mean a computer. Did you see a computer anywhere in the place?" Dorian wished him to say yes.

"Let me think. Yes, we did."

Oh thank god, Dorian felt a wave of relief shoot through him.

"We found two laptops," the Ispettore continued, "though they weren't in the closet. So yes, there were some computers there."

"Any other computers?"

"No. None."

A cold wave shot through Dorian, sweat springing out on his forehead. "No, I mean a desktop computer. It would look like a black box."

"Oh no, of course not. Don't be silly. Why would there be a black box in that house?" The Ispettore almost chuckled.

"That means someone took it," Dorian whispered.

"Excuse me?"

"One moment," Dorian mumbled as he stood up and raced into the hall. He doubled up, vomit spewing out onto the Ispettore's doorstep.

"Oh dear. You are such a child." The Ispettore punched a button on his phone. "We've got a vomiter. Send someone with a bucket. Quickly."

Dorian wiped his mouth with the back of his hand. "I am _not_ a child." He sat down in his seat, his legs feeling weak. How the hell could it have been this way? His fucking Deep Node Five server was the only thing missing, and this idiotic detective didn't give a damn. Had Dorian actually caused his parents to be killed? That was totally ridiculous. All he did was download movies. Who would have stooped to this? And why?

"Then why all the hysterics? These are actions of a child, are they not?"

How had someone known where to find that server? Dorian had never mentioned that server to anyone ever, other than in online chats using code names and disguised identities. Even his parents had no idea what the black box did. That server had always been hidden. But still someone knew about it, as cloaked and secret as it had been, and knew where to find it.

"Let me think," Dorian said quietly. "I need to think."

The taste of vomit made him gag lightly. He hoped he wouldn't vomit again. He rubbed his temples. He'd always promised himself, and all the other Deep Noders that, no matter what, he wouldn't reveal his servers to anyone. Never. That had been the commitment, the right of passage.

But his family was dead. That trumped 'never.' That must trump a fine from some government conspiracy to protect the greedy movie industry, didn't it?

"Ispettore," Dorian looked up, his insides strangled. "I need to tell you something." He took a deep breath, then swallowed what little saliva was left in his extremely dry mouth. "The closet you mentioned."

"Yes."

How would he say it? The words stuck. Wasn't he crazy to tell this stupid _Ispettore of Nothing_ about the server? His secret server? He could land himself a fine. And who would that help? Did that bring Mamma and Babbo back?

"Yes?" the Ispettore said.

Dorian felt the breath whistle through is teeth. "I installed a server there. The black box you insist doesn't exist. It is a system for downloading movies."

"I understand."

"That server might have been the target."

Dorian winced, waiting for alarm bells. A part of him expected _Carabinieri_ to storm into the room, guns drawn, yelling 'we got you sucker,' as if that mattered now.

But instead: nothing.

"How is that?" the Ispettore said, his face derisive. "Who would kill a family for a computer? Ridiculous."

"This wasn't just any computer." Dorian had to stay calm. He was talking about the server so that he could avenge his parents. That was all that mattered. "This computer contained movies that would be downloaded by other computers. All over the world people on the internet downloaded movies from this computer, this server." Was there understanding in the Ispettore's face? No, nothing.

"Let me explain. This computer's identity was only known to a few other servers. Secret servers. Those other servers, however, were less secret than mine. They were the next step in the chain. Once one of these less secret servers downloaded a movie from my server, they in turn, passed the movie on to another set of computers that would let anyone download."

The Ispettore looked incredulous. "I don't understand."

"It is complicated."

"No, that's not what I mean." Davide rubbed his chin. "This is mere child's play. Exactly what I've been saying all along." He smiled. "You are unfortunately still a child. No one would kill because of movies being downloaded. Even pirated DVD's on the streets are no killing matter. You are clearly mistaken. You are telling me that someone would kill your whole family because you are playing around with movies. I don't believe it for a moment even." The Ispettore shook his head. Dorian could feel the Ispettore's look of pity wash over him. The detective clearly thought Dorian was delusional.

Dorian had to convince the man. "Killing for this makes no sense, I know. Believe me, I know that. I don't understand it either. I would never imagine..." Dorian trailed off. It didn't make any sense whatsoever. If only he'd known, he'd never have even considered putting the server in his parent's house when he'd left for Harvard. He wasn't crazy, was he? But where were the warnings? No one ever said to turn the server off. There were never any threats. How come no one told him just to turn it off? That would have been so much easier than killing. And his family would still be alive.

"We'll leave it at that. Enough. Is there anything else?" The Ispettore dismissed Dorian with a wave, walked back around his desk and sat down.

"What?" Dorian bit the inside of his lip. "Of course you're right. It is ridiculous. But what else is there? I don't know anything." He paused. The guy didn't even care. All this and he didn't care. "And the server is the only item missing," Dorian pleaded.

"Opportunism. Computers are light and valuable. Often the only item stolen."

"But from a closet? You said any item could be significant. They didn't take the laptops."

"I'm sorry Mr. Casso, I am running out of time." The Ispettore looked at his watch. "We are looking for real reasons. Possible motives. And you playing around with computers doesn't qualify. Please let me know if there is anything else."

Fuck. "I have nothing else." What a prick. Child's play? "If you are not interested, what can I do?" Dorian wanted to storm out. But he at least needed to find his own clues. Maybe he could discover something himself. "Can I at least see my parent's apartment?"

"I'm sorry. That will have to wait until we have finished our investigation."

"Which is when?"

"I think in this case we are speaking of months. As you know, it is complicated."

"That's my apartment now. I have a right to go there."

"I'm sorry. Police procedure."

"Aren't you done in there?"

"Thank you for coming. There's nothing more I can do."

"Thank you," Dorian answered, sucking on his teeth. He stood up, walking out without shaking the outstretched hand of the Ispettore. He stepped over the yellowish splatter of his vomit. Do things your way, he thought. He desperately wanted it all to stop, to simply disappear in a hole somewhere forever.

Dorian squinted up at his parent's building, sweat dribbling down his forehead in the sweltering sun. Dry trees lined the street on either side, shading the pavement in a few spots, but little stopped the heat. In front of him he faced an open doorway wide enough to fit a car and leading into a cool entryway and stairwell. His gaze shifted to the keys in his hand: cool, heavy and secure. Why had it been so hard to convince the imbeciles at the police to allow him in? What did they need the scene for anyway? They'd done all the forensics there was to do. But still they'd tried everything, the Ispettore even telling him it was in his own interests. Ridiculous. Closure wasn't important for him, they explained. It would be bad for his psychological state.

But there had been no choice on this. He had to see. Without a doubt this fucking atrocity was linked to his stupid movie downloading somehow. And maybe, possibly, if he went in there, he'd see something that would explain. Maybe if he went home, he'd see Mamma and Babbo and everything would be like a few weeks ago.

No, his rational brain interjected. There was no re-doing this. It had really happened. His feelings protested the reality: everything had to be ok. He would simply go upstairs and Mamma would make everything good again.

Dorian struggled to step forward. Now that he was here he didn't feel like walking through the entrance gate into the cool shade and up the stairs. He pushed himself into motion. He could find no sign of the _portiere,_ doorman. The man must have been at lunch.

The worn steps felt the same. The banister, the landings where he used to slip as he raced around the corner, his shoes gliding on the slick surface. Home. It sounded like home. It smelled like home. Even the touch of the wall, it all meant 'home'. 'Attention!' his brain insisted, this was the wrong time to be lulled into a false sense of security.

He arrived at the landing, turning to the right towards the heavy steel front door. Instinctively, he reached out with the keys.

Wait. He took in the familiar scene, methodically if reluctantly: the lacquered brown metal door; the two gleaming locks; the massive metal frame; the dull red colored walls with a few white plaster chips here and there from the odd piece of furniture or new appliance being dragged by. A pastiche of yellow-black tape jarred the scene. POLICE SEAL: SEVERE PENALTIES. They should have removed that, thought Dorian. That's what they'd promised. But it didn't matter. He didn't care; he had to force himself and go in.

He sliced the tape with the serrated edge of the long spindly key, like opening a shipping box. What remained was the simple matter of unlocking and opening the door. But.

Images flashed through his mind. Blood. Screams. Twisted bodies.

No. Not real.

But still. Too much. Much too much.

He turned away. Better not see what was in there. The police were right, those sorry useless bastards. He had to admit they were right. This was no place to be. Certainly not now. He leaned against the wall, his hands too weak to wipe away his tears. He needed time.

A new picture came. He saw a very young version of himself, sitting at what must have been a tiny table. The memory brought a smile through the tears. He remembered how his sister had dressed him up in her clothes and then invited him to a tea party. She had put a bonnet on his head, and given him a skirt and called him Auntie.

"Here's how you hold the tea," she'd explained, sticking her pinky way out in the air as she lifted what must have been a tiny cup. Towering above them both, were their two parents, sitting on much too small chairs, laughing and holding their mini tea cups with their pinkies stuck at attention. "See Mamma and Babbo, Doriana can drink her tea like a civilized person," little Federica had said.

"I'm not Doriana," Dorian had replied.

"Yes you are," Federica had retorted.

"No I'm not."

"Of course you aren't," his mother had said. "That's just your role for this little tea party, darling."

"Oh. Ok," he'd replied, wiping the back of his hand across his face. "But I'm not a girl." He'd given her a disgusted look. "Right?"

"Only in your role of Auntie."

"Is that like theater?"

"It is darling."

"Ok." A devilish idea had popped into his head. "Federica, I can't believe you didn't tidy all the dishes. It was very rude of you to invite me here without cleaning your place first." Little Dorian had fallen off his tiny chair laughing, but not before Federica had pulled the tea cup out of his hands.

The memory cracked.

They're dead. His chest shook. Here he was, IRL, In Real Life. No more drinking tea, didn't matter what kind of fucking tea cups. Or couldn't they just tell the silly story again and laugh long and hard about it, like they'd done so many times before. No, from now on it was only him. IR fucking L.

He screwed his face together, the tears coming faster, his thin frame leaned against the red wall, his body shaking hard and fast. Too much. How would he possibly survive, not with all this shit happening and totally alone in the world. No way.

His sobs echoed in the corner of the stairwell. Finally, he forced himself to lift his hands even though they felt like a stack of bricks. He wiped the tears on his shirt and turned again to the door. It had to be now; there was no turning back. He needed to see what had happened. Standing outside and looking away would never help anything. He'd never find anything out.

He turned the keys in the locks, every muscle straining with fear. He pushed and pulled until the door slid open on silent hinges.

## Soapbox

"This studio has come so far. We are now producing the premier movies in Hollywood," Mel said, looking over the slight man from Variety magazine, hunched in a wrinkled suit. Mel loved the view of the studio lot, miniature streets from all over the world. "We've found the secret formula that turns out quality movies. And when I say quality, I mean printing money. Our production pipeline is second to none. We use a stable of producers and directors to vet the scripts, then bring in marketing early. All of those innovations have allowed us to be at the top."

"It's not as if your movies have done particularly well lately. Of your three major releases last summer, only one had a strong opening weekend. Not to mention that international sales have been moderate." The man stroked a finger across his nose.

"Where are you coming from? That is completely false. Don't come in here with half-truths. Yes, we would have liked to have done better on _Social Slide_ , but on the whole, we had an excellent summer."

"And the _Superheroes_ movies. Is this really the last?"

"Absolutely. We don't want to outlive our audience's patience."

"Marketing ploy?"

"Of course not."

"Well. In fact, I've got information that you've green-lighted an additional sequel."

"What? Impossible." Mel looked up at the pretty woman at the back of the room. She shrugged her shoulders helplessly. Clearly not earning her paycheck, no matter what it was. "You couldn't know that since I would have to order it for it to happen." He shifted in his chair. He should have had this interview in his office. More imposing. But then, these reporters always were slimy little shits. He pushed his hands onto the glass table. "Look, let me talk about something important here. I'm sick of these stupid juvenile rumors. Here's the real story. Piracy. That's what you should be covering. Piracy is killing our business, and we are going to wipe it out."

"Isn't the _Superheroes_ franchise, and aren't blockbusters in general falling out of favor with the audience? Isn't it a giant risk to go forward with another episode?"

"Of course not." He didn't give a shit if this guy was from Variety, the most important magazine in his industry. Either this guy laid off or he was going to get one. "Blockbusters will always be a staple of our business." What right did he have to criticize Mel Boxton, head of one of the most important studios in Hollywood?

"Can your studio really afford another flop of that magnitude?"

"I already told you: there is no flop."

"And you spoke of your production process. But didn't this _Superheroes_ go almost one hundred percent over budget? How did that happen?"

"Focus on the piracy you little shit. That's the problem this industry has. My production methods are the most progressive in the industry. We get better results."

"My data tells me that's simply not true."

"We will erase piracy, you watch."

"Exactly how do you propose to do that?"

"Shut up, bitch. You are the stupidest person I've ever met."

"Mel, that's simply rude," the little man said, as if asking for the sugar.

"Fuck off, you little two-faced piece of shit. There, is that rude enough for you?" Mel rose to his feet. "And don't ever come back to this studio again." He stormed out of the conference room.

## Door

The door swung open. Stuffy hot air billowed into Dorian's throat. He coughed. What was he going to find inside his parent's apartment? The furniture destroyed? Blood stains? The big pastoral oil paintings pulled from the wall and smashed on the floor, or gone altogether? He braced himself.

His eyes focused on the living room inside. It looked normal, everything in its place. Yes, there was a new lamp on the antique table by the window, but other than that, it looked the same as when he'd left for Harvard a few weeks ago. Nothing that surprising actually. Hardwood floors gleamed in dark oak, a wall full of bright Tuscan landscapes, the couch, the TV cabinet they'd made the year before out of walnut. Everything where it should be.

He called out his parents names, "Mamma, Babbo," the words fading half spoken.

Of course, he cursed, no one was there.

He crossing the living room, confused, or even just a slight bit hopeful. How could anyone die in such a normal situation? There would have to be a struggle. Maybe there had been a mistake?

He turned the corner into the hall that snaked through to the rest of the apartment. Splinters jutted out of jagged holes in the floor. White plaster chips lay sprinkled across the floor boards. A series of holes climbed the wall like cat paw prints. Broken glass glinted against the far wall, though he couldn't tell where from.

Dorian walked forward, light-headed and dizzy. Standing up didn't seem to work anymore. Shards crunched under his feet. It really had happened.

He passed Federica's room, barely a glance, not wanting to see, and pressed on to the closet where his server should had been. His vision closed in, leaving only a tunnel in front. He fumbled the last few steps to the closet, gripping the handle and pulling the sliding door open.

Adjusted to the dark, he scanned down three shelves of neatly pressed sheets, towels and finally to the bottom shelf where a single white cable hung from the wall. It had been ripped from the plaster at the back of the closet.

Oh god, Dorian thought. He looked closer, kneeling on the floor, examining the area around the cable where his server had been. That cable used to be connected to his Deep Node, a small black box, his server. All he could see was a void, an absence of server. He looked around. Maybe someone had moved it? His eyes scanned the shelves looking for the small black box. No. Nothing. It wasn't there.

He turned to the cable. Someone must have tried to rip the server out of the closet. That's how the cable got pulled from the wall. But no experienced computer thief would have done that. Were these people just cruel burglars? He looked again at the end of the white cable. It looked intact, the delicate fiber optic mechanism still exactly as it had been. What did that mean?

He tried to reconstruct the scene. His mind leapt at the puzzle, distracting him. So. They tried to pull the black box out, but once they noticed it wouldn't move, then. He tapped a finger on the ground. Then they'd unscrewed the connection instead. Once finished, they'd removed the device. Simple as that. That was the only explanation that fit.

No, these people had known what they were doing.

His mind reeled as all the pieces fell into place. The Ispettore had claimed that nothing had been missing from the apartment. Full wallets, everything had still been there. Which left the only thing missing to be Dorian's server, and that hadn't come easily. Those were the facts, and the facts meant that they had wanted the Deep Node, his Deep Node server, and the only reason they could have wanted the Deep Node was because of what was running on it: software. They had wanted the program that Dorian used to upload movies all over the internet, and probably the movies themselves. They had wanted to put him out of business.

Dorian dropped hard to the floor, steadying himself against the door of the closet. He couldn't breath. He had killed his family. He rocked his head slowly from side to side, sliding a hand through his red hair. It was squarely his fault.

Time must have passed. What had he been doing?

The killers: if they had _known_ about his server, how could they have known? He'd kept everything extremely secret. No one knew his real identity. He was sure no one could find the server. Encryption, proxies, spoofed addresses, fake names, and still, somehow, they found the fucking server.

Sobs welled up. Movie downloading had been a funny joke, nothing more. This was all his fault.

After a long time he stood up. He had to continue. If he wanted to find these people, he had to continue.

He walked towards his parents' bedroom, hands clenched tight against his sides. Bullet holes chased splintered trails across the floor, up the bed posts, past where a mattress had been, and onto the wall. The trail cut over and back down the other side of the bed. The image of those holes burned his brain. He turned away to erase the negative space, the missing figures of Mamma and Babbo. They had been in the middle of the trail of bullets. Too late.

He'd insisted he needed to see this. He couldn't shy away now. It meant too much. This was what was left of his family.

He had to see Federica's room, to find any clues that might remain, things the police had ignored. The stupid police. Why couldn't they find these obvious clues? Why didn't they trust his views? He stopped himself. This whole thing wasn't their fault, was it?

Inside her room, other than a missing mattress, all was the same. The only difference he could find was a splintered hole in the floor.

A single bullet. That's what killed her.

His knees wobbled. He screamed but choked back the sound in his throat. He would kill whoever had done this.

Dorian slumped at the kitchen table, exhausted face pale and creased. The sun glared angular and hot through the glass doors. Aunt Claudia, his mother's sister had earlier pleaded through the bedroom door that he eat something, or at least have a breakfast coffee. He'd come down, needing to move, the black and silver wallpaper crawling into his eyeballs. He sat now, hands limp. His stomach felt like a foreign country he would never willingly visit.

Aunt Claudia gave him a steaming cappuccino, a worried smile on her face. He stopped himself shoving the drink away. He gulped, frowned and took a sip, forcing the liquid down. It would have been rude not to. Surprisingly, the hot froth tasted good. He looked up, squeezing a wan smile. "Thank you," he said.

'Senseless Mafia-Style Killing' blazed the front page of the _Corriere della Sera_ , the daily newspaper. 'Is It Time For A New Clean-Hands Regime?' questioned the headline. Was that really all they had to talk about? The police didn't want to act; why would the papers screaming about it change anything? He reached out, upset, ready to push the paper aside. His name caught his eye halfway down the article. They claimed he was a student at the University of Bologna. How strange. Didn't they do even a little bit of research?

The phone rang, startling him, even though it had been ringing all morning. He glanced at Aunt Claudia answering, her long brown hair dragging his eyes from side to side as she said "no" politely yet firmly into the receiver.

"They've been calling all day," she said, worried eyes looking across the kitchen at Dorian. "Ever since the story came out. They want to speak to you."

"I can't." He shrunk. The air felt heavy. The sun hurt his eyes.

"I know, darling. I know." She walked to him, her slim figure gliding to the table to squeeze Dorian's shoulders. "Let me answer the phone. I can take care of it."

"They couldn't even figure out where I go to college," he said. Did he care?

"That's reporters."

The phone rang. Aunt Claudia stroked his head and crossed to the phone. "Let me get that." She picked up the phone, then cupped the receiver. "Another reporter who wants to interview you." She yanked a thick brown lock of hair away from her eyes. He looked at her, his eyes refusing to focus. He shook his head quietly.

"I know, I know," she said, "no one will be talking to you."

Too much! Dorian thought. They want too much. Why didn't they realize he needed time alone. All those jerk-off reporters wanted was the story. What did they care about him? Nothing. They'd slice him open like a pack of jackals if it would get them a headline. He wanted go out there right now and punch their faces into pulp. Bloody spongy mush. That would serve them right. He would smack their bulby little heads one by one against a brick wall and ask them if they wanted to speak to him then. He could point out their bloody teeth strewn in the gutter. That would help them get the fucking picture right. It wasn't like they knew what they were doing, and like Italy was free of corruption now because some stupid reporters managed to get up in all those crime victims' faces.

All those scum suckers did was write sensational headlines to get everyone worked up and freaking out and then, job done, they'd move on to the next thing, whatever that was. In a day, maybe two, they wouldn't give a shit. Next story. So what about his family gunned down in cold blood. Next question: what was Fiat doing to ruin the economy?

"It's driving me crazy. I can't stand it." Dorian shouted at Aunt Claudia. "Tell them to _va fa'n culo_. That's the right thing for them." He stood up, grabbed his coffee, and walking to the sink, throwing the remainder into the drain. "There. Serves them right." He burst out laughing. Throwing coffee down a drain really would show them.

" _Calma, calma_." Aunt Claudia looked over, concerned. "This is a time for reflection. You cannot let the reporters get to you. You are letting it make you crazy. They don't have that power."

She was right. And who was he kidding? Had he ever hurt anyone in his life? No. How would he actually punch these wily blowhards?

With a start, Dorian realized Aunt Claudia's eyes burned red and swollen. She'd been crying. He reminded himself that Aunt Claudia and Mamma had been tight. They'd relentlessly retell the story at every opportunity, that strangers could never tell who was younger or older, even though they were two years apart in age. She must be feeling this as bad as he was. How could she keep standing, doing her thing?

"I don't even want to be alive right now, Auntie."

Dorian barely noticed the massive Duomo cathedral soaring in front of him as he walked alone across the wide square that dominated the center of Milan. Seeing the cathedral's huge floating form awakened a tiny shade of hope he would have sworn he'd never feel again. Decorated with myriad delicate spires, statues and arches, the Duomo seemed to fly. He could feel its connection to what was good in the universe, to comfort, to god. The cathedral seemed to touch down for a mere moment, allowing him to climb the stone steps to the intricately carved wooden doors. As he approached, priests blocked his way. "We're keeping tourists out," they explained somberly. "The cathedral is only open for the Casso family funeral today. I know, it's unusual. It's almost never been done before. The Archbishop insisted." They took his name and checked him off a list. He saw the look in their eyes change. "We're so sorry for your loss." He was gently ushered through the massive door.

His tired eyes adjusted to the gloom. Huge fluted columns soared towards vaulted arches high above. Wooden pews ranged across the flagstone floor, facing the massive altar like ripples in a pond, up the main hall and in from the transept, seats filled with ant-like black-clad people carpeted against the vast interior. How could there be so many?

So many people he'd never met and didn't know. Yes, a blessing, but then what did they really care? They didn't know his parents. Was it just the news? What else would drive so many here? Shouldn't this be family only? Who'd organized it all? He had no idea. He'd come, that was all.

He gripped the inside of lip in his teeth, suppressing sobs into his chest. He had to hold it together, now more than ever.

He walked the long aisle to the front, just before the altar, sitting down near his aunt and uncle.

As the ceremony started, Dorian felt the comfort he'd felt when he'd first seen the curch, slip away. His heart felt black; nothing wanted to stir within it. He would endure, nothing more was possible.

After a time the Archbishop spoke, climbing to his fluted pulpit, voice echoing through the cavernous chamber. He soothed as he explained the justness of Jesus and the mercy of god. His soft voice turned Dorian's mind to the past. Dorian found himself remembering a summer evening near the beach in Liguria. His mother was teaching him how to ride a bicycle. How many times had he fallen off just that day? It had felt like hundreds. Federica had wandered off and only Mamma stuck around in the gathering gloom of the early evening. He'd screamed in frustration. He wasn't smart enough to ride a bike; wasn't it obvious? But Mamma wouldn't give up. Over and over she'd boost him to perch on the bike seat, Mamma holding onto the back, balancing him. Two, three meters she would run with him, as he'd sped away, almost instantly falling over in a heap a few meters on.

The streetlights had switched on one by one, flickering their yellow pools of light. He could remember it exactly. Mothers called their children in for dinner from the houses on either side of the street.

"I can't," he'd said. Humiliation seared through him.

"One last try," Mamma had said smiling. "Then we eat."

He got on, done with caring, resigned to never being able to ride ever in his life. Resigned that he would watch everyone else in the world ride past him on their shiny bikes. He would just have to cope.

"Let's go," Mamma had said. They pushed forward, down the center of the road, faster and faster. Mamma ran faster than ever before. Soon they had raced half way to the end of the road. "Mamma, you can let go now," he shouted excited, wind rushing through his hair. He pedaled furiously, curving around the corner. He wanted Mamma to let go. Why didn't she? He turned his head to tell her; she wasn't there. It was just him, and he was farther down the road then he had ever ridden before.

Surprised, he jerked the handlebars. The front wheel wobbled violently. Dorian held on as tight as his little hands could. The front wheel of the bike slipped out from under the bike, slamming the frame to the ground. Dorian and the bike roughly sledded, grinding along the pavement. He could feel gravel digging into his knee as the tangle of bike and Dorian stopped. He vaguely felt the big red gash throbbing on his knee.

He didn't care. All he knew was that he'd ridden a bike by himself. No need for Mamma to hold him. He wasn't too stupid.

He picked the bike up, full of joy. Excited, he limped back to Mamma, who he found standing far up the street, hands on hips, smiling. "Mamma, Mamma, I did it," he shouted. "I did it."

A high note in the chorus reminded Dorian he was still in the Duomo at the funeral. He glanced around the assemblage, spotting Ispettore Davide far away in one of the perpendicular blocks of pews. The blackness in his heart grew deeper. Dorian was being forced to count on Davide, the very same Davide who couldn't believe that the killers were in fact looking for Dorian's black box. How would that work out, then? How would they ever find the criminals?

He bowed his head until Aunt Claudia rose to the podium, her voice coming out strong and clear. "Cassandra was my sister," she started, her eyes scanning the assembled crowd. She is stronger than I am, Dorian realized, suprised.

She continued, "Cassandra's husband, Hugo was my brother. By marriage, but still my brother. Federica was more than a niece, she was my very own daughter. I feel this loss as much as any person could. Each lived with courage and conviction. They enjoyed life, they loved every minute. They were the most gentle people I've known in my time on our planet, and I will miss them so much more than I can imagine." Her voice cracked, its strength disappearing suddenly. "Whenever the burden of my many patients would be too strong, Cassandra was always there with a word to put me back on track." A smile crossed her lips. "She would tell a joke that made whatever troubles I faced seem silly, unimportant. That person, my best friend and sister can never be replaced. The whole family, they were all as unique as snowflakes, or flowers. Each bringing beauty and wonder to the world. But like all things living, god does not permit them to exist forever. We must continue, but without the beauty that was Cassandra, Hugo and Federica in our lives. We must continue without their support, their love, and their humor." She stopped. Tears streamed down as her shoulders shook silently. Uncle Tomaso rushed to the dais to give her a handkerchief, but she waved him away. She raised her head. "You must know what is left," she spoke. "They have left behind another son, forced much too suddenly to become an adult. His life shattered for reasons that no one can explain or justify. He must pick up and find a new path each day, mourning and yet needing eventually to forget his loss and continue a life that is still being formed."

It took Dorian a moment to comprehend who that person was. Tears poured down his cheeks, splashing unnoticed onto his suit pants.

Dorian sat on the bed, sheets and pillows unmade, red hair stuck out in all directions. His eyes, red and dull from crying, glanced at the clothes strewn around the room. He could feel a desultory breeze slink in the window, doing nothing to cut the heat. It felt like he was in a sick bed.

"You need to come out. It's time," Aunt Claudia said, opening the door into his cave..

"No, I just want to sleep." He lay down, closing his eyes and pulling the sheets up to his chin.

"I've booked you a ticket back to Boston. Your flight leaves tomorrow evening."

"But."

"It was too much to leave you here rotting in an over-hot room with only old pictures to look at. You've got to pick yourself up. You didn't have a choice about what happened. But it's also in no way your fault. God has left you behind to continue in this world, and continue you must. No amount of sorrow, or remorse will bring them back. Your life going forward will show what kind of person you are. It will be the legacy that Hugo and Cassandra will be known by."

"I don't want to." They should have just killed him. That would have been better.

"I'm in pain as well, you know. But don't make it worse by falling in a pit. It's bad enough that three people are gone. Don't make it four."

"I just can't." He pulled the sheets over his head.

"Get dressed, I'm taking you out to buy some clothes."

Dorian woke up, feeling clear. No sweat beaded on his forehead after the temperatures had fallen during the night. The weather had changed.

He showered, toweled himself dry and put on the clothes Auntie had forced him to buy. He couldn't sit around wallowing in unbearable pain anymore. Not that knowing he needed to act could stop the random stabs to his heart that would nearly drop him to the ground.

He had to find these people. He had to figure out what was going on and put a stop to it. It was the only thing that mattered.

The plan wasn't the best, but it was a start. First, he'd hide himself in plain sight because they'd probably want to kill him. He would take advantage of the _Corriere's_ poor reporting; from here on he'd be officially studying at the University of Bologna. Basically, if no one knew where he was, how would they find him? If he expanded on the _Corriere's_ mistakes, and amplified them, maybe he could redirect the killers' attention to the wrong place. Who would disbelieve the reporting of the most respected paper in Italy?

He found his laptop, and went online, the plan solidifying. Within minutes he'd created a Facebook profile that placed him at the University of Bologna. Next he found a few mailing lists. Carefully, he registered and planted a number of postings connecting him back to the Facebook profile and to his parents and the University. After researching classes online, he'd casually mention he'd attended them on the mailing lists. He uploaded a random photo of someone he found on Flickr, hoping the killers didn't have an up to date picture yet. A few Photoshop tweaks later, the random person's photo couldn't be recognized. Dorian posted the new picture to his profile, complete with hair color a dark brown rather than reddish. That should do the trick. Of course it wouldn't withstand a serious background check, or even some photo analysis, but at least it corroborated what the newspapers had published. Hopefully it would be enough.

He packed his bags and went downstairs, gulping down the eggs and espresso that Aunt Claudia put in front of him.

"What have we here?" she said.

"You were right. It's time to get going. I have to get back to Boston, and back to finding the killers."

"Oh god. That's not what I meant. Yes, go back to Harvard. Get your education. But please don't chase these dangerous people. That's what the police are for. Leave it to them."

"But Auntie, the police don't believe me on what happened. How can I trust them to do anything right?"

"Oh dear. It's a bad idea darling. Trust me. A really bad idea."

"I can't. You said it yourself. What I do now is my family's legacy. I can't slink off and hide away in college. It was you who said it Auntie."

"I know, I know. But not what I meant at all."

"No, maybe not. That changes nothing, does it? Please support me in this."

"You know I will always support you. But you must be careful. Very careful."

Dorian sighed. "Yes, that is true."

Dorian trudged through the already falling leaves to his Calculus A class, his mind soggy with lack of sleep while unable to stop racing through the events that had swallowed his life. Only entering the section room, high up in the Science Center, did he realize he'd forgotten to do the homework. With a shrug, he leaned down as he squeezed into a combination chair-desk, flicking a leaf off the bottom of his pure white sneakers. Why didn't they have enough left-handed desks in here? It was a serious pain. Not that he was likely to understand a word out of the section lead's mouth, so maybe there was no point in him being here in the first place. Shouldn't English skills be a requirement? His own Italianish English was much better than his section lead's Balkan mumble.

As the class wore on, Dorian's mind drifted to the killers. He needed to get to them before they figured out where he was. Right now he didn't have a clue who they were. Nothing. Dorian looked around at twenty-odd bored students. Had the killers already found him? Was his future killer sitting there? What was the chance of that?

He scanned the backs of heads, the sides of faces, the listing bodies and closed eyes. No one gave him any notice whatsoever. Probably not any of these people. He'd have to keep his eyes open to see if anyone acted funny.

As he shuffled out, Dave, another student turned his way. "Do you want to work on the problem set. I'm free tonight? Be glad to team up."

Dorian almost said yes. He knew he needed help, but it was too dangerous. "No. I'm busy. Thanks though." He couldn't afford to put himself at risk right now. Strike that, he probably couldn't put himself at risk ever.

"No problem. See you next class."

"Yeah."

## Pixes

Dorian was tired. Tired of being on edge. Tired of keeping the killing of his parents secret from everyone at Harvard and the Deep Noders. Tired of searching every goddamn night for clues on the internet. Hunting forums, web sites, breaking into this server and that, all to find the killers. Nothing. No hints came up anywhere. And worse, he didn't know where to look next. The police in Milan had nothing, and there weren't any other leads. Everything totally quiet. Sometimes he'd wake in the middle of the night, thinking the last few weeks had all been a dream. But the world didn't look right. His classes were still mostly blurs.

But fuck it, tonight Dorian would relax. It was time to upload a movie, compete with his friends. Maybe he could flush out the killers by getting back in the saddle, but mostly, he needed to do something different tonight, something fun.

A few hours ago, he'd gotten ahold of a just released DVD Screener of _Superheroes: Going Nuclear_ , instead of one of those shitty, jerky handheld jobs filmed in some back alley theater. So much easier to grab once the movie had been released. Somewhere across campus, his server farm was cranking away at the DVD, turning it into beautiful pixes, shorthand for a movie ripe for uploading to the servers. Good pixes meant good movie quality so when people downloaded the flick, it'd look good. Well, to call it _his_ server farm was a bit generous since these were computers he'd hacked into and taken over.

The best part of the whole thing was taunting his anonymous friends. And he loved his nickname: Code. He'd picked it up three years ago when he produced amazing pixes off a Cam screener, the jerky movie theater kind. He'd managed to clean up the video and the audio so it looked almost as good as a DVD Screener using software, or code, that he'd written. So they called him Code. And his code had been the best ever since, and therefore he almost always had the best code and the best pixes.

    Code:       I am good to go, all you
                little people.
    70mm:       We'll see what you come up
                with, without your personal
                server.
    Code:       Don't be worrin' 'bout me. I
                am so all over it.
    nil8:       Wicked smooth, bitches. Sly
                fly by. Don' spect much from
                y'all. My pixes like Texas.
    70mm:       Wut? Pixes as big as all
                Texas? Hahahahah
    nil8:       No, dumb ass. Smooth as Texas
                crude. Best image you've ever
                see.

Dorian laughed. These were his people. He'd created a new and better algorithm that week when he should have been doing a programming class. It would help him win. Today Code would win again. Didn't matter that he didn't have a server anymore. Now the movie would be encoded that much faster, and the pixes would be that much better.

Dorian looked at his watch. Another few hours, and the encoding would be done. Then time for the download.

He walked into the bathroom, and took a shower for the first time that day. The headlines for the reviews had been predictable: 'A Blast', 'Explosive', ' _Superheroes: Going Nuclear_ will blow you away', and so on. Dorian thought he could have done better had he written the reviews himself, but for sure the movie was going to be a popular one. Except for that one review: 'a whole lotta fuse for such a teeny boom.' The water from the shower slid off his head, warming his whole body. He could feel the tension seep out of his shoulders, and roll down the drain. Now I can have some food.

Dorian's computer burst out Bohemian Rhapsody quite suddenly a few hours later, filling the dorm room with Freddy Mercury. Dorian rolled off his bed, feet thumping onto the floor. He jogged over to the computer, cutting off the music with one stroke.

    Code:       Initiating download, suckas.
    70mm:       Shit.
    Striptz:    Ever fuckin' time.

He opened a secure connection, and started the transfer. Slowly, bit by bit, his beautiful pixes of _Superheroes: Going Nuclear_ were copied over the internet. Dorian couldn't help but watch the progress on his screen, watching the arrow move to the right and the numbers go up and up even though he knew that just like waiting for water to boil, file transfers were not speeded up by the watching.

    Transfer File: 
    Superheroes.Going.Nuclear
    >>>     .XVid.DVD-Screener.[DeepNode].avi

    From: cpmsci306x.harvard.edu  
    To: fosft.destinez-shipping.tw

    345608322 bytes completed 
    {================>----------------}

He was going to win, beating everyone else in the Deep Noders group, both for being faster, and having better pixes.

His eyes had started blurring from staring, when suddenly, the windows on his screen disappeared, including the one watching the transfer.

"What the hell?" he said.

    Code:       Is my download still workin?
    Ruutor:     Just check. No. U screwed.
    Code:       They must have caught on.
                That's what I get for
                borrowing servers. Booted me
                off. Shit.
    Ruutor:     Look like.
    Gaffer:     My download's ready. Sit back
                and lose, Code.
    70mm:       Good to be king!!!!!!!!!!!!!!
    Code:       I won pixes. Ruutor, check
                the pixes that are there from
                the download.
    Ruutor:     Doin' now.
    70mm:       Don' matter 1 bit. I'm first.
                I'll win. You can't finish.
                No complete download. Only
                way prove pixes, bud.
    Code:       Fuck off.
    Ruutor:     What's there is good. Code's
                got good pixes, but only half
                a movie.
    Striptz:    70mm's right, Code.
    Code:       About what?
    Early Bird: You gotta bring whole movie.
                Not a part to win.
    70mm:       Rules rulz!
    Code:       Bastards.
    Striptz:    Code, is everthing alright?
                You seem a bit out of it.
    Code:       No Striptz. I'm fine.

    USER Code LEAVES CHANNEL

Dorian banged his fist on the computer. He stood up and threw himself onto his bed. "Fuck," he muttered under his breath. It figured that he'd start losing now.

## Peer to Peer

A few days later, the panic had mostly subsided. Andrea strolled into the office around ten, not eight thirty. A few loose ends needed cleaning up, but overall the release was now someone else's problem. Rather than jump back into the SAP upgrade, Andrea logged into the accounting system to investigate Beehive. She spent the morning sifting through the minutiae of the accounts, the money flows and the related data.

Suddenly Marco stood over her desk.

"They've found _Superheroes_ on the peer to peer sites. It's available for download from a DVD Screener," Marco said, leaning over Andrea's cube. "Thank god we opened the movie already. I'd hate to have it come out before the national release."

"Shit." She pounded a fist on her desk, upset.

"I know. What a bitch."

The studio had been worried for some time about movies coming out on the P2P networks before general release in movie theaters. Andrea wasn't looking forward to the day it happened, and the stress they'd all be put under.

Marco looked at her screen. "What are you working on?"

"Nothing. The SAP upgrade."

"Yeah right. Tell me that's not Beehive."

She hung her head sheepishly, then looked up at him sidelong. "I need a little excitement in my life. I was curious."

"Curiosity killed the cat." He frowned. Then smiled. "As long as you get your work done, I don't care. And don't piss anybody off. Anyway, I'm taking the afternoon off."

"I'll find out who posted it."

"Sure. Whatever."

She adjusted her chair and focused her mind to bring back her hacker brain. It was a fairly rusty part of the brain, since she hadn't really broken into any servers since college. Though she did still have a server running at her old university that no one had ever found.

She opened a tunnel to that server to hide her tracks while avoiding the Melbox Movies firewall. From there she connected to a movie related IRC channel, a sort of chat service. She knew that by connecting with those extra jumps between servers that it would be tricky to track her down to her employer, which would have naturally made anyone pirating movies nervous. And likewise, she didn't think Melbox Movies would be that keen for her to be traipsing around in piracy chat rooms.

She typed in her favorite handle: Bunny.

    USER Bunny ENTERS CHANNEL

    Squelch:    hey bunny. where you been?
    Bunny:      tending to my hutch
    Squelch:    should tell you, that don't
                nobody stop the chief
    Early bird: shut your face
    Squelch:    Scrw u
    Early bird: u want the glory but don't do
                nothing
    Squelch:    It's out there. We got it 13
                hours 25 minutes
    Bunny:      well, nice to drop in on a
                battle. wut you arguing? rip
                of superheroes? so who won?
                doesn't sound like you, sq.
    Early bird: 70mm got it in 13 hours, 1
                minute.
    Squelch:    wuz second
    Early bird: cuz Code lost his node
    Squelch:    wouldda done it anyway
    Early bird: with your limp ass encoding.
                anybody watches that shit and
                gives up movies for life. too
                terrible, the pixes like...
    Bunny:      going now. too much to do. c
                u later.
    Early bird: snow with a faint hint of
                picture. and your pixes. oh
                god the pixes. sub-normal no
                doubt
    Squelch:    bye bunny
    Early bird: bye b!

    USER Bunny EXITS CHANNEL

Andrea closed the IRC channel, her heart pounding. They are bragging. I had no idea. And they remember me.

She ran a program to break into CommuniGator's servers. CommuniGater was a service that tracked the distribution of movies on the P2P networks. She had to hack in because the CEO of Melbox refused to pay for CommuniGator's reports, claiming the company was promoting the trafficking in stolen movies.

At the CommuniGator reports console she queried _Superheroes: Going Nuclear_. The extent of the damage became instantly clear: thousands of copies had made it onto all the networks: BitTorrent, eDonkey, Kademlia, the usenet news groups, and some emerging networks she'd never heard of.

It made her wonder: how fast could she get a movie out there? Starting from a console over in the production wing, she could probably generate one with fantastic pixes in about two hours.

Would she ever do that, even though those guys really pissed her off? She hoped not. But, well, that's probably exactly what she'd do if Melbox tried to fuck her over. Ha ha, she was powerful! For now...

## IRC

The IRC application popped open a secure chat message onto his screen. That meant it was someone who didn't want the conversation electronically overheard, just like a bank website.

    ReeperG:    I know who you are. Your
                sister screamed like a little
                bitch, and now you will too.
                You are scum and you know it.
    Code:       who are u? what do you want?
    ReeperG:    Stay away from your servers
                you little punk. You don't,
                you die.
    Code:       But I don't be doin'
                anything.
    ReeperG:    I don't have to spell it out
                for you. You know what you're
                up to and I do too.

The connection ended.

"What the fuck was that?" Dorian splurted. That wasn't what he had in mind. He'd thought some evidence would appear, not that they'd come right after him. Ok, but at least the guy was finding him electronically. That was something to be happy about. And if he'd really wanted him dead, why would he get in touch first?

"Would you pipe down, please?" his roommate said, not even turning from his desk.

"Sorry." Dorian turned briefly to look over at his roommate's back. Did he see anything? Ok, this was definitely what he'd been waiting for. With a few clicks he started up a program called Tracer, which he'd written to catch any incoming communication, including chats like this. With it, he could figure out exactly which machine had sent the chat, and thereby know exactly who was contacting him.

Tracer was one of dozens of little programs he used routinely to track and protect himself online. Next Dorian looked at all the other little pieces of evidence a message like this would leave behind, like the key IP addresses in the firewall and IRC logs.

His sleuthing only took a few minutes. All he could find were dead ends. Fake and anonymous information. The motherfucker was hiding, and the motherfucker was much better than Dorian had expected.

Who was ReeperG actually? Was he really associated with the killers? Or was he messing with Dorian's mind? This dickhead could have easily read some article in a paper and figured out what was going on. But, something didn't sit right. The threat felt authentic in a way he couldn't put his finger on. He needed to stay on his toes. Watch his surroundings.

"I'm going to bed," he told his roommate.

"Don't you have a paper to write?"

"I'll do it in the morning. Too tired right now. Brain not working."

"Whatever, bud."

The truth was that Dorian couldn't focus on anything. As he lay down in his bed, he realized he might be awake for the duration. But at least he would try to get a few minutes sleep.

In the middle of the night, Dorian jerked straight up, covered in a cold sweat that drenched him and the pillow. Oh god. He knew why he believe ReeperG. He was so stupid that he didn't think of it sooner. It all clicked. First, no one could connect his call sign 'Code' to himself physically. He'd made sure of that. Secondly, the story of the murders wasn't reported in the US news. Other than Harvard officials, he hadn't told anyone what happened. Unless it was one of his close friends. But then, they still didn't know about 'Code'. He'd kept the two worlds completely separate, and unless his roommate had been looking over his shoulder really carefully, no one from either side knew about the other. Except for apparently ReeperG. No one who knew about Code knew about his sister, or that she had died violently. It was all impossible unless this ReeperG really was the killer.

He climbed out of bed, feeling cold all over.

Right now, he needed to turn his computer into a trap. If ReeperG so much as sent a buzz at him, he'd know it and track the contact back. This couldn't happen again. Next time, when ReeperG got in touch, he'd have to be ready. After that, there might never be another chance.

Hours later, as the sun rose outside his window, Dorian leaned back, eyes burning with exhaustion. If ReeperG called, his enhanced Tracer would instantly penetrate every aspect of the communication, pinpointing the caller by tracing the packets up and down the internet, tracking each contact point from his computer to the place where ReeperG was sitting in front of a computer, one painstaking hop at a time.

He'd also broken into the core of the internet, a huge bunker outside of Washington, DC, where almost all US internet traffic had to pass. Chances were, if ReeperG contacted Dorian, his messages would go through the bunker. Dorian had installed, after dodging the latest anti-viral technology, special software he'd written that would catch any messages sent to him or by him, and would be able to see through any anonymizing technology ReeperG might try to throw into the middle, by seeing both sides of the message.

Finally, he added custom tracer tones to his internet telephone, in case ReeperG called. The software sent a coded noise, like the sound of a fax, over the audio signal. That noise would force ReeperG's computer to reveal its true identity, even if ReeperG had set up vadering on his voice.

Finally Dorian could sleep. All was in place to catch the monster.

## Back to base

    IRC LOG: INTERCEPTED 1-OCT 08:45 UTC

    <A>:        Stop yelling. You have your
                orders.
    <B>:        FUCK U. MY JOB IS CLEAR. AND
                THIS ISN'T IT!!!!!!!
    <A>:        Listen to me. You must
                frighten him. That's an
                order.
    <B>:        I signed up for surveil. Not
                this shit. U WACCHIT.
    <A>:        Chill out.
    <B>:        U TAKE CARE OF CONSEQUENCES.
                NOT ME!!!!! You guys r
                fuckups.
    <A>:        We had a screwup. A minor
                setback. Yes. True. Admitted.
                Doesn't change what is needed
                from you.
    <B>:        Minor setback? Really?
    <A>:        Looking for authorization of
                further action. I can't
                engage now. Need to speak to
                command. HQ has not provided
                clarification of position.
    <B>:        shut up with military-
                industrial speak.
    <A>:        If you don't threaten him, we
                will find you. Don't think
                what happened to him can't
                happen to you.
    <B>:        ha. threat me. nice try
                nipwad.
    <A>:        I'm serious.
    <B>:        you MURDER a family. You call
                it a minor setback and now
                you say 'same for me'
    <A>:        Shhh
    <B>:        Fuck u. I'm only person who
                can break these codes. Why
                you think u hire me? How you
                get targets? huh? huh? huh?
    <A>:        We can't talk here. Against
                protocol
    <B>:        Shove protocol up your ass. I
                quit.
    <A>:        Oh no you don't
    <B>:        i'm a thousand your mental
                weight

    ENCRYPTION KEY CHANGES. LOGGING TERMINATED

## On Track

"How are you dealing with this new phase of your life?" Richard South, his advisor asked, sitting in the lotus position on an impossibly small chair.

Dorian shifted uncomfortably. "Ok, I guess." He was in Richard's dorm room amongst dark carpets and tightly stacked book shelves. The light seemed almost reddish and the air close.

Richard studied history, and so had little to say about Dorian's computer science. Richard had called the meeting due to 'the tragic demise of your family.' The phrase kept swirling through Dorian's head. It made him want to punch things. He should never have told the university anything.

"'Cause losing so much. It can be devastating." Richard's long fingers twittered nervously.

"Yeah. I guess."

"The College asked me to see what I could do to help you. That's why we're talking. Anything you need, you just ask."

"I don't need anything."

"Counseling, medication—to help you sleep, you know? I could even work on getting your exams pushed out, though I guess it's a bit early in the term for that." He grasped for a book on his desk, his fingers sliding off without picking it up.

"Look, I'm fine." Dorian couldn't look Richard in the eye.

"We might be able to work on your grades. You know like the kids with the roommate who commits suicide? They get all As that semester."

"What?"

"I think it's just a myth. But I can check."

"You have got to be kidding me." Dorian stood up, stepping towards Richard, his hands balled into fists. "Don't ever joke about this shit to me."

Richard began shaking, then fell from his chair, flopping helpless on the floor, trying hard to untangle his lotus positioned legs. His lips turned purple as he spluttered. "I didn't mean anything by it." He managed to unlock himself and lay helpless, looking up at Dorian. "I've never had to do his before. I don't know shit about loss of any sort. Forgive my crudeness and insensitivity. Forgive the way I've acted. I truly have your best interests sincerely in mind, but in this instance I have sorely let you down." He rubbed a knee.

"Forget it." Dorian said, turning around suddenly to hide tears. "I've got to go."

"Any help, call me," said Richard as Dorian left the room.

Dorian got up, washed his hands, splashed water on his face and sat back down in front of the computer, shaking his arms to loosen the muscles. Everything had been quiet for almost a week. Maybe ReeperG would stay away. Or worse, what if he showed up in person, and put a gun in his face. He shook to clear the image out. Time to check in with the boys online.

    USER Code ENTERS CHANNEL

    Striptz:    then th bike went flyin.
                wicked air, but smacked my
                ass good
    nil8:       with ass like u must be
                padded nice
    Striptz:    like u leave ur computer
                ever. u have any muscles?
    nil8:       'nuff to please the ladies my
                friend.
    Code:       Hey everybody

    USER <unknown identity> EXITS CHANNEL

    70mm:       sweet. u back?
    Code:       yup. and muscles working in
                good shape. haha.
    nil8:       haha
    Code:       and last time i flipped a
                bike, landed on my head, need
                4 stiches
    Striptz:    see!!!!!!!!!!!!
    70mm:       so what's going on?
    Code:       who just left chat?
    Albu:       sumbody cloaking. didn't even
                want a user name. didn't know
                our chat software could do
                that kind of security. donit
                worry u?
    Ruutor:     weird, no?
    Code:       yes
    Albu:       i'll drop in a patch to stop
                that. only authentic people
                can enter from now.
    Code:       got few Q's for u
    70mm:       shoot. u kno wat happ to your
                server, Code?
    Code:       so, lots servers
                disappearing, but only deep
                nodes. 4 less deep nodes now.
                no other servers gone. wuts
                going on? any ideas?
    Albu:       freaking me out. should be
                here still. and no sign of
                fps and gaffer
    Ruutor:     and cell
    Albu:       and cell, yes
    Ruutor:     where'd they go?
    nil8:       they gettin 2 many hummers.
                if i get laid enough, id give
                up the movie downlode race.
                claudia shiffer are u there?
    Striptz:    haha
    nil8:       she don luv me
    squelch:    nobuddy gonna stop me. less
                competition.
    Code:       is anybud worried?
    Albu:       hell yeah
    squelch:    hell no. haha
    70mm:       we gotta stick together. even
                if we don't know each other,
                we know each other. capish?
    nil8:       hand jobs for everyone!
    Striptz:    so when's the next convoc?
    Albu:       Pixar's new movie out on
                thurs
    Striptz:    no, serious stuff. no
                cartoons
    70mm:       next oliver stone comes out
                in 2 week. should be a big
                one. lots of special effects.
                could be tricky with the
                pixes. Convoc for oliver
                stone?
    nil8:       ready ready ready. nobody
                squish my pixes.
    Ruutor:     u never win nil8. i'm in for
                convoc. ready to win this
                one.
    nil8:       shut up. get your deep node
                and then talk to me
    Ruutor:     everone can speek here
    nil8:       i'm waiting for your big move
    Code:       cool it guys. so no big
                ideas. buddies disappear. we
                don't know nothin. anybody
                getting hurt?
    Albu:       what do you mean, hurt?
    squelch:    ill kick their asses
    70mm:       no hurting
    Albu:       why is Code asking. you hurt
                Code?
    Code:       no, nothing. no hurt
    Albu:       phew [wipe my hand across
                forehead]
    nil8:       fraidy cat [makes expansive
                gesture of amusement that
                snidely mocks Albu]
    Code:       hey, gotta run. phone ringing

    USER Code EXITS CHANNEL

Dorian clicked on the incoming call icon. 'Unknown user'. He started the vadering, and launched security measures. He actually loved vadering. It made sure no one could recognize his voice, and he got to sound like Darth Vader in the bargain. The software even knew how to take his soft breaths and turn them into honest to god Darth wheezing. Sweet.

"Hello? Hwaaaaaww-khwuuuuuu, Hwaaaaaw-khwuuuuu."

"Hello," a clown voice responded.

"Who's this?"

"You don't recognize me? Must be my vadering. You like the clown sound? Slick, isn't it?"

Dorian stiffened. Different vadering software, so a different sound. This time a grating clown voice. "No, I don't recognize you."

He launched the new call tracer, his fingers blurring over the keyboard, text scrolling across his screen. His software automatically recorded the call. Soon his whole screen flashed with the results of various software he was running to catch ReeperG.

"You may know me as the person who will kill you."

"Who are you? Why do you want to hurt me?"

"You don't need to know, Code. Or should I call you Dorian."

Smoothly, Dorian punched the button to start the tone that would reveal ReeperG's computer identity.

Error. Shit, he'd tried it out five times before. How could the damn thing fail now?

"I don't know. Who do you think I am?" Dorian needed to keep ReeperG on while he fixed the tracer. He'd keep the guy talking, while typing at the same time, but not too hard so the clicking keys didn't transmit through the vadering.

"I know who you are. How is the mourning going? You happy your tiresome parents don't bother you anymore?"

Dorian wanted to scream. No, must keep his head. This was a battle for his life. "I can't be put in fear by you, you piece of dirt." He typed a few commands and relaunched the tracer. Wait for it. "If I find you, you'll pay." Wait for it. Error again. He opened a browser and looked for the error, searching the google results as fast as he could.

"Touchy, touchy my little Freshman."

"Why are you doing this?"

"Why? What a stupid question from a stupid person. Money of course. Lots and lots of money. More than you'll see in your soon to be cut short lifetime."

"It's just movie downloads."

"I've got powerful bosses. Very powerful."

"And who are they?"

"Ha ha ha. How dumb do you think I am? Now shut up you punk and listen very very carefully. Tell me this, who should die next?"

"No one. You're sick." Here's a possible solution on Google. He typed it in, shifted the configuration file to a new directory, and pressed go. "And I'm going to get you, you bastard." Wait for it. Wait for it. It worked! Thank god.

An undetectable tone sounded onto the call from Dorian's computer, snaked out to the internet, connected from one router to the next router for twenty-seven hops, until it emerged in the software on the machine on the other end of the call. There the tone triggered ReeperG's calling software to responded with a flurry of data packets encoding the location of the machine. In a few seconds, Dorian's computer had captured thousands of these location packets.

"I think I'll kill Striptz," said the clown. "He seems like the right kind, or should it be nil8? Oh I don't know. Do you know their real names?"

"No." Now that he had a definite lock on ReeperG's computer somewhere in his logs, he didn't need the call anymore.

"I do. But I'm not telling you. That way, no one will know they've disappeared in the real world."

Dorian's stomach lurched unpleasantly. He wouldn't listen. "I'm not afraid of you, you scum."

"You should be. I know exactly your dorm room in Wigglesworth. I'll see you there soon." He paused. "That's all. Goodbye. Ha ha ha."

The call ended.

This is who killed his family. The room spun around him. His eyes went so tired he could barely move. With difficulty, he pushed himself up from the chair, pulled himself across the room and into bed. His eyes closed instantly. Sleep enveloped him like a sock.

Dorian dragged his eyes open. The room had darkened. What time was it? Seven-thirty? He needed to analyze the logs from the call before it was too late. The next hour before dinner should just about do it. He collected all the logs from the various tracking programs he'd used, all into one directory, where he could easily crunch them. He mangled, sifted and searched through the thousands of lines of cryptic messages, each needing research. Eight-thirty came and went. By ten he'd stolen a chocolate bar from his roommate's stash and kept going, pausing only long enough to get a Coke from the machine at the next entryway. By eleven, when his testy roommate came home, Dorian had compiled a list of candidate internet addresses for intense investigation. They were the ones that counted.

Success was close. He'd gotten ReeperG's MySpace profile. Look it up and he would know the evil clown. Dorian's brain felt like a snow globe turned upside down with the flakes falling past the little statue. The screen wobbled as he looked at it through watery eyes. His hands jittered like the arm of an old fashioned record player powering out 'Helter Skelter'. He'd nearly nailed ReeperG. All he'd have to do is break into the MySpace profile and get ReeperG's details. Easy. He'd done it a hundred times. He was as good as he thought he was. It didn't pay to worry too much right now about what he'd do once he had the information. For now, all he had to do was get the information.

He got up, splashed water on his face for the fifth time that night, stretched his neck to the right and left, sat back down and clicked the link.

## Finance

After lunch, Andrea continued her investigation. She worked to steer her thoughts away from last night: the tossing and turning, the dreams of skull and crossbone brandishing movie download pirates swashbuckling around her. WTF? No, she needed to focus on her little offshore mystery: Beehive.

A couple of dead ends later, she had tracked down all the related accounts, at least the official ones, and ran a consolidated cash flow statement..

    Beehive Financial Statement
    (consolidated cash flows)
    ---------------------------

    Net inflow  $245,253

    Net outflow $0

    Total       $245,253

Well, hell, she thought, that was not a 'couple thousand dollars'. She'd better tell Marco. She punched the print button, walked to the printer near her desk and went to find her rotund boss. After searching the building and finding nothing, she remembered, stupid!, that he had a production meeting with headquarters, and that was at the other end of the studio.

But. This was SERIOUS. She had to tell someone, it was her responsibility. She couldn't—no, not under any circumstances—let the report sit here. She had a responsibility to report this, didn't she? No, she didn't want to call Marco. He wouldn't answer anyway. He was the good boy who turned off his cell phone in meetings, last of the dinosaurs. But if she didn't report it, it would be all her fault as the training liked to tell her. But could she wait? What would happen then? Marco would come back, he'd be pissed as shit that she hadn't passed it along. Or would he be pissed that she had passed it along? Didn't he say something about 'don't piss anyone off?' But of course that was about calling people and bothering them. Ok, fine, she had to tell someone, but who.

Go speak to the Chief Financial Officer, she told herself.

What? That's a terrible idea. Why would he want to hear about it? What a terrible idea. Let the regular channels deal with it. That would be a good idea.

She composed an email to Marco, so he'd see it as soon as he got back.

But that wasn't until tomorrow. Ok, fine, let it be tomorrow. But no, tomorrow was too late. Today.

She made a decision. I'll tell the CFO. If he doesn't like it, screw him. This is my duty.

She gathered the materials into a pile of papers, stapled on the left. As an afterthought, she attached a plastic cover. Straightening her skirt, she wondering briefly if there was a way to pull the hem down a bit. Fuck it. She went upstairs, and burst into the CFO's office.

"You have got to see this report I have," she said, her face flush with excitement.

"Why hello, Andrea," the CFO said. "Good to see you again. Can you give me a second while I finish my call?"

"Oh." Andrea's mouth clamped shut. Shit, she thought. Andrea now noticed the Bluetooth headset on the CFO's ear though she was too embarrassed to listen to the words coming out of his lips. She plopped herself down in a chair at his conference table. Seconds later, she crossed her legs at the ankle. Seconds after that, she uncrossed them again. Whoa, this was probably a bad idea. Should she leave?

She was about to stand and leave, her courage seeping out second by second. But the call ended.

"How can I help you?" the CFO asked.

"So I have this report. I think you need to look at it," Andrea blurted.

"Ok. Let me strap myself in for the ride." The CFO's giant salt-grey eyebrows wiggled above his well tanned face. A smile spread across his lips.

"Yes of course," Andrea said, not quite understanding his point, though vaguely remembering this wasn't the first time she'd burst in, and that the incident of the missing show poodle invoices had not been her most shining glory. In fact, now that she thought about it, those invoices had been a disaster. She'd suspected the director of the first _SuperHeroes_ movie–what's his name–of burying unallowed expenses in poodle rental and grooming invoices. It was logical, given the script (which in retrospect, she should have read) didn't have any poodles in it. Unfortunately, there was a problem. The female lead—why couldn't she remember a single fucking name? the blonde one, you know hot—well the female lead had a special clause in her contract that put all her vast poodle expenses on the studio. Who signed that off she'd never understand. Ridiculous. And she hadn't read the contract either, for that matter. That probably would have been even better to read than the script. So basically, no one had any clue what was in the contract, which led to some extremely unfortunate misunderstandings, and before anyone had pulled the contract, the star was storming off the set in Saskatchewan, four poodles in tow. Good thing the next town was fifty miles away. And even better that the next flight out wasn't for another five days, something quickly discovered by the star at the end of a four hour hitchhiking odyssey.

"So give it to me good and slow," the CFO said, his lips compressing with gravitas.

"Well," and here she wanted some formality, "sir, I did some investigating."

His head nodded gently.

"I found that we have an offshore company. It's called Beehive. Have you ever heard of it? Anyway, it's not exactly fully legit according to what I'm seeing."

"Ok."

"There's a lot of funds going in, and nothing going out." She reached out and dropped her plastic encased paper stack on the sparkling dark mahogany, then turned her report around to face him. "If you look here, we've put almost two hundred and fifty grand into Beehive and got nothing out. Not one cent has been accounted for. And honestly, who has access to those funds?"

The CFO picked up the documents and leafed through them. "Go on," he said.

"So that's the main point. It's a lot of money to be putting into a company we don't know exists and even more if you consider we don't do offshore."

"Is that all?" His head nodded kindly once more.

Andrea sighed. "Yes."

"First of all," and his arms moved in an expansive gesture that encompassed the small room, generously including Andrea, and the back lot of Melbox Movies over his shoulder, "thank you for bringing this to my attention." His voice reminded Andrea of an oboe solo in a vast music hall. "It is of the utmost importance to bring any issues of suspect dealings, be they inadvertent or deliberate, of whatever magnitude, to my personal attention." Now Andrea recognized a familiar ring in the oratory.

"So what you're saying is that I shouldn't worry about this one?" she said, neatly filling in the rest of the CFO's many upcoming paragraphs.

The CFO looked slightly surprised at being pre-empted. "Why, yes. That's the gist."

"And you've never heard of this company?"

"It's common for us to have these types of funds. I'll look into this one personally. I'll let you know if anything comes of it." He rose to his feet, holding his large leathery hand out to Andrea across the desk. "Thank you."

She stood up rather awkwardly, smoothed her skirt, and shook. "Thank you for listening."

As she walked into the hall a text arrived on her cell phone from the actor.

    Would like to see you for dinner
        tomorrow. You game?

She stood there, lost in thought. Did she really want to see this joker again? Well maybe, maybe he'd be worth a kiss. He was quite good looking after all. But then, wouldn't she risk falling asleep while he told her how great he was? Anyway, he probably just wanted to get into her pants. The idea made her smile a little. She began typing a response. She could just hear the CFO apparently on a call.

"Hi. You wanted me to give you a jingle if anyone came snooping around Beehive. Well..." and the door to his office slammed shut.

She must have been out of sight, she thought. She had been standing there silently, after all. She looked around to see if anyone was watching. No one was. What did he mean, snooping? She was just doing her job!

## Move

Dorian didn't know what to expect, his mind dull from staying up all night. A killer with a public MySpace profile? It didn't make a lot of sense. He fiddled with an itch on his neck, waiting for the page to load. Nerves shot though his body. What does a killer look like?

He'd never even imagined, other than seeing them occasionally on television. And even from a young age, he'd figured out that all the killing in movies was an illusion. Fun. He'd create strange worlds, never thinking too hard about whether they happened for real. The showers of blood in _Scarface_ amused him. He'd run around the neighborhood, shooting fake bullets out of his fingers at his friends, imagining blood spurting from the wounds. Not that it was any different than the other kids. Maybe the blood spurts in their imaginations weren't as spectacular, but Dorian didn't know.

He'd always pretended that deaths were stories in a movie plot. Certainly not something he needed to think or worry about. Although, since that horrible day in Milan, pretending didn't work. Revenge had taken pretending's place in his mind.

Maybe his imagination was why Mamma and Babbo's death didn't make sense, initially. They should have been killed in a movie. After a shock and some movie sorrow, he would have come home and said 'good morning, I'm back and ready for a Cappucino.' And this evil person would be an actor.

A black background appeared on the screen. Dorian rubbed his eyes and looked hard. The elements of the page filled in rapidly, adjusting to their final size, but no words or pictures. In the center, as if to tease Dorian, an image refused to load. The page paused, hanging, as Dorian waited to meet his parents' killer.

Dorian blinked. And there it was: the completed MySpace profile.

"Fuck." Dorian kicked the garbage can across the room. "So this is what a killer looks like face to face," he said to the empty room. "Not funny. Officially not funny."

The black and white photo in the middle of the page contained a large obelisk, probably a towering family grave. Revealed in the shadowy light, spires, inscriptions and an arched bronze plaque covered it's ghostly granite face. In the foreground, an intricate iron fence with fleur-de-lis shaped spears on top, loops inside and diamond indents in the metal, crossed the bottom of the photo, etched by the sharp camera flash. It was the figure that stood between the obelisk and the iron fence, that made it clear Dorian had been duped.

He saw a black-robed wraith with a dark hood obscuring its features. It held a scythe in black-gloved hands adorned by glow in the dark skeleton bones. Angel of Death, Dorian recognized the costume instantly. The Angel of Fucking Death.

It sucked, it really sucked. He knew that finding the person that was in the picture, assuming it was possible, or the photographer, wouldn't make any difference. That photo had been pulled off Flickr or some other place on the internet and put on this site to mock Dorian. That was clear.

What a chump he'd been. He'd done everything right, tracked the data, scanned and investigated for hours, and this idiot bastard had let him think he'd won. That was the worst of it. Dorian had actually thought that he had ReeperG ready to be taken down.

In truth, Dorian was nowhere. 'The home page of George Reeper', the page explained. 'George Reeper specializes in eviscerating movie pirates and the expert creation of false identities'.

Suddenly sound blasted into the room. Dorian jumped, adrenaline surging through his system, only to realize he was hearing the music off the web site. Of course. Most MySpace profiles had music on them and naturally, this one would be no different. But the song was different: _Killing Me Softly_ , by the Fugees. Nice touch you bitch.

He should close the site, and give up. That's what Dorian should do, he thought. Clearly this was a dead end, that went without saying.

Or did it? Maybe he could find something else here. And he could still break into the private areas and, just maybe, ReeperG slipped up.

Dorian clicked into the blog. Clearly ReeperG had been expecting him. The pictures mocked him: a poster from _Catch Me If You Can_ , an image of someone's butt. Dorian shook his head. Why did the bastard go through the pain in the ass of creating a site like this, and then leave it empty? It didn't quite make sense.

At least he hadn't found anything bad. But he still had to break into the administrative side of the account, where ReeperG must have put an email address, almost certainly faked, and a real phone number, a lot harder to fake.

In the end it was easy. A bit of Googling and getting on the right hacker site, where the criminals put their malware and he'd downloaded a MySpace breakin plugin for his browser. It did exactly what he wanted, automatically broke into ReeperG's account, after Dorian pointed it in the right direction. He thought how weird it was that all those MySpace users thought they were safe, when really, anyone could get in. It hit him, though, couldn't the same be said about his parents, who thought they had the best locks on their front door? Didn't help them. No, he had to focus.

In the admin console he pulled up the phone number. Interesting, a Florida area code. Well, at least the guy was a little bit further away than Dorian had feared. Well, a couple hours on a plane from there to where Dorian was, not _that_ far.

He picked up his phone, pulse thumping in his temples. This was for keeps.

The call picked up instantly, no ringing whatsoever. That probably meant it was an answering machine, though those usually let the phone ring a few times so someone could answer. Or could it be some kind of voicemail system?

Two seconds later, a laugh came through the line, first quiet and slow, then building gradually louder and faster. Maniacal cackling, really, was the best way to describe the sound, like the Joker in Batman, or the cackling of a witch. He found it very unpleasant. The sound increased and sped up until Dorian had to hold the receiver away from his ear. And suddenly it stopped and the line hung up.

Another ReeperG dead end. Fuck.

Dorian looked at his watch, exhausted. Nothing whatsoever is what he'd gotten out of all this; he'd spent the whole night, not to mention yesterday. And he'd been outdone _._ Simple as that. He rapped his knuckles on the desk. Where had he not looked yet?

'Friends space.' It was a bit lower on the page, and he'd assumed that it would be random. But looking more closely, something wasn't right.

There were only two friends, one 'The Family' and the second 'The Son'. A chill ran through his body. For the first time since the murders, Dorian felt truly scared.

The anguished minutes Dorian had spent standing outside his parents' apartment a few weeks ago, ran through his head. Again he stood here, no idea what he'd find, but not sure he wanted to confront it. What did this ReeperG actually know, and why did he put it on MySpace for Dorian?

But then, did it matter? Dorian had to open the profiles, no matter what ReeperG had put there—because how else could he find the killers? What other way did he have to trap this guy.

He clicked on 'The Family' before he had time to hesitate further, teeth clenched.

The background popped up first, a living room somewhere repeated endlessly across and down the page. No, not somewhere. That was his parent's living room, recognizable even in black and white. There was the painting, and there the dresser. It looked exactly like when he'd seen it last, that terrible day in Milan.

The profile picture, right under the caption 'The Family,' was a picture of the Cassos. His family! He remembered the picture clearly. They had been down at the coast in Liguria. He couldn't remember which time of year, but probably Spring or Fall, because it wasn't that hot. They'd just had lunch at their favorite restaurant, Da Vincis, right on the beach, though he couldn't remember the food. What had they had? Anyway, probably the waiter had taken the picture. He remembered the argument about Federica's sunglasses. She'd wanted to wear them, complaining bitterly about the sun stabbing into her eyes, but in reality wanting to look cool. She'd refused to take them off to the point where Babbo gave up. 'I guess we have enough photos,' he grumbled. Other than the minor discussion, they had all been happy on a pleasant day out.

He looked more closely. The photo had been altered, with Dorian's entire figure drawn over in red, eliminated completely, so nothing could be recognized.

Dorian had to look away. He gripped his mouse to try to stop his hand shaking. It didn't work. The shake spread to his leg. Again he willed it to stop, but the leg wouldn't. He stared at them, the hand and the leg, but could see nothing. He could feel them vibrating violently, but the shaking was inside.

It didn't matter, he told himself. It didn't matter what ReeperG had prepared for him. Right now, he needed to finish looking at the profile.

But he couldn't. He didn't want to know what else ReeperG had for him, no matter how important.

He stood up, rubbed his chin, walked a circle around his chair, and sat down. He absolutely had to do this right now. No excuses.

But couldn't he just send the links to the police?

Great idea, except for the part where they dismissed everything he said, and ridiculed him. No, Dorian had to do this.

He continued looking at the profile. There was actually nothing on the page. The only friend was ReeperG and other than that, only the standard buttons.

That left the pictures. What else could this guy have photos of?

He clicked on 'View My: Pics.' It was either here, or there was nothing.

He glanced across the five pictures which appeared, dark and grainy as they were, with strange shaped blobs which didn't quite read as anything in particular. The confusion lasted a moment, and then Dorian could see exactly what he was looking at. And at that moment, a sharp pain stabbed straight through his heart, as if he'd been impaled on a knife. It couldn't be.

The shaking in his leg got worse. But he forced himself to look at each picture in turn, this time not so sure why it would help, when the police had already been through all of it.

The first showed his sister's room, bathed in a ghostly light. On top of the wooden floor lay an irregular dark reddish blotch, in the middle of which lay a woman. Dorian's head jerked to the side, trying to stop the inevitable. He looked back again, and saw a reddish welt in the middle of the woman's chest, and saw her face, his sister's face. It looked so strange, angular, as if cast in wax. It looked like the whole world had ended in that moment, and all that was left was a shadow of the real world.

He clicked to the next picture. This time is was a closeup of the side of her neck, and the blot of blood below her. He squeezed his eyes shut. The pictures had completed the image from his trip to the apartment. Nothing was left to know.

Quickly he clicked next, not wanting to see more. This time the picture was of his parent's room. It had been taken after the attacks, as the walls had the same loop of bullets he'd seen back in Milan. On top of the bed, he could see a male body, clutching some kind of can in his hand, and the arm of another person. No faces were visible, but who else could it be? The sheets bore dark stains that turned into puddles in a few instances. Again he clicked next. This time he could see the same scene, but from further back. The two bodies lay next to each other, rigid, as if trying to push away some tremendous force. He clicked next, not able to dwell on the picture longer.

The picture that showed up on his screen made the others seem easy to look at in comparison. He stopped for only an instant, not able to look at it any longer than that. It was a close-up of the second figure. The woman on the bed. It must have been Mamma, although there was no way to know. He could see a mouth that had frozen in a scream, or a grimace of terror. A terror that looked absolutely true, not like the movie kind he'd spend so many hours looking at. Above the mouth, he could see a nose, but then nothing more. The rest of the head was missing, leaving only a bloody stump.

Dorian vomited as he stood up, not able to hold back before reaching the bathroom. It landed on his pants and the floor, the acrid smell piercing his nose and the sour acid and little lumps sticking inside his mouth and lips. Oh god! Dorian shook. Why him? Why his parents and sister? More vomit wanted to come out of his empty stomach. Once in the bathroom, he rinsed out his mouth struggling to get rid of the taste, the sticky tendrils between his teeth, spitting into the sink.

He didn't want to live at that moment. All he needed was a bit of change, head down to the T in Harvard Square once the subway opened in the morning. All he had to do was wait for the first train to arrive, and jump at the right moment. And he'd be done with all this shit. There was nothing to be found in those pictures. Nothing. They'd only wanted to hurt him.

Which was why he couldn't stop now. His family had given their lives because of his movie tricks, so he had to make sure the people that did it, paid. There was no other angle. Bring it on, he shouted inside his head.

He sat down at the computer, this time clicking on 'The Son.'

Again, he could see pictures of the inside of some rooms, again at night. But he couldn't see blood. At least that. Although, it made sense, since he wasn't dead.

He clicked on the first picture, zooming in to see it close up. The room looked vaguely familiar, though he couldn't place it. He scrolled the image around, looking at all the features. He noticed a computer in the middle. Suddenly it clicked. What an idiot he'd been. It was the room he was sitting in right at that moment. His dorm room, as seen from his roommates desk. That's why he hadn't recognized it. How the hell did ReeperG have that? What was ReeperG doing in his dorm? He clicked to the next picture. This one showed the door to his bedroom. Now that he knew, it was easy to recognize. He clicked again, his temples throbbing. The third picture showed a figure lying on the lower level of a bunk bed. A quick zoom later, it was clear that it showed Dorian, apparently asleep. He couldn't believe it. Had he slept properly since getting back from Milan? How had they taken the picture? He clicked to the last picture, not knowing what to expect. It was simple and Dorian knew he needed to do something immediately. The picture again showed Dorian asleep, but pointed at his head, it showed a gun, aimed just above the ear. The caption read 'BANG'.

Had they wanted to, they could have killed him.

Dorian didn't move for several hours, but for a twitch here and there, or a shake of the head, little else. The sun's rays gradually threw light into the room. Dorian only noticed a frightful silence. Well past eight am his phone rang.

He should skip the call, sit still, let it go to voicemail. But after a few rings, his hand shot out and lifted the receiver.

"Hello?" He wished for good news, not remembering what good news looked like.

"Hello. Could I speak to Dorian, please?" A British voice? Or Scottish?

"Yes. I'm Dorian."

"Oh. Dear. Let me introduce myself. My name is Tara. Tara Stevens to be precise," the voice said deliberately.

"Ok."

"I knew your sister."

"Oh."

"At LSE. The London School of Economics, that is." Her words eased out.

"Oh."

"We were really good friends since towards the end of last year."

"Did she mention you?"

"She must have."

"I don't remember."

"That's crazy. We spent loads of time together. We were going to room this year. We had it planned after she came back from Milan and me from Edinburgh." She cleared her throat, her voice gained strength.

"Ok."

"Anyways, is this a bad time?"

"Ah."

"I'm calling quickly to tell you how sorry I am about Federica and your parents. She used to talk about all of you so much."

Dorian felt like Tara might have spoken more than she had in a long time. She sounded nice. "They were great," he said.

"It sounds like you really did have such a close family."

Dorian's eyes looked away from the monitor in front of him. "It's sweet of you to call." He should always be polite.

"I was completely a wreck for days when I heard, and it's not my family, though sometimes, from all the stories that Federica told, it felt like it was. It's bloody awful. You must be destroyed."

"Bloody?"

Tara laughed, the sound like an alien signal. "Bloody's a swear word over here. It's British English. I guess you don't use it over in the States?"

"No, not really."

"Well, look. I just wanted to tell you how sorry I am. I didn't want to take much of your time. I'll let you go now. Nice meeting you virtually, speak to you soon."

"Nice meeting you as well." The receiver was halfway down, when he stopped. What would he do now, he panicked. "Hold on," he shouted into the phone, "stay."

"Hello?" She hadn't hung up.

"I don't want you to go. You're the only link I've got to my sister. Tell me how she was like at LSE."

"Oh, golly. And I fully forgot to give you my phone number." Embarrassment poured through the phone. "I'm a dreadful person." She paused. "How was she? I tell you, she was such a wonderful person. She always lit up a room. I know it sounds cliché, but that's what it felt like to me. We would run in Regent's Park, didn't matter what weather. We'd see movies when we had a spot of time. You must know all this."

"Yeah. She was a good sister." He held back tears.

"She loved the artsy-fartsy movies."

"She did."

"But I'm so rude. How are you? It must be terrible."

"Not so good." Could he really tell her about the freak trying to kill him?

Dorian left Boston with immediate effect. He'd realized that sticking around was probably the best way to get himself killed. Until then, he'd assumed he was relatively safe, but ReeperG's pictures demonstrated how wrong that thought had been. It was close to seven pm, and Dorian stood in one of the many grey waiting halls of Boston's Logan Airport, a bag pulling at his shoulder. Inside, his laptop, a book, and essentials. After Tara's call, he'd made the decision, convincing her to take him in. He'd explained how he needed to get away, and soon enough, he'd accepted an offer to visit Tara in London. It would be a good place to hide out. Who would expect him there? Although he doubted Tara would have been eager to take him on if she knew about ReeperG.

His cell phone buzzed: an MMS. It came from his roommate's desktop, that Dorian had modified before leaving. The computer had snapped a picture of a man in a black balaclava and a gun.

Dorian breathed sharply, then sat down.

## Research

Back at her desk, Andrea couldn't exorcise 'snooping'. Her job is what she was doing, she told herself. If she saw something strange, no matter what the CFO said, she had to ferret it out, didn't she? She could just picture the Andrea-faced ferret, whiskers sticking out in all directions, rooting around in a pile of financial papers. She laughed.

"What's so funny?" Marco's head popped over the wall of her cube.

"Oh nothing. Ferrets. Well, me as a ferret. Weren't you supposed to be at that production meeting all afternoon?"

"Yeah. Ended early."

Andrea pursed her lips. "Look, I had this thing I went to the CFO with. I hope you don't mind. I thought you'd be gone too long." Why did these things make her feel sheepish?

Marco raised his eyebrows.

"It was the Beehive thing. Remember we said it might be a few thousand dollars? Well it was two hundred and fifty grand. So, I figured that might be a slight issue, see?"

"So you went to the CFO?"

"Yeah." She looked down.

"And he wasn't interested."

"Yeah."

"Like the famous show poodle incident?"

"Yup." Andrea grimaced. "Ok, ok, so I fucked up. So sue me!"

"It's _your_ reputation girl."

"But..." Should she tell Marco about the CFO's call? No. Why shouldn't she tell him? Fuck if she knew, she just wouldn't.

"But what?"

"Chicken butt!" she answered brightly.

"Screw you." Marco walked away.

The next day, Andrea had slept on the Beehive incident. Her mind was made up. A call to Melbox's auditors should sort this thing out. This was definitely a Sarbanes-Oxley problem. Her contract specifically required her to report it. Not that her reasoning convinced her in the slightest. They'd be pissed off, big time. She wrote the SOX helpline number on a scrap of paper from the handout they'd received in training last spring, the same handout now stuffed in the bottom drawer of her desk. Paper in hand, she walked, snuck?, into one of the meeting rooms.

"SOX hotline. How can I help?"

"Hi, I'm calling to report a concern about Melbox Movies."

"Great. What's your name?"

"I'd rather do this anonymously."

"Sure, that's fine. Let me get a form ready. What is the nature of the issue?"

"There's an offshore account that's sucking cash, and no one can identify it."

"Great. We'll look into it. Thanks, goodbye."

"It's called Beehive..."

But the line was dead. Andrea made a loud raspberry sound. They sure were interested in what she had to say. That guy hung up before she could even say anything.

She dialed again, not to be put off.

"SOX hotline. How can I help?" Shit, it was the same person. Didn't they have a real call center?

"Who am I speaking to?"

"I'm sorry, we're not permitted to give our names. My ID number is four six nine oh... uh two three one seven."

"You must be kidding."

"Oh no, miss. How can I help you?"

"I just called a minute ago and you hung up before I could tell you what I was reporting."

"You did?"

"Yes, don't you recognize my voice?"

"Uh, not really. Sorry ma'am, we get a lot of calls here. Uh, not that that should worry you. Most of the calls turn out to be nothing, actually. Interesting, no?"

"Sure." Andrea tossed her hair, a technique that often made an impression on unruly conversationalists but of course had no impact over the phone. "Let me report my incident again then."

"Well miss, if you've already reported it, there is absolutely no need to file a second report."

"Huh?"

"We investigate every incident with absolute rigor."

"Excuse me." A sharp quality entered Andrea's voice. Her foot tapped impatiently. "No one took my report. I was hung up on before I could say what was wrong."

"Ah. Well, in that case, let me get a form—"

"Don't you have forms there in case—"

"Do you mind if I put you on hold?"

"—someone calls to report an incident?"

The line went dead. And stayed that way.

Seething, Andrea tried 'one last time'. That fucker was going to take her report if it was the last thing she did.

"All of our agents are busy with other callers. Due to exceptionally high call volumes our hold times can be lengthy. If it is convenient, please call back another time." A click and a new voice. "The estimated hold time is forty-five minutes. We apologize for the inconvenience."

That's it! They didn't want to hear her report, and that was final. She would be doing this one on her own. No problems. Her feet clumped across the carpeted floor in vexation. The only question was: how? What did she need so she could get to the bottom of this little mystery? She'd gotten all the clues she could get from the financial systems. Now she needed to figure out who was pulling the strings. A friend of the CFO's, that was for sure.

During lunch, Andrea pondered. Her favorite lunch, macaroni and cheese kicked around her plate, listless elbows sliding in a cheddar sauce.

Suddenly she pushed away from the Formica cafeteria table, and rushed back to her desk. She had to search, that was it! Find the people. She plopped down at her desk, twisting the monitor to the 'secret' angle, a contorted feat not easily achieved in her tight cube.

She stood up, peering over the dividers and projected her words. "I've gotta hunker down this afternoon and get something done, so please don't bother me too much, ok?"

Andrea knew she could get quite focused. Her mother Irene, frequently pointed out to Andrea that she would dive into one project after another, disappearing into her room to read a book, or out in the back of the garden making nests for tree frogs. Andrea's mother always said that whatever Andrea focused her attention on, sooner or later it would win out against people, food, and even sleep. Andrea of course agreed. She remembered how she would frequently run to the bathroom swearing under her breath because it took too much time and she had better things to do.

Given her nature, since Melbox, Andrea kept her second drawer freshly supplied with candy bars for those frequent emergencies when actual meals were too great a distraction.

She looked around the office for a response. Her words were returned with silence. She sat down and put on some earphones.

Now her fingers clicked on keys, windows opened and lines of text flew by. First she opened the email archive after breaking into the company Exchange server. Sure the IT Dept would be pissed, but they'd never need to know. She smiled. She clicked to launch a search pattern on the emails. It would look for references to Beehive, or anything like it. With that running, Andrea squeezed her knees together. This next one would be just a little bit bad. She enabled a word recognition program on the voicemail system. That was trivial, since some idiot added the feature during a system upgrade last year, not that she could think of a reason why that was a good idea. Well, until now. Automatic emails of everyone's voicemails.

As she worked, she noted what she'd done so she could undo it before long. Best not get caught. This wasn't really totally against the rules, but then, better no one knew, right? As she worked, Andrea slipped into her college persona of a hacker. The swashbuckling hero of the little guy who could break into anything, take any data and get away, no one knowing a thing. It felt exhilarating.

"Hey!"

The word dimly broke through her concentration, almost unrecognized in the din of Robbie Williams, this amazing singer that a friend of hers in London had turned her on to. "He lives in Los Angeles you know," the friend had said at the time. Go away.

"Andrea. Earth to Andrea."

A hand reached out to shake her shoulder.

"Yes?" she said, looking up and slipping one ear out of the headphones.

It was Joseph. "I need the quarterly report on EMEA distribution. When can you get it to me?" The words tumbled out quickly. "Oh, and..." He smiled with embarrassment. "How are you doing?"

"Fine. You? Should be able to get it to you tomorrow or the day after." She looked back down at her screen, Robbie crooning in her remaining ear.

"Geez. You know it's due today."

"That's the best I can do for ya, buddy. Got serious deadlines all over the place. Sorry."

"IT people. It's all the same."

"Hey!"

"No, just complaining. I know better than to expect things on time." With that, Joseph wandered away and Andrea slipped her headphones back into place. _"...I just want to feel, real love..."_ Robbie sang.

She looked back at her screen, her train of thought destroyed. Where the hell was she? She scanned the windows. Ok, access the phone system and check for instant messenger users. That was it, wasn't it? She launched a network scanner to track the packets that inevitably shot around with messages from the many messenger users, filtering on the same criteria as the email search.

She turned back to the phone system. From four to ten that night, she tried to break in, so that she could record live calls, interspersed with five candy bars and a scream of frustration at no one in particular. In the end, she failed.

She really should go home. She wasn't going to find anything else tonight. She opened the email search log that had been running for hours now. Five more minutes, then she'd go. She trawled down the list of users who had mentioned key accounts or Beehive. Only five usernames involved, but a lot of emails outside the company and frankly, the emails looked like they were in code.

    Beehive needs to expand operations as
        target approaching. Seeing desired
        uptick but insufficient speed.
        Recommend additional sting.

Never names in the email signatures, or anywhere, even though they were obvious from the email addresses. And the names, after Andrea looked them up, were all in the Regulatory Department and all contractors. Weird.

As she scanned through the emails, she started to form a picture: a clandestine project conducted in some stupid 'let's be vague, ok?' code. But it didn't seem like one of those secret movies she teased Marco about. This had an uglier tone. And it wasn't exactly about swindling the company either. Even Mel, the CEO, was involved. The famous Mel Boxton, founder of the company and producer of dozens of blockbusters. What was he up to? Was that who the CFO called?

She looked at the clock down in the corner of her screen, two am. Shit. She had to be back in seven hours. She saved her work, encrypted the logs and shut down the machine. Twenty minutes later she threw herself into bed.

The next day went much the same. She read the transcripts of the voicemails, but curiously, the messenger traffic was virtually empty. Oh, yeah, of course, they'd put in a hardened network, that was why. How the hell would she crack that?

By noon she was convinced she had gotten all she could from her search, and looked for a new way to continue surveillance. She didn't have the tools. She needed a fully equipped hacker to do this. Someone who could really blanket all the networks. Something stunk here, and she had to find out.

"Marco," she stood by his office.

"Yes Andrea?"

"How are you doing?"

"Ha. You never ask that unless you're looking for something. What is it?"

"I need to hire a white hat hacker."

"A what?"

"It's a hacker who works for the good guys. I'm trying to get to the bottom of the Beehive mystery."

"Holy crap. You're still looking at that?" Marco's eyebrows shot up and his weight shifted.

"Well? Shouldn't I?"

He frowned. "Well. I don't know." He turned back to his screen, dismissing her.

"I asked you about a hacker," Andrea said. "Can't you give me a reply?"

"Oh, yeah. Look, let me think about it."

Andrea knew that that meant 'no'. "Fine," she muttered and returned to her desk. I've got ways, she thought, cackling to herself. Man, I'm a dork.

That night, from home, Andrea went online, her second night without a proper dinner and feeling ragged from the accumulated late nights.

Her phone vibrated with an SMS.

    Hey baby. Moonlit drive up to Malibu with
    the secret dip?

Oh Jesus, not that actor again. She threw her phone onto the couch and turned back to her computer.

    USER Bunny ENTERS CHANNEL <Authentic>

    squelch:    Hey buns, how you doin?
    Bunny:      Good actually. who's here?
    squelch:    just me
    Bunny:      i need a fave
    squelch:    oh really. big girl needs a
                fave! crazy crazy. you speak
                to the master do you?
    Bunny:      come to privoice
    squelch:    k

Andrea's internet phone began to ring. She put on her headset and microphone and answered.

"Hello?"

"Hi"

"What's wrong with your voice. You sound like an alien."

"What's wrong with _my_ voice? You must be crazy. I'm vadering so you can't recognize me. I can hear you clearly. Do you want to get caught?"

Andrea was surprised. "You guys do, vadering, is it? You are paranoid motherfuckers. Isn't privoice private?"

"Not a bit. Anyone can crack it. You might as well be talkin' on a walkie talkie. So yeah, I'm paranoid. Not a movie rights owner, or the MAIG, or the FBI that don' want to slip their chubby fingers around my juvenile throat." A box popped up on her screen. "That's some vadering software I'm sending you. Install it for the next time we talk."

"So let me tell you what I need."

"Sure thing, sweetie pie. I like the sound of your voice. Very pretty. Happy you skipped the voice change."

"This is delicate." She paused. Was this the right way to go? Wasn't she putting her career at risk? Maybe even risking jail? She stood and paced up and down.

"Spit it out," said squelch.

"Ok. So here's the scoop. I want access to IM logs for a bunch of people. They send a message, I want to get it. Should be easy, right?"

"Sure."

"Also, I need to get access to cell phone calls. I want to trace for specific words. If the words are said, the call should be recorded."

"Ok."

"And access to secure IRC channels for the same people."

"That's harder. We've made the channels very secure for a reason, so we don't get caught."

"But there's a backdoor."

"Maybe."

"Come on squelch, I need your help."

"Your cute and all, but that's a hard ask. How many people are we tracking?"

"About five."

"I'm not the NSA you know."

"Please."

"I don't think so. Too much risk for too little reward."

Oh fuck. That was what she was afraid of.

"You just can't do it, can you?" she asked.

"Oh baby, don't you doubt me." The distorted voice crackled. "It's all about reward."

She swallowed hard. I'm committed, aren't I? "I can give something you want desperately."

"Oh yeah? What exactly would that be?"

"Guess."

"A night with you? Ha ha, you sure think you're great. I get chicks like it's going out of style." He laughed, the sound coming out ghastly through the vadering. "You should have seen the one goin' down on me last night. Ass like a cheese wheel from Fr—"

"Shut up you perv! Not that, no. "

"Ok. Tell me then."

"I'll give you the new Oliver Stone movie—"

"Oh yeah?"

"— _before_ it's released. With perfect pixes."

"Oh fuck, oh fuck. I would love to shove that shit down Code's throat. Can you really do that?"

"I work for Melbox Movies."

"You what? Fuck, you're nuts; I'm in. Gimme gimme gimme."

"But I'm sending you the list of phone numbers, IM accounts and IRC accounts to track, as well as the keywords."

"Hell yeah, no probs. See you tomorrow afternoon. Gets released at midnight."

"I'll start uploading at six-thirty so you have it all uploaded by seven. That's two hours before the east coast midnight release time."

"I'm making history. Code and Seventy MM eat my dust."

The phone clicked off. Andrea took a huge gulp of air, realizing she had barely been breathing the entire conversation. What was she doing this for? Clearly she was bonkers. This could only end badly. Her mouth curled. Not that she could help herself, she knew. She had never been able to keep her nose out of things.

She grabbed her hair in a long ponytail, and expertly wrapped a scrunchy around it and installed the vadering software. For next time. She'd use it then. She got ready for bed. Long day tomorrow, and she had to figure out how to get a perfectly pixed movie by six thirty, when the earliest she could get her hands on it was noon.

## Speeches

Mel Boxton knew that many journalists had mentally noted his height as 'short' or even 'diminutive' on first meeting him, but he was proud of how few had dared publish the word. Instead, he saw how they positioned their photographers near the ground, and focused their stories on his wealth. As one writer gushed in the _New Yorker_ , "The moment I met him, I knew I was in the presence of a captain of industry. His perfectly tailored suit, and the gleam in his eye belied the sheer fun of his job." Mel had liked that one. He knew not everyone got to jet between houses in Miami Beach, the Costa Smeralda and Vail, but he was sure few deserved it as much as he did. As Mel would tell anyone that would listen, he lived a charmed life.

Mel could confidently say things were good, especially his gorgeous piece of ass new wife. And he liked the fact that people scurried to do his bidding wherever he went. In fact, many times, he imagined that this was what it was like to be king of France. Although, he sincerely hoped that Louis XIV had more competent people around him than the idiots Mel had to deal with every day.

That day, Mel stood in front of an industry crowd that adored his every achievement. This was his business, his crowd, his people, and they would love whatever speech he gave them.

"...the livelihood of thousands upon thousands of American workers is at risk," he said, his muscular body and balding head emerging from the top of the podium in the large banquet hall. His diamond pinky ring sent dazzling shafts of redirected theater lighting into the eyes of the fawning audience. "The scourge is not offshoring, or even the rapacious movie studio heads..." He pointed at himself as the room roared with laughter. "...or the so-called senseless drivel that we are producing these days in Hollywood. No, my colleagues–can I call you friends?–no, the danger is far more invisible and insidious. It is a rot at the core of the movie industry.

"You ask what is it? I tell you. In one word: piracy." He threw his arms sideways, fingers splayed for extra impact. "You ask: how can that be? How indeed? I answer. Movies are fun. Our audiences love us. Why would they want to rob us? Well, look no further than your living rooms. Look at the internet. Children steal movies, the very very latest straight onto their hard drives before most of you have bought a ticket. Every movie ever made. I don't care when, I don't care what. Every single last one can be stolen in less time than it took you to eat your soufflé." He paused, letting the words sink in.

"Do you know how they do it?" A few people shook their heads. "Do you know how they do it?" he said, much louder this time.

"No," the audience replied in chorus.

"Do you know how they do it?" he roared.

"NO!" the audience screamed back.

"There are people who steal DVD Screeners, sit in movie theaters with a video camera or copy a film print as it is distributed. They can do that at the source, almost the minute the movie comes out. No one stops them. 'It's a victimless crime,' they say. Well, the victims are you. The movie industry. Real people." He spread his hands to the crowd. "Do you know how quickly the average release is available on the internet?" He breathed deeply. "Fifteen hours," he shouted into the microphone. "That's it! Fifteen hours." Sweat sparkled on his forehead. "We don't even count the weekend gross for another four days after that." He sighed, a huge glorious theatrical sigh, feeling the audience sigh with him. "Criminal gangs, the same ones that import drugs, terrorists, scum. They take the rips, as they call them, and press them onto DVDs and sell them world wide. They distribute so fast it hardly pays for us to open a movie in Bangkok anymore. We're losing over a billion dollars to piracy every year, and the cost is growing."

"This scourge." He shook his fist. "This routing of our copyrights, must be stopped. We must reach out, convince, cajole, enjoin, dissuade, sue—unfortunately—and finally, regretfully, incarcerate. We must put a halt..." Mel could feel the crowd and their love for his words, the way they hung on him. Yes, as a person, they would gladly be rid of him, but they feared the internet more than they hated him. "...this message must be trumpeted from every tower, every hamlet, every media outlet, until the world knows what is right, and what is wrong.

"Do not let this unique way of life, this wonder that is Hollywood, the movie industry that we so love and adore, go to waste, decline, to destruction. Fight with me my brothers, my sisters, my fellows in the business and let us prevail, as we have in the past when we were at risk.

"When a Senator in Washington wanted to brand us Communists, we fought back. When television went cable, we prevailed, and now with the internet, let us succeed where others have failed. This is my word, my brothers." Mel had hit a chord. "We've got a lot more up our sleeves than hot air. In fact, we will spend hundreds of millions of dollars on crushing piracy."

Ten minutes later, the speech was over. Mel stepped down from the stool that allowed him to be seen over the podium, and walked out of the room at the left, and to the elevators. The room rang with applause even once he had left.

"Excuse me," a hand tapped Mel on the shoulder as he pressed the UP button.

"What are you doing?" Mel said, surprised.

"Sorry. I wanted to ask you a question. Been following you from back there, you didn't hear me." He looked apologetic. "I'm a reporter."

"I'm very busy right—"

"I can't understand why you want to attack and sue your own customers. Where's the advantage in that?"

"I can't comment."

"That's ridiculous. You pontificate for twenty minutes about getting money back from the 'pirates' and now you won't comment?"

"Shut up." Mel pressed the button again, wishing the elevator would arrive.

"This is a serious question. I think America is owed an answer."

"We will defend our rights vigorously. That's all I'll say. Now please leave me in peace."

The elevator arrived and Mel stepped in, thankful the reporter chose not to enter as well. He rode up to the tenth floor, to room 1034 and knocked on the door.

A man in a tuxedo opened. "Good evening," he said.

Mel brushed past him and sat down at the table in the middle, across from another tuxedo clad figure, not noticing the rich buffet or the modern paintings or the air of anticipation.

"Hi Frank," Mel said, declining to shake the other man's hand.

Mel had to admit that Frank Close was distinguished in appearance. His full head of thick black hair framed a face that had aged well, lined and tanned, friendly, movie star looks. In fact, before Frank took over the MAIG, the Movie America Industry Group, he had been a minor leading man who had eventually drifted into directing, then producing movies.

"Hi Mel," Frank said.

"Look, I was enjoying my speech and the dinner. What you calling me here for?"

"Mel, cool it." His teeth flashed a tight smile. "I'll dive right in. You do hate civilized pleasantries too much."

Mel nodded. "So?"

"Tell me how the contract is going. You've got a Herculean task before you and I don't have the patience to find out at the end that you failed."

"I don't know why you're worried. We've been at it for about seven months and illegal downloads have gone down twenty percent. I'd say I'm well on track." Frank is a fool, Mel thought. Quickly he reminded himself he needed this more than Frank did. Keep quiet. He had to keep his mouth shut.

"But the legal challenges are running into problems. People are sometimes getting away. It makes us look bad too. The press is unhappy."

"Oh please. It's going great." Mel made a face, grabbed at a glass and poured himself a whiskey from the bottle on the table, never wondering why alcohol was there. "I've got it all under control. I'm working the legislative angle, but we're also working on being convincing to the man on the street." Mel chuckled, though he had little idea of what was actually being done, and in any case only cared about the results. "Frank, you picked an ex-SEAL because you don't want to know. I never revealed my black ops then, and guess what, it won't be happening today either."

"Mel, just keep one thing in mind: if something goes wrong, I'm not going to be there to hold your hand, got it?"

Mel drained the glass and stood up. "Fuck you." He puffed his chest and walked out. That had felt good, and he'd get the bonus amount too, cocksucker.

## London

He pushed his way through the buzzing front door, forcing the heavy wood to squeal and scrape past the stiff frame. Once inside, his eyes adjusted slowly in the dim light.

"Hi," said a voice from further down the hall. He squinted in the gloom. It was a woman in cropped pajama shorts and a pale spaghetti-strap top. She had short blond hair and a comfortable relaxed smile.

"Uh, hi. I am Dorian." He reached out awkwardly as she walked towards him. He allowed himself only a tiny glance at her slim legs. _Porca miseria,_ she is cute. He focused on her face to ensure his eyes didn't sink, drop, give him away. She must know, he thought, feeling a feverish heat on his face.

"I'm Tara." Her words were just a little bit shy. "But somehow you suspected that." She smiled, then shook his hand awkwardly, curiosity written on her face, her eyes on his.

"Yeah." Dorian smiled.

Slowly she broke his glance, squeezed past him in the narrow hallway, and picked up his roller suitcase. "Let me help you."

"Oh no. I've got it. No problem." He tried to wrest the bag from her. No success. She was stronger than he thought. "Ok. It's been a long flight. You take it. I've got enough to get myself up the stairs."

Letting her pass, he followed up two dingy and narrow flights, relieved he could look, now that her back was turned, his eyes straying to the lean muscles in her legs and elegant calves. The heat in his face subsided, even as his heart rate rose from the climb.

"This is the place," she said as they entered a spacious and modern apartment. Sunlight streamed into the windows onto the hardwood floors. Tara propped his suitcase against a wall and turned to smile at him. "I hope the couch is comfortable."

The furniture was all sharp angles, blacks, beiges and pastels. Leather covered the couch and love seat. Expensive. Big. Unexpected after the hallway and stairs.

"Aren't you a student?" Dorian said. "How do you...?" He petered out, not wanting to be rude.

"Oh, you can ask." She tilted her head. "Federica–" a cloud crossed her face "–didn't tell you about my pre-student days."

"No. She didn't say much. It probably slipped her mind. We talked about that didn't we?" Suddenly he felt so exhausted he could no longer move. His voice scraped his throat. "Can I please sit down?"

"Yes," she said, pointing to a couch, her eyes far away. "Sorry." A faint Scottish accent resonated in her voice.

He sat down, feeling like a brick. She disappeared into another room, returning after a moment with a steaming cup of tea which she handed to him. "You'll feel better." She sat on the other end of the couch, looking at him closely. "What's going on?"

He woke up drooling into a pillow with a blanket draped over his fully clothed body. Where the hell was he? He struggled to turn away from the black leather pushed up against his face. The blanket tangled around him, constraining. He felt trapped. Panic. Had they caught him?

Finally, a foot slipped free, he pushed off and flipped around. Tara's living room appeared. Oh, thank god. Pale sun streamed through the windows. He must have fallen asleep. Jet lag.

In the plush love seat across, Tara looked up from a book she was reading. "Good afternoon," she smiled, stretching her arms out wide.

"What time is it?" Dorian said.

"Three o'clock or so."

"Shit. I slept a long time. Didn't realize an intercontinental flight would make me so sleepy. I mean I've done it a few times already. Usually it doesn't smash me like that."

"Yeah. It can get you." She put a bookmark into the book and placed it on a table. "We'll go out to Maroush tonight. Really tasty Lebanese food if that's ok with you."

"Yeah, fine." He rubbed at the sleep in his eyes and nodded.

"To answer your previous question—"

"Question?"

"—I worked at a bank in the trading department. That's how I earned enough to live here and go to business school at the same time."

"Oh, that question. You don't owe me any info. I was only surprised. The tiny room I live in you should see. And my roommate sleeps in the bunk over me. It's not exactly kingly. So how old are you?"

"Isn't it rude to ask a woman's age?" she smiled.

"Oh, sorry. Federica was twenty-three, so I only wondered. I'm nineteen in case you care." He could feel the fever in his face again.

"I'm twenty-four. I was joking. You can ask anything."

"Oh. How does it feel to be that old?"

"Old? That's not old. I'm not even twenty five. You are cheeky." Her eyes glimmered, clearly enjoying his embarrassment.

"Can't it seem old to me?" He shrugged sheepishly. Suddenly he felt tears in his eyes. "Shit. So sorry." He turned away, covering his face with his hand.

Tara's arms were around him. "She was so wonderful," her voice murmured. "And your parents too."

He could only nod. The heat of her body took the edge off just slightly. He was alone in the world. This was the best he'd get.

"I remember," Tara said, her words a lullaby in his ears. "We used to go to class and she'd talk about how much she missed Milan, and driving up to Lake Como."

"She loved all the lakes, didn't she?" Dorian said.

"Oh yes. And the beach too."

"Summer vacation," he remembered, wiping his eyes. "We would go to Toscana or Sardinia for all of August. Do you know the beach clubs in Italy? There is nothing like it in Boston, not to mention that I cannot go to any place in Boston where they sell alcohol. I'm too young."

"I heard about that. How strange."

"It makes no sense. So I drink illegally. I got my fake ID a few days ago, but I haven't used it yet." He shook his head in her arms. "I guess I don't need it now."

"Not for a little bit."

"Yeah, but I do have to go back and get that shithead bastard."

"Who?" She turned to look at him, questioning.

"I can't tell you. I should say: I don't want to get you involved. It's best you know little."

"How? Is it something bad." She let go of him, sitting back so she could get a better look at him.

"Why you think I show up at your door a day after you invite me?"

"I honestly didn't think." She looked surprised. "Are the police hunting you?"

"No." It was his turn to be shocked. "No, of course not."

"Then what?"

"Well, what do you think it could be?"

He could see options go through her mind. "Oh my lord." Her eyes went wide with surprise and recognition. "Are you sure?"

"Yes. But I don't want to talk about it."

"Your parents and Federica. It all makes sense." She nodded her head. "We'll talk some other time, Ok?"

"Yes. That would be better."

"How about we see a movie? That would be a good way to take our minds off what happened."

"Ok."

"The new _Superheroes_ is showing at Leicester Square. Do you fancy that?"

"Seen it already."

"It just came out."

"It's been out for a few weeks in the US. I see many flicks."

"Well, then we'll just pick something when we get there."

"Yes. Let's."

They arrived at her apartment around eleven that evening, lightly tipsy from a bottle of wine shared at dinner.

"How could you convince me to see a chick flick? It's shameful," Dorian said.

"Are you still on about that?" She laughed, dropping onto the sofa. "At any rate, I didn't pick it. You chose. You didn't like the other movies showing."

"A female bike racer and a cook. I should have known better." He sat down next to Tara.

"A movie is always nice. Even a bad one. I go for the experience."

"I always say that," Dorian said, surprised. "Better a bad movie than no movie at all. I've never heard anyone else say that. Do you really think that way or are you pulling my leg?"

"No really. I love movies. A good movie is best, but a bad one, well, isn't so bad."

"My sister has good taste in friends." He smiled.

"Thank you."

"You know most people don't think that way, don't you?"

"About your sister's taste?"

"No, about movies."

"Oh, yeah."

Tara pressed a button on a remote and the TV came on with the news. Within ten minutes Dorian was sound asleep.

## Fall Back

The piece of paper felt thick in her hand as Andrea pulled it off her pillow.

    Clay Bauer, Jr

    vs.

    Clay Bauer, Snr.

    Notice to appear for deposition.

Andrea wanted to crumple the paper in her hand. How stupid could those two blockheads be? Clay should have passed the goddamn bar if he wanted that job. And now he was suing Dad. A little bit of studying would go a long way in this world. She'd told Clay that too many times to remember. But instead, all he wanted was to use his law degree to piss off dad. Not like Dad was acting rationally either.

Andrea tossed the notice onto the nightstand and crawled into her bed. She remembered the fourth of July, when Clay and Dad had launched into a huge fight around the barbeque. She'd just managed to pull the tongs out of Dad's hands, and rescue the rapidly crisping burgers. They should really grow up.

She thought back to 'the teenage years'. Things weren't always the same. Dad wanted things to happen for us. Like with that car.

"Kids, here's the plan."

"Uh, like Dad? We're not kids anymore. We're young adults. Get it?" Andrea pouted.

"You're still my kids. That's what matters." Dad walked around and switched off the TV.

"What are you doing?" whined Clay. "I was watching that show."

"I've got something better for you."

"Come on Dad. I'm sick of your couch potato talk."

"This isn't about being a couch potato. It's about getting you kids doing something creative."

Clay got up, and began to inch towards the TV.

"This is serious. Clay?" Dad looked at him with a half smile. "Do you want a car?"

"What the... Hell yeah, I want a car."

"It doesn't seem like it. I should probably let you watch your TV."

"No, of course not. So what's up with the car?" Clay tried to put his hands on his hips, but it looked silly now.

"It's a contest." Dad sat down on the couch. "Whoever makes the best home video of the family gets a car. Simple, right? All based on our finest archival material."

"Yeah," Andrea smiled.

"It's got to be at least five minutes long." Dad tousled her hair.

"Stop that, Dad. That's not cool," she said, wriggling from him. Her mind locked onto where all the family videos were kept. Steal those, and she'd have Clay blocked out.

"Now you've got to share the material."

"Sounds cool." Andrea dashed from the room, getting to the video closet seconds before Clay. After a brief tussle, she only had half the tapes in her possession, and Clay had the rest.

"The car is just for the next two weekends by the way," Dad called after them.

"Typical," Clay muttered. "I'll beat you sucka, though."

"Don't even try," Andrea retorted.

They retreated to their rooms, each with a video camera in tow which they plugged into their laptops.

The projector in the den hummed as Andrea's oeuvre quick-cut into its second and final minute. Dad's head bobbed to the _Garbage_ soundtrack. Andrea looked over at Clay, who had a dark look on his face. He'd forgotten to put in a soundtrack, not to mention that his offering had dragged quite a bit.

As the video ended, with a snippet of Clay falling on his face—nice touch, smiled Andrea—Dad stood up and stretched.

"Looks like we have a winner."

Brother and sister looked at him.

"Andrea won this one."

"What do you mean?" said Clay. "Her video wasn't even long enough. You said minimum five minutes."

"Well, son. Here's the scoop. Sometimes you have to get beyond what is being asked for, and understand what's really needed. Andrea's had more—well—entertainment value. That's why I chose it."

He clapped both siblings on the shoulder.

"Have fun with the car, Andrea."

## Kevin Bacon

The door opened and Tara tumbled in.

"Hello," she said cheerily. "How many hours did you sleep?"

"I don't know. I woke at ten. Where were you?"

"Oh, didn't I say on my note?" She pointed at a clipboard against the wall. Dorian shook his head. "Didn't see it did you?" He shook again. "I went for a run, and then LSE and the gym. Should have called. I figured you were fine and had my number, so..."

"Yeah, no problem. Just curious. Don't mind me at all. I take care of myself. Went out and got some food at Pret-A-Manger. I do have a question though."

"Sure." She tucked her short hair behind her ears.

"I saw you have wireless internet. But I need a code to get on."

"Oh, of course."

"I'm surprised you have it secured. Most non-techies never bother."

She shrugged. "An ex-boyfriend set it up for me. Said it was better."

"For sure."

"Here's the code." She handed him a slip she'd pulled out of the kitchen drawer. "I'm taking a shower and we're going out."

"I don't feel like it, exactly."

"A good pint will do you good. Besides, it's a British tradition. For Federica, although, we did have to convince her every time."

Dorian logged onto the internet while Tara showered, quickly checking his emails. A few spam from his bank and a telephone company. A few class change messages. Nothing of significance. He looked though some of the server logs he was using to track contact attempts. No sign of ReeperG. No new images from his dorm room either, if you didn't include his roommates face.

"I'm ready," Tara said, from the front door.

"One sec. Just need to check one more thing." He scanned for private messages on his secure IRC channel. Nothing. Weird. He could have disappeared and no one would have noticed. Well, actually, that's exactly what had happened. He laughed as he shut down his laptop. "Ok. Ready too."

He turned to Tara. Her face radiant, she wore a pleated black mini skirt, matching jacket and high heel sandals. "Holy shit. I didn't realize I had to get dressed up." He looked down at his jeans and faded t-shirt.

"You don't," Tara said. "I like to look good when I'm out."

"Are you saying I don't look good?"

"Of course not, darling. I was talking about myself."

"You like to show off your legs, don't you," Dorian blurted. He could feel his face go hot and most probably bright red. He should think before he spoke. Wouldn't that be great?

Tara blushed. "They say it's a good quality I have."

"Uh. Definitely." His head dropped, the Milan apartment swimming in front of his eyes. "Hey, look, I'm not in the best of moods. It keeps hitting me in strange ways, you know?"

"No backing out. You need to let it out. A few pints will make this horrible thing feel a shade better."

"I'm not sure that's what I want."

"Get up soldier. It's an order." She came over and squeezed his hand.

Heavily, Dorian got to his feet and allowed himself to be guided out of the apartment.

As soon as they sat down in a pub close by Tara's place, she returned with two pints of beer. "Round one," she announced.

"Round one?"

"I'll explain later. For now, cheers." She picked up her glass and knocked it against his.

" _Saluti,_ " he replied, and took a sip. He looked around at the tatty reddish carpet and the padded but pew-like benches in their booth. Green shaded lamps cast a warm glow. To Dorian it looked like a stereotypical English pub.

Only a few minutes later, or so it seemed to Dorian, both their glasses were close to empty. He could feel the alcohol fuzzing his brain, and that felt good.

"Round two," Tara said, pointing at the beers.

"Ok. Isn't round one enough?"

"We're in Britain. So we go with British rules. So: it is now your duty to buy me a round. And if there were other people here, each one of us would have to buy a round. That's how it works."

"Fine." Dorian stood up, feeling unsteady on his feet. He'd never really drunk much. He went to the bar and gathered two more beers. "I think these are Stella. The fellow at the bar said that was recommended."

"You do good work, Dorian Casso." Tara gulped the last of her old beer. "It's important that the round is brought before the previous glass is empty."

"I see."

Dorian unwound a little bit. He leaned back in the booth.

"So, can you tell me now what is going on with you?" Tara locked her eyes with his.

"Do I have to?"

"Maybe a hint?"

"A hint. I can do that." He licked his lips. What should he tell her? He didn't know her well. Should he put himself, or worse, her, at risk by talking? Though, truthfully, he'd already entrusted himself to her simply by being here. And she was a good friend of his sister's. He felt warm. He took a sip. He looked over at her closely, examining her eyes. What would she think?

"They are trying to kill me."

Tara set down her pint with a bang, spilling beer. "What? That can't be true."

"I'm afraid it is."

"Impossible. They is who? The same people who killed Federica and your parents. Can it be so?" She shook her head.

"Unfortunately."

"How do you know?"

"Please let's drop the subject."

"That's crazy. I've never heard anything like it, except for in some thriller movie like _Enemy of the State_."

"I can't talk about it."

"Ok. Sorry for bringing it up. That's my fault. I'm too eager sometimes. I didn't mean to pry."

"I know."

"I'm frightfully sorry for bringing up a bad subject. I only want to help."

She looked at Dorian with pity. It didn't feel good.

"I don't need help right now."

"Grief is tough. You'll go through the stages, and the quicker the better on these things. That's why I'm here for you."

"I know."

"Ok, lecture over." She patted the table with both hands. "Sorry."

"No problem." Dorian fished for a way to change the subject. He wanted to tell Tara everything, but it wasn't a good idea for her or him. He needed to talk about something else, or it would all blubber out. "So what's your favorite movie?" he managed.

"Ah. A hard question. Favorite movie?" She took a long drink from her beer as her eyes stared straight at Dorian until he was sure they were drilling through him. "My favorite movie is _Star Wars_. The first one."

"You've been cheating. That's practically number one on I-M-D-B."

"I-M-D-B?"

"Internet Movie Database. IMDB. It has every last thing about every movie ever made. You would go crazy for it." He took a drink. "Let's play _Six Degrees of Kevin Bacon_."

"What's that?"

"It's a game where you need to find a connection between an actor and Kevin Bacon. But you have to do it through a series of movies and/or actors. Ok?"

"Ok."

"You know who Kevin Bacon is, right?"

"Yeah. Hang on though. It's my round. Explain when I get back."

Two fresh beers appeared on the table. Dorian felt numb, but mamaged to launch into a slurred explanation. "So for example, you say 'Kate Beckinsale'. So I go. 'Ok. She was in _Much Ado About Nothing_ with Michael Keaton. In turn, he was in _She's Having a Baby_ with Kevin Bacon." He nodded, looking for understanding. "So that is two degrees of Kevin Bacon because there are two actors from Kate Beckinsale to Kevin Bacon. Get it?"

"Ok. How about Kevin Kline? Two Kevins." Tara laughed.

"Well, let me think." He took a deep drink, the beer feeling good. "Here goes. Kevin Kline was in..." His brain felt fuzzy. "Ok, let's start somewhere. He was in _Chaplin_. Ok, so, then...Marisa Tomei, right, was also in _Chaplin._ Ha. Then, she was in _My Cousin Vinny_ with Joe Pesci of course. And he was in _JFK_ with Kevin Bacon. That's a Bacon number of three." He smiled, holding onto his beer tightly. "Your turn. So, Jennifer Aniston. That's a fairly easy one."

"Oh shit." He wasn't sure if her words were slurred or not, but he was sure his were. "So, Jennifer Aniston was in _Picture Perfect_ ," she said.

"And?"

"What do you mean 'and'? Kevin Bacon was in _Picture Perfect_ too. That's why you said it was easy."

"He was? No, I was joking. I thought it would be tough." He laughed.

"You bet."

They kept playing and drinking. Dorian grabbed the table, catching himself from sliding under, but knocking an empty beer glass spinning across the table.

"I'll help you," Tara said, and came around to his side of the booth and sat down. With surprise, Dorian realized they were holding hands. Had he done that? He squeezed her hand to test it out. She squeezed back. "So who's the next actor?"

There he was, looking into her big shiny eyes, right next to him. He needed to stop the swaying for a moment. So beautiful and delicate, her face. He should touch her little pointed nose, run his finger along her jaw and up onto her cheeks.

Her mouth spoke, smiling, her lips pouting ever so slightly as she formed words.

"The next actor is—" Dorian said, and leaned forward. "—I need to whisper it." His mouth stroking against her hair and ear. He felt her mold into him. "The next actor is Sylvester Stall-own-eh."

She pulled back laughing. "Is that how you say Stallone in Italian?"

"Yes," he said. And he leaned forward again, his mouth pushing up gently against hers, feeling the soft silk of her lips. He opened his mouth slightly, her body against him. As he gently kissed, the room fell away leaving a soft tongue, the taste of another person. The feeling lasted a long time, until he gasped for breath. "Wow," he said. Tara giggled.

"Another round?" she said. "I like the way the previous ones have gone."

"Sure." He wasn't sure about the alcohol, but he didn't want anything to end.

"I think it's yours."

"Got it." He stood up, accidentally tossing a chair to the ground, then clumsily picking it up again. He looked around. No one seemed interested.

He returned with two beers. "I think this will be the last round for me." He focused his eyes on Tara for as long as he could. "You're beautiful," he said. She made him feel good, he thought. She loved movies. She had been a friend of his sister's. Not to mention, he didn't ever get girls, especially not like this.

"You are a pissed little boy. But thank you again," she replied.

"Thank you grandma," Dorian said.

A little later, they stumbled in Tara's door, holding on to each other to prevent falling. Inside, Tara steered Dorian to her bedroom where they collapsed to the bed, kissing. She pulled his t-shirt over his head while he pulled her jacket off. They kissed again, Dorian welcomed her body. He pulled her blouse apart button by button and kissed her belly-button. She unbuckled his jeans and pulled them down. They tumbled as she slipped the jeans over his feet. Twisting backward, Tara reached into a drawer and pulled out a condom.

"I have everything we need," she said as her hand touched his underwear.

"Do you really make love so quickly?" he said.

"What?" Tara replied.

"Nothing."

"Do we make love so quickly? This is Britain, sweetheart. Getting pissed and shagging is the national pastime." Dorian pulled back, shocked. Tara put her hand on his and kissed him softly on the lips. "I was joking. It's alright. Come here."

Dorian couldn't say no any longer. His entire drunken being wanted Tara.

Dorian rubbed his head as he twisted out of the rumpled pillow. He could feel a throbbing ache in his temples. He looked around the room, momentarily disoriented. The sun shone in the window. Under the sheets he saw that he was naked. Next to him, Tara slept soundlessly. The previous night jumped back into his consciousness. He looked around the floor, spotting his underwear. Guiltily, he jumped out, and pulled them on before climbing back under the covers. What had he done? He tried to fall asleep again, but all he could do was toss and turn. Giving up, he braved his headache and went into the bathroom. He showered, scrubbing and polishing away the night before until his skin shone red. He was clean again. He really didn't want to go out there into the bedroom again.

He pulled a towel off the rack, dried himself and wrapped it around his waist and stole into the living room, where he climbed under the blanket on the couch. Within moments he was asleep.

"What are you doing here?" Tara said.

Dorian felt himself being shaken gently. "I'm sleeping."

"I know, but why aren't you in my bed?"

"I didn't want to disturb you."

"Stop joking around. Of course you weren't disturbing me. I like you next to me."

"Maybe I'm not used to love-making with someone I met two days ago." He rolled over on the couch.

"Here, let me sit," she said, helping him up. She wrapped her arms around him. "There. Make it all better. Welcome to London." She kissed him on his temple.

"I have to get online, talk to some people."

"Well, let's have a little breakfast. Then I'll go running and to class."

"Ok."

"You really are cute," she said, but there was a bit too much pity in her eyes.

    USER Code ENTERS CHANNEL

    Striptz:    welcom back Code. no been
                seen you for a bit.
    Code:       busy is all
    Early Bird: u'alll bizy all the time. and
                everyone weird. what
                happening code?
    Striptz:    don't be stupid. ev'thing
                normal
    squelch:    fuck u!!!! Ready to kick ass.
    Code:       Bird, what do you mean weird?
    Early Bird: dunno about rest o u. I see
                threats.
    Albu:       spit it out. we've all seen
                it. over on the downloading
                channel they say that servers
                are disappearing. people not
                talking. we've seen a little
                of that. i'm going move my
                rig I think.
    Code:       are you serious? that bad?
    Albu:       look at what happened to you.
    70mm:       bunch of fraidy cats.
    nil8:       no doing nothin' yet,
                comrades. the oliver stone
                tonight. time to gear up. Woo
                hoo!
    squelch:    I'm in all the way. ready to
                win.
    Code:       with me back, u going to have
                serious trouble big guy.
    squelch:    bought a new DSP subunit.
                improves pixes and speed at
                same time. busted!
    nil8:       you're suffering from your
                prostate, not your pixes
                squelch
    Code:       I'm squared away, ready to
                go.
    70mm:       happy hunting
    Code:       going to do some other stuff.
                will be lurking.
    Albu:       like usual.

    USER Code IDLES

Dorian clicked to a different window. He had to find a new host for his movies. He needed to reload the backup. Maybe that compromised server at AT&T was the best place, or should he use the one at GE? Much weaker firewall there. It would still be tricky to get the data in and out, but that's what he had to work with. He tapped a few commands, logging into the servers. Clearly AT&T had a lot of free disk space. Ok, AT&T it would be. They wouldn't notice for a lot longer.

He started the scripts. Ok, this would be ready in a few hours. Now he had to leave all the channels open in case ReeperG wanted to get in touch. He needed a few hours of sleep before the fun began.

## Encoding

With an ugly shock, Andrea woke up. Shit, how the hell wasshegoingtogetthatfuckingmovieuploaded? Ok, slow down. She was resourceful, for sure. She looked at the clock, it said four am.

She rolled over, poorly dismounting from her bed. There'd be someone in that production booth all day and she'd promised the fucking movie at six thirty pm. No way she could get the movie over lunch like she'd planned.

She pulled a pair of freshly pressed jeans and a t-shirt from her closet and raced to the garage, forgetting the brushing of teeth, mouthwash, and a shower. Why didn't she think this through last night? She must be some kind of idiot.

Flashing her badge to the guard at the studio gate, she snagged her best parking spot ever, right by the offices. She could see a few people in the distance leaving one of the sound stages after a long night of filming. In the building next to hers, feeling like a thief and almost expecting to be stopped and challenged at any moment, she walked through the darkened corridors and slipped into a production booth, closing the massively soundproofed door behind her. It took a few moments, then she had her bearings. In front of her, the wall of the booth was taken up by the production console, a massive computer device bristling with two keyboards, four huge flatscreen monitors, where she could throw up bits of scenes from films, and a large board full of sliders for mixing the soundtrack.

She couldn't use most of that stuff, but fortunately it didn't matter. She typed her login into the main console and hunted through the database until she found the Oliver Stone film. She chewed on her thumb. Where would she find the converters? At least she had a few hours, since the guys from production never showed up before ten am, worse than Andrea for working late. First, was this the release version? She snapped the jog dial, and the movie sped past her on the big middle screen, the sound only a high-pitched twitter. She punched in a command that jumped her forward. Now she jumped to the end. Yup, this was definitely the release version of the film. Ok, time to find the converter codecs, that should be the way to get the good pixes.

None of the converters would go straight to avi, the movie download standard, so she clicked the 'generate DVD' button. That would be a good first step.

As the computer silently calculated, Andrea, admired the super-computer at her fingertips. She didn't have long to wait. Twenty minutes later, the DVD encoding finished with a beep, and a flashing indicator on the leftmost monitor. That should have taken three or four hours. Wow, they really upgraded these puppies! The console flagged a few trouble spots, where it thought the transitions weren't as good as they should be. Andrea zipped to each one, looking carefully for blocks in the film frames at the trouble spot. When she found degraded pixes, she would painstakingly tweak buttons and sliders until the blotches disappeared. Sixty minutes elapsed. Sweet. She definitely rocked. _I'm an editor now._ Should she mess around with the music during the first car chase? Nope, look at the time; she'd have to move on. Done, she jumped back to the trouble spots, looking closely at fast moving scenes, where the picture tended to break up. These were some seriously good pixes. None of those pimply-faced kids could possibly do better than her. Sure, she had the best of the best equipment, but who cared? She was still the master.

Now she selected avi conversion. For some reason, the DVD media didn't want to plug into the avi generator, so she hunted for the right settings. Finally the conversion sprung to life.

Suddenly the door to the booth opened with a swoosh. Andrea jumped, a squeal escaping her mouth.

"What are you doing here?" said a deep voice.

She swiveled in the chair to face the door.

"Hi," she said, a finger pushing her bangs out of her eyes.

"You checking out Ollie's new film?" It was one of the editors, clean shaven head and a muscle t-shirt.

"I'm upgrading the equipment. I'm from the IT department. Using the film to test out the new codecs."

"At this time of the morning? You guys really are geeks."

"Well we don't exactly expect you night owls to be popping around so early."

"No joke."

"You mind coming back in a few hours? Or could you use another booth?"

"Yeah sure. Just surprised to see you here."

"And wanting to scare the shit out of me."

"Yeah. Sorry about that. Didn't mean to."

The door shut. Fuck me, she thought, her stomach cramping with nausea. The screen showed another five minutes before the conversion would be complete. Damn, it was already seven am. She flipped off the monitors so that someone else coming in wouldn't see the movie, and waited for completion. Some more pix adjustments and she had two avi movie files she could burn. She created a data DVD with the movie files, and stuffed the silver disk in her bag.

Now it was time to cover her tracks. She logged into the log files and deleted them one by one, with a few commands. Well, that should erase all traces of her activities, if anything would. She checked quickly, but everything looked perfect on the system, nothing out of place.

She shut down the console, and nearly ran out the door. It better work. No time to test it now.

The day dragged. Her search algorithms caught little Beehive traffic, and Marco commented more than once, "you look tired."

"Stop telling me I look like shit," she snapped back.

At five she left, claiming a dentist appointment.

"With those pearly whites?" Marco asked.

"Yep. Even perfection needs a tune-up every once in a while." She blew him an air kiss.

In London, Dorian, lying sleepless on the couch, looked at his watch, two am. Four or five hours until the dude in Mexico would upload the screener. He hated this time zone shit. And no way was he moving into Tara's bed this quick, even if this couch was pretty uncomfortable. He rolled over. A few more hours of sleep would be really good before he'd have to pull the all-nighter to get his pixes out.

Andrea's internet phone rang almost as soon as she booted her laptop.

"What are you doing? Stalking me?"

"Damn, you're vadering," squelch said.

"You told me to, didn't you?"

"But I really like your voice."

"You got something for me?"

"Not yet, sugar plum. Stuff takes time to set up. I'm calling for the movie, you know, a little early."

"Movie?"

"You kid luv? The movie. Oliver Stone. Don't mess with me."

"Mess with you? You've got nothing so I've got nothing."

"You promised."

"Couldn't get at the media. People in the facility the whole time."

"Fuck me. I'm stewed screwed. I was counting on it. You, baby, have fucked me hard."

"Sorry."

"You is a bitch."

Andrea began laughing. This little kid thinks he's better than me.

"What you laughing at?" squelch said.

"You're such a child. You want to win some race against those other punks and you're so worried you're pissing your panties."

"I'm not scared. You're scared."

Andrea sighed. "Too true. Anyway, I've got the movie but you aren't getting it until six thirty. As promised. And you better deliver good surveillance or I'll kick your puny ass."

"You are a total bitch." He paused. "Phew. Thank god."

"That's what you get, sonny."

"Sorry man, sorry."

At exactly six-thirty, Andrea loaded the disk into her laptop, and started the upload process.

    USER Code BECOMES ACTIVE

    70mm:       Yo yo all. It's time. First
                screening began at the fab U
                lous AMC Loews Boston Common.
                Bit early but the clock is
                now ticking. Time is 11:35pm.
                See y'all in 12-14 hrs
    Code:       Check
    squelch:    Got it in the bag baby. It's
                there now.
    Albu:       you're shit. you can't get a
                pix if it bit you in the ass.
                no bodies buying it.
    Ruutor:     I've got a chance this time
    Code:       bye
    squelch:    we'll see won't we?
    nil8:       let me wrap up my shlong and
                I'll b gone.

    USER Code BECOMES IDLE

Dorian opened a secure link to his source in, was it Mexico? He still wasn't sure.

    Code:       Dude. Seriously time to give
                up the goods. First screening
                under way.
    XXX:        I see. Eager beaver. Comin up
                right away mister. Now it's
                loading.
    Code:       no mocking. we're on a
                deadline. move it.
    XXX:        no mock dear sir. just your
                servant at your service
    Code:       where's the link?
    XXX:        establishing. u use a slow
                server?
    Code:       shut up, no.

A window opened on his screen. Incoming link file. He clicked on the buttons and accepted the file, sitting back while the bits flowed over the internet from his source to the AT&T server.

    Code:       need to take a conservative
                bandwidth approach, don't
                want get noticed until file
                is well distributed.
    Code:       should be done in hour.

He knew the files wouldn't upload any quicker because he watched, but he'd never been able to shake the habit. I need to work fast, since 70mm is surely getting an upload from the opening in London as per usual. Though how he'll get good pixes from a showing I don't know.

The file completed uploading. Instantly, Code launched the compression algorithms. Maybe, he wondered, he should tweak it to use just a little more of the system. That way he could finish sooner, and anyway, who at AT&T was going to really notice a slight uptick in how much their computer was doing?

The compression neared completion. Code pinged all his distribution nodes, getting ready to link his new AT&T sponsored Deep Node to the Mid Nodes. The sun rose into the sky over London, while Dorian consumed another cup of coffee.

"Should you really be doing this?" Tara said, resting her fingers on his shoulders, kneading gently.

"What do you mean?"

"Someone wants you dead because you're movie downloading, but you don't stop?"

"This is fun. It's harmless and it keeps my mind off my family. And—"

"Hardly harmless."

"—please don't stand behind me. I'm keeping the identities of these guys secret."

"I'm only some girl you slept with once."

"Let's talk about that later," Dorian said.

Her hands continued to knead.

"Seriously, Tara, I need you to leave my room."

"I was—" she sounded hurt.

"Doesn't matter. Please. Space."

"Ok." She walked away. Dorian did not look up.

The moment the compression completed, Dorian pushed the avi files to the Mid Nodes. That must have taken longer than normal, he thought. Within an hour the push completed.

    USER Code BECOMES ACTIVE

    Code:       Is anyone there?
    Code:       Hello?
    Code:       I've don't it. 11 hours 25
                minutes. That's a record.
    Code:       Here's the pgp sig that
                proves it. Go confirm with
                the file. Read it and weep.

    USER Code BECOMES IDLE

Dorian set a trigger to alert him if another hacker wrote something, leaned back, laced his fingers behind his head, and almost instantly, his eyes dropped and he fell asleep.

He dreamt about an airline flight, where he was a flight attendant and first one flight attendant call button beeped at him, then another and another. Soon it seemed that everyone in the plane was pressing their attendant call button. He opened the curtains from the galley where he had been reheating cardboard models of chickens. He yelled at the top of his lungs.

He woke up with a start. Tara was sitting at his computer which was beeping. "What are you doing?" he said his heart beating wildly.

"It was beeping. I didn't know what to do."

"Oh. That's nothing. Let me take over. Just a little alarm."

    USER 70mm BECOMES ACTIVE

    70mm:       Hello? Anyone there? Code,
                looks like you've been on.

    USER Code BECOMES ACTIVE

    Code:       Hey. Already done.
    70mm:       really? crazy. I still need 3
                hrs. Compression went south
                during the second pass. Had
                to start from top.
    Code:       sorry to hear. well, not that
                much
    70mm:       ha.

    USER Code BECOMES IDLE

Again Dorian drifted off to sleep, secure in his success. Again, bells ringing and buzzing woke him up. Why hadn't he disabled the damn alarm for pete's sake?

    USER squelch BECOMES ACTIVE

    squelch:    Woo hoo suckers.

    USER Code BECOMES ACTIVE

    USER 70mm BECOMES ACTIVE

    Code:       Hey. Already done.
    squelch:    no way. you're done?
    Code:       yup. looks like I won again.
                70mm still compressing
    70mm:       fukin upgraded codecs.
    squelch:    well check out my pgp file.
    Code:       what is it?
    squelch:    I'm done. AHAHHAHAHAHAHAHAHA
    70mm:       no fukin way. you?
    squelch:    me!
    Code:       how the hell?
    squelch:    no can do buddy-o pally-o
    Code:       I don't believe you.
    70mm:       you do lie a shitload
    squelch:    open it then.

    USER Code BECOMES IDLE

Dorian popped open the pqp file. First downloads from before the first screening? Dorian couldn't believe it. A negative time value? Amazing, incredible. No one had ever done that before. Before the release date! That will piss off the movie studios, ha!

    USER Code BECOMES ACTIVE

    Code:       70mm, squelch is right. he's
                done it
    70mm:       fuck off
    Code:       before you launched. that's
                minus 1 hr 3 min.
    squelch:    busted!!!!

    USER Code BECOMES IDLE

Dorian clicked to dial squelch's internet phone, first enabling vadering.

"How-dee."

"Hey, it's Code."

"Hi Code. What you wanting?"

"How'd you do it?"

"How you saying? I punched it through. Got the media sooner than you."

"Sooner? You got it sooner than anyone's ever gotten it ever. Spill it."

"Under no circumstances, my brother."

"Look, it's obvious you have a connection at one of the studios or a distributor."

"Whoa. Getting close to the target there buddy."

"Ok. Fine. I'll tell you why I want to know."

"That's better."

"All those server disappearances. I think some of us hackers are being targeted. This person might be baiting you in. Might want something from you and be trying to get all our identities. He could have you under investigation."

"No chance." squelch laughed. "I'm actually investigating for her."

"You're what?"

"She needs info. Gave me the movie in exchange."

"She? So it's a girl."

"What? I was speaking generically. You know, she/he."

"Really. I don't believe you. It's a girl for sure."

"No it's not."

"Ok, whatever you say."

"I mean it Code. You got it all wrong."

"Sure, sure. So what's she looking for?"

"Just tapping phones, IM, that kind of stuff. And she's not a girl. I mean, she might be a he."

"I need to talk to her, Squelch."

"It has nothing to do with you. I'm a serious idiot for letting anything slip."

"Well, if she's looking in the same area as me, I need to talk to her."

"Yeah. Whatever. You want to steal my conduit."

"I swear I don't."

"Bye."

    squelch:    I won I won I won and Code's
                jealous
    Early Bird: Guys, I couldn't even get the
                movie. somebody tell me how
                you do it? please. thanks.
    Code:       squelch won fair & square.
    70mm:       and u jealous.

## Surveillance

"This is no laughing matter," Mel's voice boomed. He'd gathered the entire staff of Melbox Movies in the cavernous gloom of Sound Stage Five. "This is a day when finally the bastard pirates stole the march on legitimate movie distributors. And one of you may have helped them." He stared out at the crowd, but to Andrea it felt like his eyes bored a hole right through her brain. Sweat popped onto her palms. "We've discovered," he said, waving a glossy tabloid magazine in the air, "via the oh-so-discrete front page of _Variety_ , a magazine which I don't need to remind you is the voice of our business. We discovered that the new Oliver Stone movie, our _only_ Oliver Stone movie, somehow made its way to the internet before it was available in theaters. I hope you all know what that signifies." He pointed an accusing finger. "Do you?" He looked around the crowd, singling out a smallish man with thick glasses over to the left. "Do you, mister, know what that means?"

"Uh, well. Not exactly to be honest." The man's voice quavered and Andrea thanked her instinct to gravitate to the back on these occasions.

"Well, learn quick," Mel boomed. The man shrank a few inches at least in height. "I'll tell you all what it means, in case you are all morons like this guy."

A woman shouted out. "I know. I know what it means."

"Don't interrupt me. Can't you see I'm speaking?" He threw a pen in her general direction, catching another person on the head. "This means total revenue collapse is what it means. We need to root out this evil and destroy the threat to our livelihoods."

Andrea desperately wanted to sit down, cover her eyes and howl. She'd fucked up, without a doubt. She'd wanted to find out what was wrong, that was it. It had been about saving the company. And instead, what had she done? She'd fucked it over. She embossed what she thought was a forthright look on her face, and tensed the muscles in her stomach. Whatever was going on with Beehive, she had to find out. At least then it won't have been a waste.

"You look a bit pale," Marco remarked as they left the hanger.

"Everyone looks pale in here. It's dark."

"Stop being stupid. Are you ok?"

"Man. I'm going to get a complex with all these worried comments you're giving me. You oughta lighten up so I can hang on to the last shreds of my ego."

"Oh, don't worry little peach. You're still beautiful." Marco pinched her cheek.

"Why thanks, Prince Charming." And she batted her eyes with all her might while holding her insides together.

"What do you want?" Andrea didn't even bother to vader her voice to answer the internet call.

"Nice to speak to you too. Thanks for winning me the contest. That was our best ever record."

"No shit Sherlock. Exactly why my life is fucked up right now. The CEO of my company is on the warpath to find whoever leaked the movie. Got it?"

"Well, apologies princess. Hate to ruin your life."

"Sorry. Leave it."

"I'm not calling to gloat. I have the surveillance you wanted. It's a big file, but here's the link. I'm hosting it for you online. Access it only over this secure link."

"Oh." Andrea realized she'd pretty much expected squelch to renege on his promise. "Thanks."

"No probs. Bye."

A dialog box blinked open with a username and password. Andrea copied them down and opened the link.

The voices weren't familiar, but project Beehive certainly seemed suspicious. One dispatch in instant messaging from 'tarantula' said

    surveillance on code in full swing. We
        can bring all in as soon as feasible.

    cross heart.

Who the fuck is 'Cross Heart'? She thought.

Another phone call contained a conversation,

"...we need to contain Italy. It could turn the entire operation upside down."

"Can't happen."

"I'm not saying it should. But it will if we don't watch it."

"Ensure it doesn't."

"We need the info. Can't stop now."

"If the target get's loose, we will be in a bad spot..."

She looked through a third transcript.

    sliding scale of damage having
        insufficient effect. we need to break
        the boundaries and take less risk at
        same time. bonus depends on closing
        the conduits.

None of it quite made sense. She continued trawling through the information until she couldn't keep her eyes open for even another minute. Talk of operations and stings and 'breaking the back' of things. The data didn't quite fit together, as if she was missing the frame of reference. Clearly some major operation had gone wrong in Italy, or did she have that wrong? Were they spying on a competitor, but why in Italy? No movies in Italy had been a competitive threat in decades. And the Beehivers spoke over and over again about problems they were having with their programming, but that made no sense since they clearly weren't coders. Was this some new TV channel that Melbox was planning on launching. In that case, her goose really was cooked.

Andrea, rubbed her head, closed the laptop and threw herself into bed. Some sleep might keep Marco off her back for a bit. She looked at the clock. Two am. Not too damn likely.

The next day at work was a quiet one. A Friday. Even Marco didn't have much to say. She tinkered around with the quarterly EMEA reports, finally sending them to Joseph. He probably didn't expect them for another two weeks if she knew him. He'd be overjoyed.

Around noon she received an SMS.

    I'd like to pluck your mandolin.

He was so damn cheesy. How could he write that? He was supposed to be an artist. But at the same time, she felt a surge of desire. It would be fun screwing the shit out of him. But of course she'd leave in the middle of the night so she wouldn't have to talk to him in the morning. Or better yet, they'd do it in a car. Then they'd have a quick coffee and call it a day. Ha.

Around two pm her phone rang. She answered without noticing the missing caller ID, part of her strict screening regime.

"Hello?"

"Hello." The voice was strangely distorted, low, growling.

"Who is this?"

"The tooth fairy," the voice said. "Who the hell do you think it is?"

She thought hard, trying to place the weird familiarity. "I don't know."

"It's squelch you idiot. Can't you recognize my voice, especially vadered?"

"What?" She felt momentarily dizzy, sitting down at her desk. "Hang on." With effort she got up and went into one of the conference rooms. "How did you get this number?"

"Look, I don't have time to explain."

"Oh yes you do. Or I hang up. I didn't tell you anything about me."

"You're in some serious shit. Danger I mean."

"Danger, my ass. How did you get this number?"

"I embedded some code in the vadering software, ok? Uploaded your contacts. Not to mention I know you work for Melbox, remember what you did for me? Fine?"

"You fuck." She kicked her foot hard enough that one of her sandals flew across the room and smacked into a wall.

"You're in danger. Don't worry about that other shit. I'm telling you, you need to leave LA now."

"That's so ridiculous it's stupid. And how would you know?"

"The surveillance I was doing for you, well an instant message went by. It said 'terminate Andrea Bauer'. I think that's significant."

"Oh god, they're going to fire me. How did they find out?"

"No, worse. They sent your home address and said 'tonight'. The person they sent it to doesn't work at Melbox."

"Fuck, you know everything that's been going on."

"You called in the best."

"Clearly." Andrea sucked her lower lip between her teeth.

"So you need to leave."

"You're nuts. Where should I go?"

"Here."

"Here? I don't have the slightest where you live. I don't even know your name. Why should I consider you trustworthy?"

"Chris Gonzales. Or Gonzo for short."

"And you think I should come to you? Now?"

"If you don't want to die."

An icy shudder crawled up and down Andrea's spine. "And why are they always looking at their programming code? Do you know the answer to that?"

"They are?"

"I think so. They talk about code a lot."

"Oh." He paused for a minute. Then spoke slowly. "Don't you think they might mean 'Code', the hacker. You know the one."

"Oh god. Of course." She kicked again, her other sandal clanging against the wall. "I'm such an idiot."

"Sorry, doll, that's the way the cookie crumbles."

"Fuck off. And tell Code I need to speak to him."

"Here's my address. It's in Stinson Beach outside of San Francisco. My parent's summer house. If you leave now, you can be here in six hours. And whatever you do, don't go home."

"How do you know all this fugitive stuff? I wouldn't know what to do. I couldn't run away from a snail on an ice cube."

"I don't. I'm making this shit up."

"Oh."

## Hopping

"What is going on?" Tara asked Dorian who was seated at the dining table typing into his laptop. "You seem agitated." She put her arm around his shoulders and leaning down, kissing him on the lips. "Don't get so worked up. It's bad for you."

"Bunny's looking for me. She wants to meet. She'll help me get to the bottom of what has happened. ReeperG's disappeared and I can't figure out how to get him so I need to find some hints to follow. She's what I need. Someone who knows what is happening, you see? I can't sit here and waiting. Waiting for them to track me and slip a knife in between my ribs or whatever those _stronzi_ will do. Probably six hundred bullets through my body. One for every artery or something equally baroque. That and a happy talk to say 'thank you for dying'. That's what I look forward to. See?" His shoulders jerked unconsciously, throwing off Tara's warm hands. He turned to face her, his fingers still hovering over the keyboard. She looked shocked. "Well, that's the way it is. Sorry I haven't told you before. I know you want to know, but you understand now why it is dangerous to know me, let alone to know what is going on. See?"

Tara stepped backward slowly, finally landing softly on the couch.

"Don't look at me like that," Dorian said. "I told you things were fucked up, _va fan culo_. Now you know."

"Yeah. I do," Tara said. "Who's Bunny?"

"Screen name; some girl."

"Oh. Interesting." Tara stood up, frowning, and went into the bedroom, closing the door behind her.

Dorian turned to the computer and searched the internet for cheap flight tickets. He went outside and withdrew two hundred pounds sterling, the max. This will be my last money for a while, unless those clowns are too stupid to trace my cards.

Andrea drove straight home, deliberately ignoring squelch's advice. What was the chance he was right? But the drive didn't feel right, like it normally did. The streets were ominous, dangerous. Cars swerved close, bristling with menace. The stray glance of a passerby had grim undertones. Fuck this. I'm not scared. All I did was try to help the company. No one could possibly want to hurt her because of that.

As her car slowed on the off-ramp into her neighborhood, her mind plotted escape routes. Up Santa Monica Boulevard, or around the block onto the almost hidden 10 East on-ramp. Or cut through the neighborhoods and head north to PCH. "I'll need to be careful about getting stuck at lights," she said out loud. "Worst case scenario in any case." She turned onto her street, fully expecting to drive straight into her garage, park and pack an overnight bag.

Eucalyptus trees lined the road in broad canopies that shaded the low apartment buildings on either side. The smell of the bark hung ripe in the air. Through her open windows she could hear her tires crackle along the hot pavement.

As she approached, certainty evaporated like ice on a stove. What if there was someone there? Should she really take her life into her own hands? She slowed the car, but did not turn at her garage, instead continuing a few more feet to afford the best view up into her front window. She stopped, looking up. A couple of plants, a little fake stained glass and the usual gauze curtains providing little privacy. Everything in order.

Wait. Not quite. She looked a few more seconds, wanting to be sure. Suddenly she realized she could see a figure in the window. She craned to get a better look. The shadow shifted behind the curtains and disappeared. No one ever entered her apartment. She sat back, shaken. Her eyes locked on a man staring at her intently from the front seat of a grey car across the road. She noticed his bushy eyebrows and stringy long hair. He appeared to come to a conclusion, opened the door and climbed out.

In that moment, instinct took over. Andrea's foot jammed the accelerator, kicking the big six cylinder engine into action. The car leapt forward. The man, half-way out of his car, leapt back in, and seconds later, his car pulled out of his parking spot, squealing a U-turn. Within moments he was following her closely. She turned sharply onto a side street, and his car followed. She drove straight for three blocks, ignoring the four-way stop signs, glad there was little mid-afternoon traffic. The grey remained in her rear-view mirror. She followed back along one of the escape paths she'd planned earlier. She'd only get one chance at this. The second time he'd know what she was doing. Timing carefully, she took a left at an intersection just as the light changed, able to trap the other car behind cross traffic. That would give her a few seconds. She could hear horns. She looked back quickly. Fuck, he wasn't waiting. She turned left into a narrow alley, racing between high apartment walls. Hopefully he didn't know about this. At the end, she turned left, then right, now heading back in the direction she'd come earlier. She looked in her mirror. All clear. She turned right, approaching the hidden entry onto the 10. If he'd followed her onto the freeway, she was finished. He'd almost certainly be willing to drive more crazy than her. She should have taken those lessons from that stunt driver boyfriend. She looked into her mirror before turning. Shit. The grey car approached quickly from behind. Panicked, she turned sharply right, narrowly missing a car parked too close to the corner. Gunning the accelerator, completely ignoring the other traffic, she raced around the block a second time, turning right, right, right. Now she was back where she started, but the grey car had not caught up. Whipping the wheel left, she turned into the road that would lead to the freeway on-ramp, squeezing between two cars double parked, and pulling onto the freeway. At the 405 interchange, she headed south towards LAX. Hopefully this would put them off her trail. She looked in her read-view mirror so often she barely saw the road in front of her. Nothing.

Passing the LAX interchange, she headed on the 110 towards downtown, finally heading north up to connect with the 5 towards San Francisco. She thanked her luck for the emergency bag she carried in her trunk, intended for unexpected nights away from home in far-flung parts of LA, possibly in connection with well muscled actors if it came to that. At least she had the basics.

"I think I've shaken them," she said to her car as she passed Bakersfield. She tapped the dashboard with her fingertips and her shoulders relaxed ever so slightly.

Dorian's internet phone woke him from a daze. He put on his headset and answered.

"I'm keeping this simple," the voice said, vadering.

"Yeah. This being what?" Dorian responded. He flipped on his many tracers.

"Tara will be dead unless you tell me who the Deep Noders are. That simple. That easy."

"Ah, my favorite person. Hello ReeperG. So, tell me, how would I know who is who? That seems to be your department so far."

"You messed up one of your routing tables. After that, you were easy to catch. So tell me who they are, where they live and their names."

"I don't know you bastard."

"I'm really very sorry for Tara."

"Fuck you."

"You have until tomorrow to find out. And in case you don't believe me, read this link from the San Antonio Express-News. The last times I showed you a gun, this time it's for real. You're right I can find all of you scum, but it takes me too long, understand? I need a shortcut, and you need some slut to poke your Johnson into. Take a look. I'll give you plenty of time."

Dorian opened the link.

    Tragic Accident Fells One Of Our
        Brightest

    SAN ANTONIO Last night in a freak
        accident, Jonas Cole, 16, of Alamo
        Heights, electrocuted himself on one
        of the numerous electronics and
        computer items in his possession. It
        is thought that he was assembling a
        science project when he inadvertently
        came in contact with the power
        supply. Mr. Cole had been a grand
        prize winner in the Texas Science and
        Engineering Fair and had been
        admitted to university one year
        early. Police do not believe that
        foul play is involved in the death.

    Mr. Cole leaves behind two parents and a
        brother.

"You're disgusting," Dorian said. In the background, every trace in his considerable arsenal worked busily, but somehow he knew it wouldn't work.

"That's 'Albu' as you call him," ReeperG said.

"What's that weird noise in the background on your end?"

"Oh, that's the Lehigh steel smelting factory," said ReeperG. He laughed. "What kind of dimbo do you think I am? Like I'm giving you the last clue about where I am."

The call ended as suddenly as it began.

Automatically, a recording of the call transcribed itself onto a data key Dorian had plugged into a USB plug on the laptop. Within seconds, the file was encrypted and locked. When the process finished, Dorian pulled the data key from the plug and opened a secure IRC connection.

    USER Code ENTERS CHANNEL

    Code:       Has anyone heard from Albu?
                Albu, u there?
    Striptz:    Nice to hear from you.
    Code:       Well, have you? need to speak
    Striptz:    nothing
    Ruutor:     just did a scan on his nodes.
                They've disappeared. That why
                u ask?
    nil8:       gettin his pud pulled a wee
                bit too often
    Code:       this is serious. he's gone
                looks like
    70mm:       no sign. he did seem nervous
                lately
    Code:       bye
    70mm:       what? no stick around to chat
    Code:       must run

    USER Code BECOMES IDLE

"Tara," Dorian yelled, a quaver in his voice.

"Yes?" she called out from the bedroom.

"Pack your bags. We need to leave."

"Leave where? It's not dinner time yet. I'm not hungry." Her voice floated languidly through the apartment, as if nothing in the world could be wrong.

"You aren't listening to me. Pack your bags. Luggage, get it? We need to leave for a while."

"My bags?"

"Yes, goddammit." He got up to walk to her bedroom.

"That's demented, mate."

"I don't care. We're leaving now." Dorian opened the door to the bedroom. Inside, Tara lay on her bed, her blouse unbuttoned provocatively.

"I think I need some lurvving." She smiled.

"You don't understand. We can't wait."

She got up, yanked his shirt and pulled him down onto the bed, her lips lingering on his. "Like this," she said.

"But..."

"I promise to come with no protests, but only if you come first."

"Fine," Dorian said, feeling suddenly and ridiculously horny.

An hour and a half later, they hailed a taxi outside Tara's door.

"Where are we going anyway?" Tara asked.

"I don't know. Put your bags in and get in."

"Where you off to guvn'r?" said the driver.

"Heathrow."

Tara looked up. "What?"

Dorian leaned back in the seat. He could sense the driver looking back at him. What did he want?

## Dirt

Andrea's car clock showed ten pm as she followed Route One off the steep ocean side cliffs into the town of Stinson Beach, an hour north of San Francisco. Her mind was fogged by the hours of driving and the stress of being chased. She stopped at the one traffic light, and turned left onto a small street that snaked back approximately in the direction she came. She peered through the darkness and the rough edges cast by her headlights to seek out the street numbers. A few times she thought she had it right and stopped. But each time the address had been wrong. Finally she arrived at a tiny cottage built of wood flush with the sandy ground. She checked the number, twenty-five. This was it. She parked at the nearest available spot in the tiny street, about thirty yards down, pulled her bag out of the trunk and walked back. Acura Integra, hmm, couldn't be that poor, that was for sure. How old was this kid?

The lights were on in the windows behind curtains. She walked up to the door, and seeing no doorbell, rapped hard. No answer. She waited a little, then knocked harder. Still no answer. Maybe he went shopping or something. She walked around, trying to peer through the curtains. She could see vague blobs through the material, but nothing more. She pressed her ear against the glass and heard a TV, a laugh track, some words.

She could just wait for him. Maybe the door was open and she could wait inside. She tried the front door. Locked. She knocked again, 'for good luck'. She walked around to the back, squeezing herself through a hedge of prickly bushes, halfway through realizing she could have used the gate. Too late. At the back door she tried again, and this time the knob turned and the door opened, screeching as it opened.

"Hello?" she called out. "Anybody home? It's Andrea. I'm supposed to come visit."

Nothing but the television. She'd entered a small kitchen connected to a living room where the sound was coming from. She walked through the doorway and screamed.

Dorian and Tara sat silently in room four twenty-seven of the Sheraton Heathrow Hotel. Tara idly flipped channels while Dorian connected to the internet. He looked for messages from squelch about when Bunny could meet, but no reply. And no sign of Bunny either. Finally, he found 70mm in an IRC channel, and opened a private connection.

    Code:       I need your help.
    70mm:       shoot. what is?
    Code:       need get in touch with Bunny.
                You remember her?
    70mm:       oh yeah. kinda hot I always
                imagined. hasn't been around
                much for a while
    Code:       I know. But she's back. Been
                talking to her though
                squelch. If you see either,
                tell her New York in two days
                is best.
    70mm:       pressing the flesh? Shit,
                things are going
                craaaaayyyyyzzzzzzy around
                here. Cat's and dogs and all
                that...
    Code:       chill out man. It's not like
                that
    70mm:       no, course not. much much
                worse.
    Code:       Just tell her, k? Thanks!
    70mm:       sure man.
    Code:       and be careful.
    70mm:       why?
    Code:       no reason. just be it, got
                it?

Dorian found some cheap tickets for New York on the internet and bought two to be paid in cash at the ticket counter. It might take them a few extra days to get at that information. Especially with the slight misspelling in his name.

"Tara, tomorrow morning we leave."

"Back home?"

"No, we're flying." That left thirty-five hundred dollars to his name.

Andrea screamed. It came out first, like an explosion. Then she registered the scene: a room with a TV and an old-fashioned couch with lace doilies on the arm rests. The TV and the floral wall paper behind the TV were sprayed with blood. He lay on the ground, hands strapped behind his back so the plastic cord dug into his flesh. She knew in her heart it was Chris even though she'd never seen him before. Blood congealed in a pool around his head. A deep gash sliced through the side of his neck. His clothes lay tangled and bloody around him, low slung jeans hanging off boxer shorts. He wore a Burning Man t-shirt half blackened by blood. And his eyes. His pleading eyes seemed to stare right at her.

Could she stop the blood? Was there a way to save him? She quickly knew it was a figment of wishful thinking that he was anything but murdered, dead.

She couldn't tear her eyes away, at the same time desperate to block the scene from her mind. She sank to her knees, sliding back slowly down the wall. What was happening? No one had to die. All this could have been stopped so easily. Tears erupted; tears she couldn't stop for many long minutes. "Sorry I got you into this, Chris," she said under her breath. She never could have imagined anything like this. Really it had never crossed her mind, even when she was being chased by that driver. She really really didn't think anyone would be killed. Did she? She thought hard. No. Definitely not.

The whole thing should have been fictional, like she'd seen so many times in her precious movies. Like _American Psycho_ , or even _Blade Runner_. Even when she'd been little and her parents let her watch movies that were really a bit too scary, even then she knew it was a trick, a story. Even the dreams with the witches. Even that she'd known was a story.

This? This was real. Or had she slipped into a dream? She wasn't violent.

Her eyes drifted around the room, taking in the lace curtains, the chipped molding, the faded rocker chair, snapping back every few seconds to the body of her friend who thought all he had to do was save her from herself.

Slowly another thought drifted in. What about her? If they wanted to kill Chris, they would want her even more. Did they know she was due here? Were they already on their way. Was one of them about to burst through the back door. "We only want to talk to you," they'd say, "just need some information." Bit it would only be a way to distract her long enough for them to grab her.

She jerked up, truly scared for the first time. She needed a plan right now. She needed to wise up. From here on anything could happen. She couldn't count on anything or anyone. She needed to get out of there as quickly as possible. But she also had to get the police involved. Somehow.

She looked for a phone, spotting one on the other side of the couch on a small wooden table. She shuddered. She'd have to maneuver around Chris' body, avoiding the pool of blood. She'd dial and run, she thought. Right now she couldn't be talking to police. They'd probably implicate her, and in the meantime the real killers could find her. Maybe once the police had found the killer, then maybe she'd be safe.

But she couldn't even be thinking about that right now. She first needed to stay alive. That had to be her priority. Nothing else mattered right now.

She found a way not to leave footprints in the blood, but get to the phone. Using her shirt, Andrea picked up the receiver. She dialed 911 with her knuckle. As soon as it rang, she put the receiver down on the table the receiver. She maneuvered her way back around Chris' body, past the TV and ran out. It didn't matter how long it took them to get there; Chris was dead.

She drove back to San Francisco, checking into a hotel by the marina right by the freeway off-ramp. She used a fake name and cash. The bored receptionist didn't notice and didn't care. She really needed to lay low, she thought. This wasn't going to go well otherwise.

In her room, she snapped on the TV, catching the last few minutes of an eleven pm news show. Nothing yet. She opened her laptop, connecting to someone's open WiFi router and opened IRC.

    USER Bunny ENTERS CHANNEL

    Bunny:      hello?
    70mm:       hey. how are you.
    Bunny:      been better
    70mm:       you'll be happy to know. hang
                on...

    USER 70mm OPENS PRIVATE CHANNEL TO Bunny

    70mm:       this is more secure. Code
                wanted you to know that he
                could meet you in two days in
                New York City. hehehe. what
                are you two up to anyway?
    Bunny:      nothing. just meeting a
                friend
    70mm:       not with all this cloak and
                dagger shit. they'll be some
                pokey pokey going on.
    Bunny:      seriously, we're friends
    70mm:       who can't call each other.

Could she trust 70mm? She'd thought about it a long time. Every angle landed in the same place: she didn't really have a choice. Code was the most likely to be able to help her and one of the Deep Noders was already dead. They had as much to lose as she did.

With a nervous sigh she sent the message.

    Bunny:      here's my number, tell him to
                call me.

    USER Bunny SENDS FILE Bunny_cell.vcard

    Bunny:      make sure he calls.
    70mm:       oh yeah baby.

    USER Bunny EXITS CHANNEL

Andrea logged onto Melbox's network, relieved that no one had thought to revoke her access. All of her accounts were there. It meant that whoever was after her didn't control the IT department yet, a very good sign. Well, good sign of what, she wondered. They were trying to kill her. So they hadn't blocked her from the network. Nice oversight, but would it keep her alive? Stop.

She looked at the names on Chris' list, picking the first three who'd left their laptops on. That would be the best she could do that night. And she was sure they would turn off her access soon. Downloading their _shit_ was definitely against policy though, but, she chuckled, wasn't it _also_ against policy to kill people?

She launched a transfer of all the documents on the laptops. The data came slowly because of the bad connection. Idly, she picked her nails, finally turning back to the TV. Halfway through a comic monolog, she fell asleep fully clothed on top of the bed. Her laptop hummed.

The next morning she woke up around seven, unable to sleep a moment longer. No calls on her cell. She switched on the TV, trying to catch a news segment on one of the morning programs. Finding nothing, she left Channel 2 on and went to brush her teeth, keeping half an ear out.

"Now let's come back to the top stories of the morning. In the sleepy town of Stinson Beach, a horrific murder committed last night. Chris Gonzales of San Francisco was found knifed to death in a cottage owned by his parents. It is believe that he may have been involved in a Black Widow style internet killing as the police are seeking Andrea Bauer of LA in connection with Gonzales' death. Further details have not been provided by authorities, however we will follow this fast moving case as it develops this morning."

Andrea shut off the TV, and searched for the nearest bus station on the web. Downtown SF. Ok. She threw on her spare pair of clothes and drove into downtown, parking her car in a random lot. From there she went to a Bank of America branch. Hopefully no one would have seen her picture or name.

"I'd like to withdraw five thousand dollars from my account," she said when she finally reached a teller.

"That's a lot of money. What are you going to do with it?"

"This is my money, isn't it?"

"Oh, sorry. Just making conversation. Can I see a valid form of identification?"

Within two minutes, she had the money in her hands, more than she'd ever held in cash before.

Down the street she found a cellular reseller who gave her a new pre-pay SIM card and fifty dollars of credit and a refurbished phone. As soon as Code called on her current phone, she'd get his number and throw her old phone out. That should stop the police tracing her and give her a few minutes to call Code before he had to throw out his phone. And if they weren't listening yet, at least they'd be searching in the wrong place once they started looking. If only Code would call. What was taking him so long? She went into a Jamba Juice, ordered a smoothie and sat down to think.

If she took her car, they'd find her in a second. And how did the police know it was her so fast? That didn't make sense. She hadn't left any prints, had she? And even if she had, they would have taken a while to process. And worse, she'd never given her fingerprints to anyone, so they must have gotten her name some other way. They must have had her in their sights from the first. But the whole thing was strange because they'd never tried to call her, which would have been an obvious way to reach her..

And as if on cue, her phone rang. She recognized the San Francisco area code, 415. It couldn't be Code. He was wanting to meet in New York. She let it go to voicemail, but the caller did not leave a message.

The bus really was the best way, and she'd have to use cash.

She looked around the small store, at men and women in suits, popping in for a quick morning refresher, at the Mexican servers behind the counter bantering in Spanish. Would she ever be able to walk anywhere without worrying that she'd be killed? She didn't even know what she'd done, let alone why someone would want to kill her. It couldn't be for uploading the movies, could it? The only other explanation was Beehive. And that was pretty flimsy too. Kill her over two hundred and fifty grand? You've got to be joking.

Time crawled across her watch at the slowest rate since that date with the student cameraman. It was ridiculous. If Code didn't call in the next hour, she'd have to get on that bus. Frisco wasn't safe.

Andrea jumped up from the little table, grasped her hair in a pony tail and expertly snapped a band around the unruly mass. She walked out onto the street, circling into one shop after another, warily keeping an eye on the bank of phone booths in the middle of the pedestrian island. Her fingers idly flipped pages in a map store as she strained for her phone to ring.

How long until the police had a warrant and could locate her phone? Another hour? Did they have it already?

Her phone rang, sending an electric current through her wiry frame. No caller ID.

"Hello?" she answered.

"You wanted to talk to me?"

She could hear a strong Italian accent in the voice.

"Who is this?"

"I'm Code. 70mm told me to call you. He thinks I want to bang you." The voice chuckled over tension.

"Yes." She breathed in deeply. She would have to trust it was him. She didn't have time for any security shenanigans. "Give me your number now. I'll call you from a phone booth. I'm certain my phone is tapped."

The voice read the numbers in slow digits. A Boston number, she thought.

"I'll call you right back."

She ran from the store, nearly leaving her purse on the table where she'd been reading. At the phone booth she dropped in five dimes she'd gathered for the purpose and dialed the number.

"Pronto?"

"Is this Code?"

"Yes."

"It's Bunny." She gasped in a breath. "Just listen to what I tell you to do. I don't have much time. Wherever you are, find a phone booth, and tell me the number on it. I will call you there. I'll wait on the line while you look."

"Ok. Too bad we can't vader."

"I know." She laughed nervously. She could hear walking sounds over the scratchy cellular connection. "I feel like I'm in a spy movie." Her eyes glanced over the phone, trying to keep her heart from racing too much. " _Does not accept incoming calls._ " Shit. His had better. "Have you found one?"

"It's a little tricky. I'm in an—"

"Don't say," Andrea shouted.

"Oh, sorry." He paused. "There's one. One sec." She could hear feet running. "Ok, the number is..." She wrote it down.

"Does the phone accept incoming calls?"

"It doesn't say anything about it."

"I'll call you. If you don't hear anything in five minutes, call me back. Bye."

She hung up, and dialed the number. This was it. She clenched her teeth, and scrunched her eyes.

The number rang.

"Hello, Code here."

"Thank God. It worked."

"So what's going on?" Code said.

"I want to ask you that."

"I don't know either. People are dead. My family's dead."

"Oh god."

"Yes."

"We can't talk now. They'll get this number in a few minutes. I'll just give you my new cell phone number and call me once you have a new cell phone. And for god's sake, throw the old one away. And never use it to call the new number, or the police will just trace down your number from my number, and bang, they'll have you."

"I know. I'm a hacker too, you know. What do you mean police?"

"There's no time. I'm in danger." She gave the number, hung up the phone and turned around.

That was it, she was outta here. She tossed her brand new, one month old Samsung phone into a garbage can after wiping the memory and locking the keypad. She'd liked the silly backgrounds it did. She stopped at an ATM, and withdrew $450, the daily max. Back at the garage she picked up her overnight bag from the trunk of her car and walked the six blocks to the bus terminal. That, she told herself, was her old life over. _Sorry mom, I can't call you. Please forgive me._ She didn't relax until the 10:25 bus to 'New York and points East' pulled onto the Bay Bridge.

## Foul

The rough sound of thrash metal rasped through the darkened room. A bank of computers lined the wall on one end. Three laptops were attached to broad LCD monitors. Cables and glowing power supplies snaked across the desk. Devices of indeterminate purpose in metallic cases connected in odd stacks.

"He's totally gone you goomba. How the fuck did that happen?" the hunched figure shouted into a microphone, the words sharply edged by fear.

"I can't hear you there, mate," said a voice from the speakers. "Could you turn off that distortion?"

"It's not distortion, you nimrod. It's protection. Vadering, got it?"

"Turn it off."

The figure clenched it's hand, then typed something into the keyboard. "Not going to happen. I gotta protect myself, especially against you. Not that you can find me or anybody for that matter."

"Chill out, will you? This is a simple matter. We'll find him soon enough. Your job is to sit tight and wait for developments."

"Yeah. You are nuts. I'm supposed to scare this guy, make him reveal his sources, get under his skin, but you can't find him. When you plannin' to make this nightmare end?"

"What did I tell you?" The voice took on menace. "You will follow orders. I run this op, not you. Don't forget it."

The figure shook its head. "I'll put you in jail if you mess with me. Got it?"

"We'll have track of him as soon as necessary. In the meantime, don't call me anymore, and SHUT THE FUCK UP!" The line cut off.

    IRC LOG: INTERCEPTED 5-OCT 15:02 UTC

    <A>:        Urgent. We must act.
    <A>:        Is anybody bloody there?
    <A>:        Hello?
    <A>:        Checking in.
    <B>:        Hi. Sorry. Was busy.
    <A>:        Somethings happening, and if
                we don't act fast we might
                get tagged.
    <B>:        Don't get excited. Stay put.
                What is happening?
    <A>:        Shit, sorry. Have to go.
                cross heart.
    <B>:        Hello?
    <B>:        u there?

    USER <A> EXITS CHANNEL

    <B>:        FUCK!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!

    USER <B> EXITS CHANNEL

    ENCRYPTION KEY CHANGES. LOGGING TERMINATED

## Sifting

Dorian walked across the dull polished expanse of the terminal after finishing his call with Bunny, his mind racing. What did this girl really have? Could she lead him to the people who had killed his family? And what kind of danger was she in. His breast bone pinched; muscles all over his body strained. He had so much to do: find a hotel, buy a phone, find Bunny, meet her, lots of hoping she wasn't dangerous. How would he survive? He'd have to stay low to the ground. Maybe she was as scared as he was. What a jumble!

Dorian passed a news stand, glancing over at the world papers. Nothing special. Another bomb by the Tamil Tigers. The World was a _cazzata_ as always. Suddenly he remembered. He walked to the nearest garbage can, throwing Tara's phone into it.

"Thanks for that," he said, as he came up to Tara slumped sleepily on an airport bench. "Needed to make that call. Unfortunately, I have bad news."

"What?"

"I lost the phone. Right after I made the call. I don't know what I did with it. I'm so sorry."

"You are a disaster. I guess I didn't need it right now. But you'll have to get me a new one when we get back to London." She smiled wanly.

"With pleasure." He picked up his carry-on and both roller bags. "We've got to get to the city. No time to lose."

Tara hauled herself up, and looped her hair behind her ear. "I'm ready."

Outside the sun shone in sharp angles through the fall afternoon, the air drier and crisper than in London. They joined the long taxi line for the forty-five minute drive to Manhattan.

"Take us to a hotel near Washington Square Park," Dorian instructed the cabbie once they got to the front of the line.

"Yeah, I know where it is. So which hotel you talkin' about?"

"One with a vacancy."

The whole ride to Manhattan, the driver had a Yankees game playing at full volume that Dorian hardly noticed, and Tara dropped straight to sleep. As the cab pulled onto First Avenue, Dorian ordered the driver to stop.

"I need to get something before we continue. You wait here." He patted Tara, who nodded sleepily.

"I ain't got all day."

"I'm paying you."

"I'm on a fixed rate."

"Then turn on the meter." Dorian jumped out, and ran into a cell phone store. He bought the cheapest pre-pay phone he could find, and a number to go with it. Fifteen minutes later he emerged with a new, anonymous cell phone thanks to fifty bucks and a grandmother's address in Nyack.

Thirty minutes later they dropped exhausted onto a lumpy bed in a tiny room.

"This is where students go when they break up with their girlfriends who just happen to be their roommates too," Dorian said.

"Right."

Her shivering finally stopped, as Andrea looked out the bus window, across the central divide, at the perfectly flat Central Valley, somewhere on the way to Sacramento. What had she gotten herself into? This was like being in a movie, but not at all exciting. This was shit. She could die at the next stop, not an exciting idea at all. She squeezed her eyes. Think positive thoughts. Forward thinking. Very forward goddamn thinking thoughts. Mom always said she had a positive state of mind built in. Now was exactly when she would have to put that talent into practice. She couldn't even fucking call mom. Jesus, hopefully they weren't looking for her. Ice ran down her spine. Positive FUCKING thoughts.

After Sacramento, things started to feel a bit more normal as the bus began the long climb into the Sierra Nevada mountains. She opened her laptop and began sifting through the files squelch had found. Got him killed and could easily get her killed too. In fact, why the hell hadn't they waited for her as well and finish everything all at once. Typical idiots. Probably thought they'd got her back in Lala.

She played the cell phone recordings first, plucking from a few hundred hours worth. Conversations with Bank of America, "...my credit card payment is showing late." Grocery lists. The kids coming home. After twenty minutes, she learned to jump to the middle and listen for anything out of the ordinary. So this was what it meant to be a gumshoe, she thought, not a little proudly. She was a real life detective. She wiggled the headphones in her ear. Damn, these things itch.

"...the operation is snowballing."

"I know. We are having serious trouble keeping the lid on." she stopped the media player.

This was a live one. She jumped to the beginning of the recording.

"How are you?"

"Good, you?"

"Fine."

"So who do you think will win?"

"Could be Chicago, but they have had a lot of injuries."

Useless junk continued for ten minutes. Fuck, she didn't have that much battery power. Andrea looked at the indicator, two thirds left. Where was the good part?

"So about the team?"

"Yeah, seriously."

"Joey won't stop talking about how he's going to play better than everyone else. I think we might have taken the competition thing too far."

"Yeah, the operation is snowballing."

"I know. We are having serious..."

Fucking Jesus H Christ, she was listening to a sinister tale of two soccer coaches. She closed the file. "Next," she said out loud, looking around to see if anyone was paying attention, slightly hoping someone wanted to hear what the Master Spy had to mutter to herself.

Nothing.

She kept trying as the bus began to weave precariously up the mountain range. Good thing car sickness didn't affect her.

"Our man still hasn't gotten you the details? We need those to properly move forward." The voices were quiet, and she could hear the tension.

"Get off my back."

"I'm only asking." Andrea could hear a sigh. "The heat is on from Milan. I think they've figured out the op was off-shored."

"We hoped to have everything wrapped up long before that."

"I know, I know. It wasn't supposed to get all fucked." A long pause. "We fucked up. Constrains our options now. The boss doesn't want to front more money, but he keeps telling me to get it done."

"Sounds familiar, Colonel."

"Yeah. Shut up."

"I've got tentative info from Cross Heart. I'm looking to get back in that way."

"Good. Keep working that angle. Hopefully it pans out. Later"

Andrea opened a blank document and wrote notes.

    Some things I know:

    Bad People?
    -----------

    Colonel:       Running op
    Other voice:   Seems to be responsible
                   for Cross Heart and
                   "Unknown man"
    Cross Heart:   Has info that needs
                   following up
    "Unknown Man": Needs to deliver info

    Good People?
    ------------

    squelch        Dead
    Code           Italian. Involved in
                   Milan?
    Code's family  Dead

    Places
    -------

    Milan          Site of fucked up operation
    LA             Melbox, and me
    NYC            Code is going there, and
                   so am I

    Other
    -------

    They want me dead too?

She listened to further voice tracks. She heard the voice of Mel Boxton talking to what sounded like Colonel, though it appeared to be a simple discussion of consulting fees. So Mel's involved, but how? Could he be the boss? Makes sense, no?

Andrea looked out the window where the bus passed a sharp drop off into a deep canyon. She shifted in her seat. This itchybutt sucked. She stood up and pulled at her panties which were stuck to her ass, and tried to bring some life into her atrophying buttocks. Very ladylike, that was for sure!

She noticed a guy a row back looking over. She smirked at him. I'm not taking my bra off here, buddy.

Her laptop battery drained like crazy. Each Instant Messaging file and every IRC log was separately encrypted, and she had to use all the power in the computer to break them open one by one. The algorithm, thankfully, was quick, still, it had limitations. It didn't let her decrypt when the messages were sent. Worse, she'd lost the file time stamps by copying them. Stupid. She knew better than that. Now she'd have to figure out when each log happened by painstakingly sequencing them herself.

As she paged through the transcripts, one stood out.

    L:          We have to have the DN List.
                It's the only way to move
                forward.
    X:          I'm putting all the pressure
                I can on him. I'm getting
                sick of tell you
    L:          It's critical. Time is
                running out. And when our
                time is up. so is yours, bud.
    X:          He'll crack. Sure of it. u
                wait. now bug off.
    L:          It's the only way he lives,
                got it.
    X:          yup. told him. he'll come
                through. few more accidents
    L:          I want one big accident, get
                it. Don't have more info to
                do accidents. No time either.
                It's up to you.

What the hell was the DN List, Andrea wondered? And what were these accidents? Shit, it was all confusing. When did the goddamn time run out? Who was in danger?

The computer processed, heating her lap. Another hit a few transcripts later.

    L:          Police have the whole dossier.
    C:          Anonymous, right?
    L:          Hell yeah. They'll get her
                within 24 hours and then it's
                all over super girl. She
                can't use her cards, her car
                or go home. She does anything
    C:          Snap. I know. Let's not lose
                her this time.
    L:          How would I know she'd make
                it to SF? We were stationed
                to halt anything.

Andrea's jaw fell open. Her breath came in short gasps. So it was all connected. She could never show her face again. The realization surprised her more than she would have imagined.

    C:          No more. Bye. And when do we
                get the dn list?
    L:          Working on it. Well
                protected.
    C:          As soon as our man gets it
                from his source, we need to
                term the source. The guy is
                too nosy. Searching
                everywhere. Have we got the
                loc of the source guy?
    L:          We had it. We'll get it back.

DN List again? What was this goddamn DN List?

And what the hell was keeping Code? Couldn't he buy a friggin cell phone? Her breath came quickly. Calm down, Mrs Amazing, she told herself. Now was the time to calm. Focus.

    Shutdown in progress. Insufficient
        battery remaining.

Andrea barely managed to save her notes as the machine went dead. Resigned, Andrea focused her attention on the passing mountains, glimmering in the afternoon light. Occasionally she glanced at the silly guy who'd been looking earlier. Kinda cute, but then, what kind of loser took the bus?

## Box

"Senator Freestone, I'm well aware of what you've done," Mel said, suppressing an urge to shout. He looked around his gleaming corner office, his gaze finally traveling out the window to the low-slung buildings and ranch homes that stretched out across the Valley, crossed by a ribbon of freeway. He shifted the receiver to his other ear. "As you know, the fight against piracy needs your help more than ever."

"Look Mel," said the gravelly female voice at the other end of line, "let's cut the hokum. Political office doesn't grow on trees. Or is that something you weren't aware of?"

Mel guffawed. "Clearly."

"Frank sent my aides your way. He told me you would smooth things, right?"

"But—"

"That you hold the budget."

"Hold on here—"

"And you sent them away. Frank and I have an agreement, and without the agreement there is no DMCA, no copyright improvements," she said. "You must be well aware I run the committee with oversight of the movie industry."

"I know—"

"So let me finish. Frank promised donations, MAIG made a commitment and you are going to meet it. Do I make myself clear?"

"Mrs Freestone, I mean Senator Freestone, I'm working with getting the funds cleared, and of course we appreciate the hard work you've done, but that doesn't make getting the funds transferred any quicker."

"So I'll see the check in the next week."

A light blinked on Mel's phone. His assistant had something urgent.

"I can't promise that, Senator."

"You just have."

The phone clicked. Mel noticed, almost shocked, that his palms were sweating. He had to find a way to put her off. Fucking politicians. Money fucking grubbers. He leaned back in his throne-like chair and rubbed his stomach.

His phone bleated. Leaning forward, his compact figure rotating over the chair, he banged down on the intercom.

"What do you want?" he shouted.

"The Colonel is here to see you. You asked him to come in ASAP."

"Tell him to come back later."

"As you wish."

Mel leaned back. Control trickled back over him. He owned them, not the other way around. That was important to remember. His mind floated free for a few precious seconds, idling on that chick that came on to him at the bar the other night. He cast her image aside and punched the button. "Never mind, send him in."

"You want to see him?"

"Yes. That's what I said, didn't I?"

"I'll send him in."

The man who walked in was either the toughest ex-armed forces bad guy ever to darken Mel's doorstep, with bulging biceps and a trim flattop, or an extremely camp gay man from San Francisco's Castro district, with a wide handlebar moustache and oversized belt buckle. Theater went with his every step, and it was impossible to know whether he was ever serious. For those many that had doubted, however, a significant number found out that he was ever so earnest. Mel, however, had never doubted, having served with him in the Navy SEALs.

"Colonel," Mel said, looking at his friend. "Spit it out."

"How nice to see you, sir," the Colonel said. "Excellent weather we're having here."

"I'm worried things are getting out of hand. Money spent; results not what they should be." Mel eased his weight in the soft leather chair, anxiety draining out his fingertips. He just need to kick Colonel's ass a bit and they'd get it all under control. "I've got the entire Democratic Party up my ass trying to stop the piracy situation, and pretty soon I'll be paying them instead of you." He cracked a knuckle.

The Colonel strode to one of the floor to ceiling windows and stared keenly into the distance for several seconds. "The op's been harder than it looked. These kids are careful, like military careful, and we've only cracked about half. But they work like a cabal." He looked over at Mel, who nodded impatiently. "So what's happening is this: we neutralize one, and the others pick up the slack. It's a competition to get to the top."

"Neutralize?" Mel didn't like the sound of the word.

"Yeah."

"How?"

"We strip them of their hardware and break some bones. Tough love." The Colonel laughed hard at his own joke. "They won't be back."

Mel let it slide. He'd never really wanted to know what was being done with his quarter million dollars, he just knew it left plenty of dough behind, which he desperately needed to invest in other, more 'productive,' ways.

The Colonel continued. "We've got some inside action and a serious round of surveillance." Again the Colonel laughed, enjoying a private joke. He walked towards Mel's desk and landed his heavy frame in a chair. "I'm staying on a generalized level here, but I get the feeling you ain't comfortable. Am I reading the wind here correctly?"

"Look, we have to get the op wrapped up, and you made it clear you could do that, but something's not right. That's the feeling from where I sit." The anxiety returned. Mel chewed his lip and barked. "You have to close this down in two weeks, and I expect it to be done."

"That's not exactly possible."

"Make it possible." Mel dismissed his visitor. Something wasn't right at all.

## Arrange

As the bus passed Boreal Ski Resort, a browning series of gently sloped hills at the very top of the Donner Pass, Andrea's cell phone vibrated. Her pulse raced.

"Hello?" Instinctively she looked around.

"Hello. This is Code."

"Yes. Thank god. I've been waiting."

"Sorry. I had to buy phone. And I've been traveling around. It's not quick."

"Yes." She felt nervous talking to this anonymous person, probably trusting her life in him. She took a deep breath and dug her nails into the arm rest. She'd formulated the words over the last hours. She simply had to trust. "I'll meet you at the Blue Water Grill near Union Square at 11:30am exactly."

"Which day?" She could hear nerves jangling his voice. At least he was scared too, she thought.

"In three days. Be super careful. You might be under surveillance."

"Don't be worried. No one knows where I am."

"I am worried. They want to kill me, and they want to kill you." True or not, he needed to know this was serious.

"Oh," Code gasped. "I guess I knew that."

"We can't speak again."

"Yes."

"Do you know anything about the DN List?" Instantly she regretted the question. "Don't answer. Not on this line." She'd said too much. "I'll see you in three days." She clicked the end button, turned off the phone and removed the battery. She couldn't risk them tracking her further. No tracks. A thought passed through her head. Did he know that squelch was dead?

Ninety minutes later, the bus stopped at the main bus terminal in Reno, Nevada. One hour break, the driver announced. Andrea nearly bounced off the bus, her legs desperately needing the stretch. Her lungs filled with crisp desert air, rudely laced with diesel fumes from the idling buses.

She roamed the dead and silent streets, wondering where the people had gone. She picked up a burger and munched as she walked. Her long legs brought her to West 3rd St, and there, right along the railroad tracks, in a dilapidated industrial building, she stumbled upon a gun shop. Andrea pushed through the cheap glass front door of "Ye Olde Gunne Emporium," not quite sure why she was there. Inside, it reminded her of a fishing tackle joint she and her uncle would go to near Bakersfield before long afternoons throwing hooks into a pond. Which is really what it was, since they rarely caught any fish.

She looked around. Musty, with a faint smell of oil in the over-bright fluorescence. Glass counters of rifles, pistols, and shotguns lined one wall, while on the other side, hunting gear and military camouflage lay stacked on shelves over a counter bursting with knives.

She spied a well groomed man at the back, and put on her best countryside face.

"I could sure do with some help," she said, with what she hoped was a Midwestern twang. A huge smile burst across her face. Her fingers plucked at the hem of her skirt. Acting class ftw!

The man cleared his throat. "Come a long way to pick up a weapon, have you?"

"Naw. Dad said I should pick one up sooner or later, so I could be protected."

"You know what you lookin' for?"

"Not really," she said, looking deep into his eyes, suddenly blushing. What the hell was she doing? Would he really fall for this crap?

"I can help you with that."

She looked down at the counter. A small pistol with an ivory handle and pink barrel caught her eye. "That one. It's so cute!" And she meant it. She'd expected guns to look like the giant ugly black things that Arnold Schwarzenegger carried around. This one was more like an accessory. "Does it have a cigarette lighter inside too?"

The man laughed, twitching his hand at his moustache. "Blow your head off, more like. Nope. But it does the trick like any other gun in here." He tilted up to look at her more closely.

She thought for a few moments. "I'll take it."

He unlocked the counter and put the tiny weapon in her palm. "Comes with full instructions," he said, frowning, "including how to explain to the police why your boyfriend ain't just sleeping." A shocking deep laugh erupted from him, wiping the smile off Andrea's face.

"Oh god." Quickly she put the gun down.

"That'll be ninety-nine dollars for the gun, fifty for ammo. Gimme an ID and you can pick it all up in three days."

"Three days? I'm leaving town in an hour. I can't wait." A second late, she flashed her smile.

"Doesn't matter how nice you are." He leaned forward, and looked around the store. "Are you a cop?"

"Hell no."

"I'm a true patriot, and that's why I'm gonna do this. See, everybody has a right to a gun, and all these laws don't change the Constitution one iota, right?"

"Right." The look on his face made her teeth hurt.

"Now I'm no idiot and I don't think you're gonna do anything good with this gun, but there's the Constitution."

"I won't hurt a fly."

"Ha." He fiddled his moustache again. "An extra hundred's all it takes. I'll file the paperwork. You were never here."

"Ok—So, are you a cop?"

He stood still behind his counter. She could almost hear his tongue pushing up against his teeth. Very slowly he said, "hell no." He handed her the gun, a box of ammo, and a pile of manuals. Under his breath she could hear him repeat "gimme the cash and I'll let you dash."

On the short walk back to the bus she wondered if she'd done the right thing. What would a gun do for her? The hard outline inside her bag felt reassuring and repulsive at the same time. She was carrying concealed heat, she thought, and laughed. _Gimme the cash, and I'll let you dash._ Maybe that should be her motto?

Dorian dialed Richard South, his college freshman advisor, from outside a café near Wall Street. He used a calling card he'd had from Italy which he hadn't used in two years. No way could he risk calling anyone he knew with his new cell phone. Someone would figure out the connection in seconds. Even though it was expensive to use the card, at least he'd be somewhere far away before anyone traced it to him.

"I know I've been gone a while, but here I am, calling in."

"There's been a fire in your room, and your roommate was injured. Did you know that?" said Richard.

"I told you I've been out of touch."

"Where?"

"Around."

"The police want a word with you. You in the US? You sound like you're in the US."

"I'm not available. How could you tell I was in the US?"

"You know, the sound." Richard paused. "Hey, if you don't tell me where you are, how do I help you? The Administration wants to know what's going on. I've been trying to cover for you the whole time."

"I'm sure."

"I'm on your side man. I deeply understand you. You lost your family. It takes a toll."

Dorian could almost feel Richard's toes flexing inside his worn Birkenstocks, and the image revolted him. That was the past. His future was unforgivably on the run.

"Why do you need to know so much?"

"You expect me to show up with nothing. I have to illustrate your intent to return. Clarify how you will get your classes completed on time. You understand the drill, plus the minor issue of the damage to your room right about when you left."

"So why did some sophomore tell me that I could fall off the face of the earth and no one would complain at Harvard until the tuition didn't get paid."

"That's sheer exaggeration."

"Has anyone really asked about me yet?"

"Well. Yes, they have. The police."

"Other than that, anyone?"

"The Administration."

"Who in the 'Administration'?"

"The Dean's Office."

"You're full of shit."

"Ok, fine." Richard breathed in, then exhaled, the carbon dioxide whistling through his teeth. "You're right. No one, as such, has asked for you. Yet. But I have to be ready. Especially with the police having questions. The Ad Board will be sure to follow."

"Give me a break."

"Really. What city are you in?"

Dorian suddenly felt very nervous. This guy was after him. Look at all the questions he was asking. He must be one of them. "I have to go."

"No, Dorian, wait. I've..."

Dorian hung up. Now he pounded the phone. He should have Vadered the call. Now, with a tape of the call, Richard might be able to position him by the ambient noise. Or he'd have access to the records of the calling card provider, and they'd just look up where he was. He was screwed.

He pushed open the plexiglass door to the phone booth, thoughts shifting to Bunny. How did she know about the DN List? Did she know what it meant? Was she bluffing to get him to reveal everything he knew.

He began to trace the route back to the tiny hotel room he shared with Tara. Bunny knew far more than he imagined. He couldn't afford to blow her off. He pushed the thoughts out of his head, looking at the shop windows and the funky clothes inside. He had three days to wait for Bunny. Well, pushing thoughts away didn't work.

Andrea caught occasional glimpses of passing desert, or a sign flickering on as she jolted out of a fitful sleep. An hour past Carson City, Andrea stretched her arms, and got up to grab a candy bar from the backpack stashed above her seat. Something was wrong. It felt a bit light, or the wrong shape.

She jumped up on the seat handle, waving crazily as the bus lurched. She fumbled her hands inside the pack, reaching and squeezing. Hunting frantically.

It was gone. Her laptop had disappeared.

## Prep

"I'll be out there tomorrow," Colonel said. The line crackled in a strange way, almost like a CD barely skipping, a digital sound, the sound of complex military-grade algorithms crunching voices into seemingly random information on one side, and unscrambling the random noise back into voices on the other end. To the Colonel, it felt like a part of him, inside, comfortable. In all the years he had been involved in covert ops all over the world, he'd only felt safe to speak when he could hear that scrambling sound.

"Are you sure you don't want me to bring him in first?" said Lieut.

"Don't even think about it," said Colonel.

"Look, I don't want to lose him again."

"You've got him covered."

"The guy is smart. Right now I know where he is, tomorrow he might have disappeared."

"You heard my answer. Respect my decision, soldier."

"Yes, sir!"

"Now what's he been doing?"

"He seems to be laying fairly low. Sticking to the hotel, except for one to two hour trips."

"And where does he go?"

"We have trouble tracking him. He's very careful. The data on that, as you might imagine, is spotty. Seems to be liking the sex though."

"Get off it. And this meeting?"

"It's happening. We're not sure when or where, but it's definitely happening."

"Any idea who with?"

"Not really. Some guesses. We'll, frankly, like I told you before, it's probably one of those creep buddies. We're hoping he brings the list and we can take him, the creep and everything in one sweep. First get the locations of their servers, and then—"

"Not until I'm there."

"Of course not."

"Keep me posted. This one's your responsibility. On any news of the location of the meeting, stake out the place and prepare for ops there. We don't want to wait too long now do we?"

"No sir."

## Breath

The weather felt oppressive. Suddenly hot chased by cold. The wind would rise in Washington Square Park, fading away just as quickly. Dorian never knew what clothing to wear when he left the hotel on the few occasions that he did. But even inside, they had to keep the small window open so the room didn't close in on them, and somehow still the weather came inside to find them.

The questions in Dorian's head didn't stop. Why would squelch reveal the existence of the DN List? They'd all sworn to keep that secret. 'No matter what.' It wouldn't come out under FBI questioning, nothing, that was the pact. If only he could risk going online, opening an IRC chat and connecting. He hadn't spoken to his friends in days. Even worse, what if they were in danger? No, he couldn't. He couldn't dare. It would be too easy to reveal his location, and he'd already let slip too much to Richard. That was not the smartest thing he ever did.

The hours dragged kicking and screaming around the dial. Tara didn't make it easier, flicking through the fifteen channels on the TV with a manic repetitiveness he hadn't seen before. Was it a mistake to bring her? But she was in danger too. He couldn't leave her behind, even if nothing would convince her there was a problem.

"I can help you. Be your eyes and ears, you know, your station manager while you go do your secret stuff," she explained, having been through all the TV channels for the fourth time. She turned and stared deep into his eyes, pushing her body across the bed and against him, her hand gently caressing his tousled hair. "I'm good at these games."

He only shook his head. No.

"Come on. Tell me your secret codes." She bounced. "An MBA is almost like MI6 you know. Corporate sleuthing."

He would not budge and her eyes grew irritated and cloudy. "I came all this way with you, and now, look. You are shutting me out."

Dorian lay back, wishing the day would slip by faster. Only one more day, and then all will be decided. But he couldn't tell Tara. Nothing, or she became a target, even if she wasn't one so far. Couldn't have that.

And once again the thought came to him, why would anyone want to do this to me? All for a lousy movie download?

The next day over breakfast—only one day until Bunny would get here and all this would be figured out—he felt his gut click into place. This was what they had to do. They would meet. They would decide what was going on. And then they would go to the police, tell them everything. Explain their position and they would go, wipe the floor with these killers and all would be well again. How could anyone kill when they were sitting rotting in a jail? Dorian started whistling a tune.

"What's going on?" Tara asked. "You look happy. Did you figure something out?"

"I know what I have to do. Now all that's left is to do it."

"Really? What is that?"

"I can't tell you."

"But Dorian," Tara whined.

"No. It is too dangerous." And with that he grabbed her from the bed, opened the door and walked out of the hotel. "We're walking up to Central Park."

"Are you crazy?"

"We need some air, and some exercise."

Andrea felt sick and tired. Hours of bouncing and swaying across the American Heartland felt like shit. Every time she'd almost fallen asleep, some loud truck would scream by, or a massive pothole would find it's way under the bus' tires, or it would be time for a stop over. And worse, Andrea couldn't stop thinking about the missing laptop and the data on it, trying to remember the fragments of voice and IMs. No chance she was getting the laptop back. She desperately needed to put that out of her head, that was for sure. She twisted, trying to put her angular body into a more comfortable position. Instead, with each twist, her underwear scrunched into uncomfortable bunches while her rapidly ripening clothes itched.

She distracted herself playing pudiddle during the long twilight hours, or when it rained, even though it was a minimum two player game. The simple rules: each player races to be first to spot a car with a broken headlight. Andrea modified the rules so that she raced the window in front of the pylon next to her seat against the window just past her seat. One point if ahead of the pylon, and minus a point if the car with the missing headlight passed the pylon before she spotted it.

When headlights weren't on, she'd play punch buggy, punching the seat in front of her every time she saw a VW beetle, twice if it was an old one. Of course it required her to glare at the unfortunate soul who would look back over the seat in dismay.

At one stop she picked up a deck of cards from the grimy convenience store in the terminal and spent hours playing various games against herself, or against the constant variety of people who would get on for a few stops and get off again. No one seemed to be using this mode of transit to cross the country, not even the drivers, who changed every six hours or so.

Sometimes she would make up stories about the people on the bus. An older women with dyed reddish hair sat next to a younger blond woman, the first fashionable, the second pretty. Their story, according to Andrea, was a tragic one. The two had both been married to the same man, living less than a block away from each other in a small mid-western town. But suddenly, their (same) husband had died while on duty as a long distance trucker, crashing his vehicle into the concrete piling of a railway bridge, apparently due to sleep deprivation—sometimes the circumstances of Andreas stories mirrored her situation more than others—as he struggled to support two families. Now, unbeknownst to each other, the two women, keeping their grief hidden under layers of false friendliness, were sitting, their heads bent close together, chatting about knitting and the latest episode of Everybody Loves Raymond, little realizing that they would meet again in a few hours time at the site of the funeral. Andrea pictured the pandemonium next to the crudely dug up clods of dirt, the accusations, the weeping, the stares.

Sooner or later, these musings would cause Andrea to burst out laughing, a trait she suspected labeled her as a crazy to the other passengers. Fuck 'em, she'd say to herself, and laugh even louder, the real laughs soon descending into fake chuckles.

What were Code and she really going to be able to do? She'd be showing up, without information, just what was still in her head, and what did he have? A theory? Or worse, would he be dead the same way squelch was, by the time she got there?

She wished the bus to arrive in New York, and tried to crunch her eyes shut and drift off to sleep.

The bus pulled into Grand Central Station in New York at eleven forty-eight pm, the night before the Big Meeting, the diesel engine rumbling in the dark tunnels. Andrea stumbled out, almost not believing the endless journey had finished. This was it. She'd done it, the long way. New York! New York! The flow of people pushed her through grimy corridors and soon forced her out to the street. She guessed she needed to find a hotel. And, after a few minutes of searching, she did find one. Not a nice hotel, not a friendly hotel Andrea felt instantly, but, in truth, it had a bed, and a shower, and they even did overnight laundry, and that was good enough. Within ten minutes of entering her room, she was doing something she had no idea she did: snoring loudly.

## Going

Andrea jumped out of bed, momentarily fearful she'd gotten up too late. This was one appointment she couldn't miss. No, it was only nine-thirty. She bounded across the carpet and stepped into the shower, suddenly giggling because she was hopping like a bunny. Bunny does the bunny hop.

The heat from the water soaked through her hair, over her eyes, permeating her body. This, my dear Andrea, is the most important day of your life. And if you fuck up, may be the last. She wanted to call her mother, she realized. But she simply couldn't risk it. She turned up the hot to block the shiver that started at her toes and tingled up to her scalp. If I turn up dead, I hope you believe I wasn't a murderer.

She gathered everything she needed to bring to the rendezvous, which amounted to her purse wrapped around a solid metal object. Now was the time to be packin'. She ignored the restaurant in the lobby and went straight to the bank of computers around the corner.

She pulled up Google Maps and searched the location of the Blue Water Grill, switching once or twice between the street view, and the satellite view, trying to spot escape routes from the restaurant. Fuck, she should have picked a place she knew, instead of some random restaurant some friend once mentioned. Too late now. And, honestly, what back streets did she know in New York? Ha. She took the GPS coordinates of the restaurant and hacked into the New York City department of public works, a break-in she'd done years earlier, through a hole that clearly had never been patched. Soon she found the detailed street plans for the area, including building floor plans, locations of manhole covers—how the hell will I lift those?—and underground passages, not that any looked promising. She furrowed her brow as she committed the complex maps to memory, hoping that she'd gotten the cryptic indications right.

Time to go. She logged off, stood up and headed for the door.

"Look Tara," Dorian said to her dismissive wave. "Tara, I'm serious. Turn around or I'm just leaving."

"Ok, fine." Her face creased with worry. Her hands clenched.

"I'm going now. The meeting is at eleven-thirty. I don't want you anywhere near there until three. Ok?"

"But I want to come."

"How many times do I have to say 'no'?"

She threw her hands in the air.

Dorian continued. "I'm going to be at Ono. When I get there, we're deciding where to go next. I'll call you and tell you exactly where. So be here or you won't find me, ok?"

"Yes. Fine." Tara removed the jacket she'd already put on, and threw it onto the bed. "You don't trust me."

"I trust you. Really, I do. I don't want you to be in the line of fire. You've gotten involved in something you had nothing to do with." She just refused to understand the danger, Dorian thought.

"You keep saying that."

"It's important." He kissed her on the forehead. "I want to see you again."

"Where's Ono?"

"You'll find it." He sighed. "But it doesn't matter, we're not staying there. Ok?"

Dorian made a little sign of the cross, and walked out the door. God help him. No, god help all of them.

"He's on the move. He's on the move," Lieut nearly shouted into the phone he'd pressed to his ear. "I just got the call from our man at the hotel."

"Cool it," said Colonel's deep voice from the other end.

"I'm in position, exactly where he's going. Not to worry. We've got him. Get here as soon as possible."

"Let me be clear. You do not have operational authority to intervene. Wait until I arrive. He doesn't know either of us so there is no risk."

"Yes, but when will you arrive?"

"I told you. Another hour, max. There's some sort of jam on the Holland Tunnel. And these fucking airlines don't know shit about being on-time anymore. Not like the old days."

Why hadn't his boss flown in the day before? Lieut wondered. Idiot!

Dorian came out of the subway at Union Square, where he walked around the far side of the park before going through towards the Blue Water Grill. Trying to be subtle, he glanced around looking for signs of pursuit. The trees towered over him, their leaves a brilliant orange and fading yellow. On the ground, the leaves left a carpet of shellacked brown, the color having faded away. Dorian didn't know what to feel. Relief? Fear? His feet insisted on walking slower and slower, reluctant to move forward so it began to feel like he'd never get there. He covered the last fifty yards to the restaurant in a rigid shuffle, finally entering into the darkness of the restaurant. As if the change from light to dark had been caused by a shot of electricity, Dorian switched from slow to fast. His feet carried him throughout the restaurant, up into the back area, so heedless he nearly tripped on the stairs. Then down again and into the basement, through the bathrooms, both Men's and Women's. His eyes darted into every corner he could find, seeking the unusual, the strange. Briefly he tested the pay phone before ascending to the ground floor where he picked a booth in the corner. He could easily see the door from there. He wedged himself into the seat, and waited. Five minutes to spare. His senses prickled.

Andrea climbed to the surface at the 6th Avenue – 14th Street subway stop, nearly four blocks from her destination. Her destiny, she thought, better unexpected than lame. She walked the blocks slowly, looking between each building, into each alley, hoping to confirm the memorized schematics and maps. When she got to the block around the Grill, she circled it one extra time, to make sure she could see nothing strange. Making damn certain the escape paths were there. Finally she stepped out of the grating sun and into the dark inside. Quickly she moved out of the doorway, picturing herself like a cowboy who walks into a saloon, cutting a silhouette against the door, then instantly leaping aside as the bullets begin to fly. In her case, instead of bullets, a Hispanic girl in black tights and a short black dress said, "May I help you?"

"I'm here to meet someone."

"Yes. He's over there." And the girl pointed a lacquered finger to the right side of the restaurant. "First date?"

Andrea made a face. Guess he wasn't exactly a spy.

"Well, he's extremely nervous," said the hostess.

"Oh."

"I took a flier." The hostess smiled that forced smile repeated in restaurants throughout America. The one that covers up aching feet, the rude manager's threats and the low pay.

Andrea walked toward the dark-featured boy, sitting, his back pressed against the buffalo colored leather back of the booth, his eyes wide and staring.

## Converse

Andrea smiled and sat down, not sure what would happen next. She'd never seen a Deep Noder before, other than the disfigured body of squelch. She didn't understand them, and what they did. How did they get their kicks from living their lives in front of computers? Even though, she had to be fair, she did the same. Somehow she'd always pictured herself apart from the geeks. She liked to say she had a better user interface.

She focused on the child in front of her, a young boy, hardly old enough to walk to school. Well, a little bit tall, she supposed. And yet here he was, at the heart of the people who were desperately trying to kill her.

She sat down, reached out her hand. "Hello Code, I'm Aaan...I'm Bunny."

"I'm...Well, hello. Should we maybe use our real names now that we've seen each other."

"Not yet. I don't know if I can trust you. And can you really trust me?"

"Have you decided yet?" The same girl from the front door knelt down next to their booth, looking at them at eye level. "Would you like to hear the specials?"

"I haven't..." Dorian stammered, looking down.

"I'll give you too lovebirds a minute." She flounced away.

Andrea laughed out loud. "Lovebirds? What is she thinking?"

"I know!" the boy said. The frightened look left his face for an instant.

"You weren't followed? You came alone, right?"

"As we agreed."

"Ok. Pick something to eat or whatever, so that girl gets off our back." Andrea felt suddenly confident. This kid couldn't possibly be dangerous. With him she could be safe. Though she might have to be in charge. Which, she reminded herself, she really didn't mind. "I'm having the prawn sandwich. You?"

"Uh, I don't know." He looked perplexed, lost. "The same, I suppose."

"And some orange juice."

"Sounds good."

Andrea could see waves of relief wash over Dorian's face, like a lost puppy that needed her to help him. A child who didn't know what to do next, standing in front of the cotton candy stand, finger pointing mutely. She burst out laughing.

"What's so funny?"

She took a breath. "We're both scared shitless, to be honest, right?"

He nodded.

She continued. "We don't know what the hell we've gotten into and here we are, hoping the other has the answers. At least I'm hoping you have answers."

Dorian shook his head, and tugged at his ear. "It's true, isn't it?"

They ordered. Andrea tried awkwardly to look Code over without being blatant. He seemed to be trying to do the same.

"What do you know?" the boy asked, looking at her intently, his face open. "What's going on?"

"You're asking me? I'll tell you one fact, and after, you tell me one." She tucked her hair behind her ears. "Ok?"

"Ok."

"So. I found squelch. You know who squelch is, right?"

"Of course. What did you mean you 'found' him?"

"I found him near San Francisco. He was dead. Murdered." Andrea could see the blood drain from the boy's face. "And now someone's told the police it's me. They are looking for me, even though I had nothing to do with it. My question is who would do that and want to frame me?"

"Fuck." His mouth worked, the lips pressing together. He reached out his hand. "My name is Dorian. I'm from Milan, Italy. Until a few days ago, I was a student at Harvard. A freshman."

"Well," said Andrea, raising her eyebrows, "nice resume. I hope that's not your fact."

"I can't believe about squelch. Horrible." His head shook from side to side, as if it had become too heavy to balance on his shoulders.

She'd have to trust him, that was clear. Maybe he'd feel more comfortable if he knew her name. "I'm...Andrea. Southern California. LA to be exact. IT professional and international fugitive." She gave an awkward laugh.

"My family was killed in the middle of the night by a team of professional," the boy gulped, "killers." He looked at her, expecting a reaction.

"Fuck."

"The only thing they took was a server I had running there which I used to send out movies." His voice rose as he spoke.

"You're talking about the peer to peer movie downloading you do, right?"

"Yes."

"I helped squelch win that last contest. Those were my pixes." She smiled.

"Ah, so that's how that worked." Dorian laughed. "Usually, no one can beat me." He seemed to forget his family for a moment.

"Yeah, I used all the best encoders from the movie studio where I work." She shook her head. "Where I _worked_. That's the true situation at this point." She shifted on the booth's leather bench. "So is that what you do? Was squelch part of the DN List? Is that some kind of club you guys were a part of?"

Dorian stiffened. "The DN List?"

"Yeah? What does DN stand for?"

"Nobody knows about the DN List. Nobody." He shook his head, taking in the news. "Squelch wasn't supposed to ever tell anyone. There's no way you should know that. I can't believe he told you. Any reason why?"

It was Andrea's turn to be surprised. "What do you mean? Squelch didn't tell me, I got it off an Instant Message transcript."

Dorian's head dropped into his hands.

"I'm stationed outside, but no one's arrived yet. Shouldn't take that long to get here," Lieut shouted into the cell phone.

"I...lots...bad reception."

"I said they aren't here."

"....."

"They AREN'T HERE!" Fuck this. Lieut snapped the cell shut. That idiot better get here soon. Lieut needed information and permission to move in. Every instinct he had from years of running this kind of operation, told him he'd been duped. He wanted to run inside, rip the seats apart and check in every bathroom stall, but he held back. Colonel would tear him a new one if he did that.

Dorian picked his head up with difficulty. "Who was instant messaging about the DN List?" he almost shouted.

"It's your turn to tell me something," Andrea said. She needed to keep herself from catching his panic. She needed to divert.

"No!" Dorian's voice sounded desperate. "This is too big to hold back."

"Too big? We're talking about killing, murdering. What's bigger than that?"

Andrea could see Dorian's hand tighten around his water glass. Would he try to smash it?

"The DN stands for Deep Noder," he said his face pale. "The deep nodes are the computers that squelch and me and all the others have connected to the internet. They are the most secure and most secret computers there are, and they hold the original copies of the movies that everyone downloads over the peer to peer networks.

"The network address for each deep node changes constantly like those secure keys people use to get on corporate networks. And each deep node is completely secret. Only a few slightly less secret computers are allowed to connect to the deep nodes, and they only attach using the constantly changing secret network addresses. In turn those computers are connected to by slightly more computers and so on, until there are thousands of computers that have the movies on them. And the DN List is the most secret of all. It," Dorian hesitated. She could see him deciding if he should go on. His look implied that he had kept this secret for many many years. He swallowed and sighed at the same time. She couldn't believe those two things were simultaneously possible. He continued. "The DN List is a list of the true identities of all of us Deep Noders. It has contact address, name, all that shit. And only I have it, and only the Deep Noders know about it, and even I've never looked at it."

"You guys are paranoid."

"It's only for emergencies. That's why we created it."

"In case something went terribly wrong?"

"Yes." He looked resigned, his shoulders slumping into his chest.

"In case people are being killed?"

He looked ready to cry. "Yes," she barely heard him say.

"Sounds like someone wants it." It sounded dumb when the words came out of her mouth.

"And that is why my head was in my hands." Dorian looked carefully at Andrea. "The only answer is there's a mole in the Deep Noder ranks. Someone who's talking about the list."

They ate in silence. Andrea sucked herself into her thoughts. She wondered for the Nth time what she had gotten into. Who was trying to kill them and why? Was it really about downloading a few movies. Who would be insane enough to kill for that? Sure, lose your job and stuff, but kill?

Abruptly Dorian said, "I've got to go to the bathroom." He stood up and disappeared down some stairs.

Andrea nodded absently. If only she hadn't lost that stupid laptop, maybe they would have an answer to what was going on. Or at least a clue. Things had definitely gone out of control in a hurry. And Dorian's family was dead. That was almost half a dozen people killed give or take. Depending on how big Dorian's family was, she noted grimly. Panic tried to kindle itself inside her again. She needed to suppress. Not think about it. That had to be what she did.

She looked around. What was taking Dorian so long? She pushed her plate aside, and grabbed her long hair behind her head, then let go again. If he didn't come back soon, she'd have to go investigate, or even, just walk out of there forever.

But if she did that, what chance would she ever have of finding out what had happened? And worse, of finding out what had happened before someone came to kill her. What was one more stupid dead IT professional to them anyway?

Dorian sat down in front of Andrea, interrupting what was starting to turn into a panic death spiral as the TV shrinks liked to call it.

"I'm such an idiot," he said.

At least he was back. "Why?" She needed to ask where he'd been. "Before you answer, what took so long?"

"Huh?" He looked startled, as if the question had never crossed his mind. "Toilet problems." He pointed at his stomach.

"Ah. Don't be so hard on yourself about making mistakes." Andrea wanted to hold his hand, but didn't dare. It might scare him. "What have you done?"

"There's this guy, ReeperG, who's been calling me, IMing me and everything. He must be a Deep Noder. He must be one of us. I should have known a long time ago. The signs were all there."

"Shut up!" It came out all California ditz.

"Everything was right there in my face. He uses all the same tricks and techniques as us. He would have had to learn them from somewhere. Why didn't I think of that?" Dorian banged his fist against the table, making the empty orange juice glasses jump. "So, where are these transcripts. Can I seen them?"

Andrea shook her head. "Lost. All lost."

"You're joking."

"No, unfortunately. My laptop got stolen while I was going through Nevada. I didn't get to see all the transcripts, and now I'm working from memory."

"You fuckup." He sighed.

"Yes. So what are you going to do about it?" Andrea was unable to muster actual anger. The tension of the last few days weighed heavily.

"I'm sorry. I didn't mean it that way. Of course things go wrong."

"I could kill myself. That data on my laptop is all I have." She pulled at a tuft of hair. "That and you."

"And me." Dorian shook his head slowly.

"So don't get lost or stolen."

"No." He smiled just slightly. "So tell me everything you remember."

Andrea explained the strange company inside Melbox, the sleuthing, the hints, and the deal with squelch to get the surveillance. Dorian interspersed with what he knew.

They'd been speaking for some time when a blond girl leaned over the table and put her hand on Dorian's shoulder. Was she a waitress?

"Hey," the girl said.

She couldn't be. She wasn't wearing the uniform. Instantly, every muscle in Andrea's body tensed for flight. Had she been betrayed? Was Dorian really an agent for the other side, just as she'd worried during her whole trip across the US.

"Oh," she saw Dorian say. He looked almost as surprised as she was. He looked at his watch. "What are—?"

"I came early." The girl turned to Andrea, brushing Dorian off. "Hi, I'm Tara." She held out her hand to Andrea. "Nice to meet you. I'm Dorian's friend."

Andrea returned the handshake, not sure what to do, frozen between running and seeing how things would develop. The girls' shake was firm and warm. Andrea thought she detected a Scottish accent, like Sean Connery. The girl really was beautiful, that was clear.

Andrea turned to Dorian, keeping her voice under control. "What is this?"

"I'm sorry." His eyes pleaded for forgiveness. "Tara was supposed to come later. She's my girlfriend. She's gotten caught up in all this so I brought her along." He turned. "Tara, this is—"

"SHUT UP!" Andrea felt the words explode from a place deep inside.

"—Bunny."

"Oh. Sorry. I didn't want Tara to know my name."

"I know."

"Well. You're here. I guess you should sit down." She pointed at the bench next to Dorian. This had better be innocent. "Make yourself at home." She pasted a smile on her face. "Are you hungry? Have you eaten? Should we get you a menu?"

"Oh. That would be nice," Tara said, looking a bit bewildered. Dorian got out and let her slip into the back of the booth.

By the time Tara's Chicken Burger Supreme arrived, Andrea had steered the conversation far from the deadly goings on. She couldn't afford to trust this Tara girl. It hadn't been part of the agreement. Certainly not when her life depended on it. "It's no big deal. You see the stars all over. I guess they just hang out in LA and so you get used to it. It's not a big deal anymore, that's for sure. Just a few weeks ago I ran into Justin Timberlake. Not to mention I see Tory Spelling all the time. She must go to a gym near me. She's always in some trendy spandex. Not looking the youngest anymore."

Dorian and Tara stared at her with rapt attention.

"What?" Andrea asked. "What's so surprising about that?"

"Sure," Tara said. "I see someone every once in a while in London, but still. I don't trip over them by any stretch."

"So, what happens in London?"

"Actually, there was one time where I ran into Robbie Williams and he tried to ask me out."

"Oh my god, I love Robbie Williams," Andrea almost crowed. Maybe this girl was cool. Her anger loosened a notch.

"Isn't he though? So I was in the lift at Claridges, I can't remember why, and he's asking me to visit his suite."

"No?"

"That's the way it happened." Tara leaned forward, eyes gleaming. "Cross heart."

"And hope to die," Andrea finished the phrase with a flourish. "They're not famous, but all these would-be actor boys are constantly trying to get in my pants! You should see the texts they send."

"Oh, so the actors are shameless? Well, good for you." Tara laughed.

"Don't get me wrong. Only when I really need some company."

Dorian pulled a face.

"Don't act so superior," Andrea said. "You're a good looking guy, ok, boy. You do it too, I bet."

"Not really," Dorian answered.

Something about the conversation nagged at Andrea. She couldn't quite place it.

"How about you, Tara?" she asked. "How do things work in...wherever you're from."

"I'm from Scotland, actually."

"I see." Andrea fell silent.

Dorian said something about getting back on track with the earlier conversation, but Andrea wasn't listening. That something that was bothering her wouldn't go away. She looked over at Tara, and squeezed a smile onto her face. Had she seen Tara before somewhere? No, not likely. Andrea was good at recognizing faces. What was it then?

They'd all had a nice chat, but still, they were here risking their lives.

"How did you guys meet?" She kept the smile on her face.

"Oh, Tara's one of my sister's oldest friends."

"Yeah."

"Yes," Tara answered. "We met at LSE where we were both getting MBAs. Well, we're still getting MBAs. " Tara looked embarrassed. "Well, Federica was still getting an MBA." She patted Dorian's arm.

"That's great."

Dorian spoke again but Andrea wasn't listening. There was something Tara had said. That's what was bothering her. Something she said. Her subconscious wanted her to pay attention. Pay attention to what? she wanted to scream.

Then it all clicked. A chill crawled up her spine. It was the phrase, the conspiratorial look. She recognized that phrase. That stupid phase. She'd seen it before. _Cross Heart._ That's what was bothering her.

"What's your last name?" Andrea managed to choke out through a suddenly dry mouth. She had to keep the smile on her face no matter what she did.

"Uh, Stevens. Tara Stevens. Why?"

"Just wondering." Andrea bit her lip, hoping it wasn't quivering. "Sorry, I have to go to the bathroom. Where is it exactly Dorian?"

"Down there," he pointed.

Andrea walked down the steps, gripping the hand rails. Her head spun in circles. That phrase had come up in the documents. The ones she didn't have anymore. Hadn't the IM transcript said _Cross Heart_? It was just a coincidence, right? That phrase came up a lot in standard speech and Tara seemed so normal. She really seemed like a genuine nice person, right?

But Andrea wasn't here in New York on vacation. The last time Andrea had ignored a warning, she nearly ended up dead. And this Tara girl showed up kind of randomly. Code, suddenly she couldn't remember his real name, didn't even mention her. What kind of crazy was he?

No, she couldn't take a risk like this. She slipped into a stall, opened her purse and pulled out the gun. She looked it over carefully. Please god, let her be wrong. She released the safety. How would she tell Dorian? Or, was he one of them? But then, it was his family that was dead, and he had told her everything.

Stupid, stupid. Why hadn't they agreed on a danger signal at the beginning of the meeting? She rummaged in her purse. There, the address book. She ripped a page out, her fingers shaking, and wrote on the slip of paper. Pull yourself together darling, she told herself. She wanted to get out alive, not in some blue plastic container with zero fashion sense. She gnawed on one of her nails. She had to go back soon or they'd get suspicious.

She climbed the steps, and when she got to the table, she pointed at the hostess station. "I need to ask the girl there something. You guys don't mind, do you?" She hoped they were both looking at the hostess as she leaned over and pressed the paper into Dorian's hand.

Without checking, she couldn't check, she walked across the room, fully braced for a shot in her back. She made it to the hostess stand. Relief flooded her. She turned to speak to the girl, ensuring all the while that she could look back at the booth. Dorian shook his head slowly left to right. No, he mouthed as Tara glanced away. Andrea nodded up and down, hoping he would get the message, forcing the big smile onto her lips while all she really wanted to do was run as fast as her legs could go.

How could this be true, Dorian thought as he crumpled the paper. All it said was, _Run, Tara is with them._ He looked at Andrea and, waiting until Tara looked away, shook his head left and right. No. But Andrea nodded up and down, smiling ridiculously. What the hell did Andrea know? She was full of shit.

But then why would she travel all the way across the country to tell him his girlfriend, who she didn't even know about, was with the killers? That was weird. It could be true, but it didn't square with their conversation. And why had Tara shown up that quickly. No. He looked over at Tara, his mind racing. She had been rather eager to be a part of this.

His churning mind leapt through all the moments in his and Tara's extremely brief relationship. Had he been blind?

What did he actually know about Tara? The question popped into his consciousness with a shock. Wasn't she Federica's best friend? Did Federica ever talk about her? Didn't Tara call him? Had he ever heard of her before the day she called? And wasn't she pretty easy to get into bed? His heart jumped into his throat.

He had to know what was going on.

"Did my sister have a boyfriend?"

"Why are you asking now?" Tara said, looking bemused. She caressed Dorian's hand.

He stopped himself reflexively pulling away. "Just wondering. Federica never really talked about it."

"Well, sort of. It wasn't that serious."

"Do you remember his name?"

"Why are you asking all these questions? It's like you don't trust me." Her face opened up and zoomed in. He felt enveloped in her attention. The restaurant around them disappeared for a moment.

He had to keep his nerve. "No, not at all. Just making conversation. I'm curious. Federica never mentioned anyone to me." He controlled the shake in his voice. "But she liked boys." He winked. Instantly he regretted it, sure the wink looked fake. Anyway, I'd like to contact him."

"There were a few on-again, off-again guys. Right?" Tara looked at him quizzically.

He tried again, cracking a wickedly fake smile. This girl was full of shit. He knew for a fact that Federica had never broken up with Cieran. And she would have told him. "Yeah."

He felt cold all over, deep into his bones. He needed to control himself.

Clearly Tara was lying. Why would Federica's best friend be so evasive otherwise? And not know the real situation? He should have asked her questions a long time ago. He'd been such a fool.

He'd made love to her. He'd kissed her. He'd thought he was protecting her. And all that feeling because of her connection to his sister.

All she'd really ever wanted to do was kill him. That was the probable truth. No, he couldn't think right now, he had to move, now now now. "One moment, please. Bunny is saying something but I can't hear her."

He got up out of the booth and started walking towards Andrea.

## Run

To Andrea, it felt like forever as Dorian slowly walked across the restaurant towards her. He'd barely made it halfway to her when Tara began to slide from the booth. Tara's face had contorted into a snarl, teeth bared, eyes compressed into slits. Something was very very wrong.

"Run," Andrea screamed in a voice she'd never used before, a voice she had no idea lived inside her. She could see Dorian jump. He launched towards Andrea and Andrea turned, running straight to the front door ten feet ahead. She could feel, rather than see Dorian racing a few paces behind her. Up and to the right, a panel of wood exploded. A high-pitched female voice yelled, "get down, get down." Another voice, it must have been Tara's, yelled "Freeze. Don't move." The coldness in her voice froze Andrea's insides.

Andrea turned, pulling Dorian's hand to yank him towards the door. "Our lives," she gasped. "They...backup."

The next seconds seems like hours, as if stuck in molasses. Surely they were running too slowly. The door approached at much too slow a pace. Andrea expected to feel a sharp pain. It would happen at any moment. Somehow, in the chaos, her feet had taken over, leaving her mind to survey the situation with a general's calm. She calculated the odds: bad, evaluated the options: if they were still alive when they got outside, they needed to turn right.

She heard a hoarse voice shouting, "They're on to me," into what must have been a phone and an instant later, "Cover, cover them now, they're running out." Andrea burst into the afternoon sunlight, Dorian's hand locked in hers.

"Turn right," she yelled, yanking him roughly around the corner. She expected bullets, but no bullets came. They ran, pushing through lunchtime pedestrians. "Faster," she shouted. They reached Fifth Avenue, then immediately cut right. Andrea launched them across the teeming lanes, dodging between screaming taxis, a towncar with tinted windows and two trucks, finally steering them to the sidewalk and left onto West Seventeenth. They ran, most of the block passing in a throat choking burn, with the air never quite getting deep enough into Andrea's lungs. She was never sure how close Tara might be behind them, and didn't dare turn, since her feet felt like they just might get tangled together. She couldn't afford to fall.

They rounded the corner to where, if her investigations earlier had been correct, there should be an alley. Andrea looked around. Where the fuck was it? Panic tried to take over. She pulled Dorian, barely slowing down. If it was in the online maps, it better be here. A few more steps and they would definitely need a new plan. They would be screwed.

They passed an antique shop with glass windows, full up with a jumble of furniture. She pushed them into the recessed entryway, but the door wouldn't budge. Must have been closed for the afternoon. And if they broke the window?

Dorian looked at her and smashed his fist through the glass, fortunate not to cut his hand. "We can hide inside," he said, panting. He looked worse than Andrea felt.

"No, it's a sure sign to Tara," she gasped. "Look how obvious it is."

She didn't wait for Dorian's grunted reply, running back into the street. Andrea's legs felt heavier with every step. It had to be here. She worried that she'd forgotten the contents of the map, then tried to calm herself. How many times had she turned around because she was sure the directions she'd been following were wrong, when really she'd been almost there. This time, it was only one block.

Wait! There! That was it.

An alleyway appeared at just the moment she had pretty much up. It was there after all. The map hadn't lied. It was just as she'd studied. It had to be the right one.

She pulled Dorian in, but immediately they hit a roadblock. The alleyway only went back about ten feet. That wouldn't protect them. Definitely not from a murderous woman with a gun. Not to mention the friends Tara must have been talking to.

"This isn't it." This time the panic wouldn't go away.

Andrea glanced back down the street towards the restaurant that now seemed impossibly far away. No sign of Tara.

She turned the other way, with Dorian gasping after her.

Twenty feet further another alleyway appeared.

"This better be it," Andrea yelled, grabbing Dorian's hand again. He seemed ready to collapse.

They cut in, the narrow entrance clawing at them as they stumbled through. Twenty feet further, the opening spread into a slightly larger courtyard. Toward the back a jumble of dumpsters provided potential cover. Andrea led them further in, following a few bends to where it lead out the other side. Hopefully the little detour would give them a few minutes even if Tara managed to see them, though she hadn't seemed to be behind them. Andrea let herself breath an extra breath, though never refused to stop running. Their lives depended on them running.

Suddenly a tall, barbed chain-link fence blocked the way. "Shit," Andrea looked around wildly. "This wasn't in the maps satellite image I looked at. Shit. We're screwed." She could feel her insides folding. This time it was over. They were done.

She felt Dorian's arms under hers, pulling her to her feet. "We'll go back over there," he panted. He pointed at an overflowing brown steel dumpster. He grabbed what looked like the lid of an oil drum, the biggest thing in the narrow space that could be picked up. Andrea wanted to laugh. "That won't help against a gun," she gasped. This really would be it.

They ran back, retracing their steps to the dumpster. The smell of putrid food filled her nostrils.

"Are you ok?" Andrea asked.

He nodded a gasped "Yes."

"We need to stay absolutely quiet, just so that if she followed us and poked her head in here, she won't see or hear us." Andrea shocked herself; she sounded like she knew what she was doing. "And we still don't know where her buddies are."

"Yes." Dorian looked like he couldn't say much else.

Colonel fumed in the plastic surroundings of his NYC Taxi. He looked over at Lieut, sitting next to him. "She better have this situation under control," he snapped, "or we're both fucked, you got that son?"

Lieut looked back. His eyes a cold glint. "It's not my fault you can't get here on time. Think you are too big to make mis—"

Smack, the blow left a narrow cut on Lieut's face. "Don't fuck with me now. Do your job and shut up."

The taxi was jammed in a slow moving line of cars, fighting to get cross town. Their target, near Union Square Park, seemed impossibly far away.

For a long time, the alleyway stayed quiet, with just a distant sound of horns, cars and trucks. Neither of them spoke. Andrea thought about how her mother had no idea where she was. Probably didn't even know that she was missing, unless Melbox Studios or the police had called her. It would have been nice to speak to her, just to say goodbye. Unless somehow they'd managed to escape.

After a long while Andrea began to hope that the danger had passed.

But then a faint voice could be heard entering the alleyway. Soon Andrea could hear someone close by, speaking into what sounded like a phone.

"I'm just off Fifth Ave and West Seventeenth Street, you moron. How did you guys not get here?" A pause. "So I'm to get them myself?" Another pause. "That's clear. Bloody good thing I'm competent. I'll convince them, don't worry." A cell phone flipped shut. The rasping sound must have been a gun. A cough; a clearing throat. The voice was Tara's, Andrea was sure of that.

"Come out you two. I just want to talk," the voice called out from about twenty feet away. It was Tara, clearly unaware of how close she was.

How had she known they were in there? Andrea wondered. Or had she done that in every possible hiding place? Was that what had taken so long? Andrea desperately didn't want to find out.

More sounds of movement. "Dorian, I'm your sister's best friend, really. I've made love to you for god's sakes. How could I hurt you? We need only have a conversation; gain clarity on this whole thing, that's all. Then we're done. They want some information and they promised to let you go." A quiet pause. "They convinced me. They promised me you wouldn't get hurt, and they offered a lot of money. I'm attracted to you too, so it seemed really easy. I didn't mean anything. I didn't want to hurt you. I'm sorry. But it will all be fine. You'll be fine. They promised."

Andrea looked at Dorian who looked back. "She'll kill us," he whispered. "Or they will. They didn't hesitate to kill my family." His eyes blinked over tears. She could see he was shaking.

"I know."

"She has a gun. We have this." Dorian wiggled the lid, his face pinched.

Andrea put her hand in her pocket, momentarily feeling nothing. Panic. No, there it was. She pulled out her bubblegum pink gun. "Not exactly," she said, blocking our of her head the thought that this could be the last few seconds of her life.

Dorian went white, slowly shaking his head.

"Watch me," Andrea whispered, acting much much braver than she felt. Then, swallowing in her dry throat, she shouted "I'm coming out."

"Are you with Dorian?" Tara replied. Andrea could hear the surprise that they were so close came through Tara's voice. That might give them a tiny advantage.

"No. He got away...you know, over the fence," Andrea's throat rasped. "I couldn't; too high. I told him to go." Her voice choked. "Don't hurt me. I've got nothing to do with him."

"It's ok, sweetheart. Pop out, why don't you, so I can see you."

Andrea gave Dorian a shaky thumbs up. He shook his head, no. Andrea shrugged, her hand trembling. She had no choice. This was her only chance. Now or never. She forced her eyes to stay open and stood up and jumped out in one smooth athletic motion. The move ended with her in the center of the alley. Her feet spread, she raised her hands. Tara reacted, clearly surprised by the gun in Andrea's hands. Before Tara could get her black gun pointing at Andrea, Andrea squeezed the bubblegum pink trigger. She felt the kick of the small pistol. This was it.

## Down

"Mel, this is Frank."

"Frank? Damn glad to hear from you. How is the old hammer hanging?" What the hell was wrong with his secretary, Mel wondered? He'd explicitly told her not to put Frank through. Calm, let the words come when they're ready. "What do you think of the Superheroes movie? Doing well if I say so myself."

"Yes, why in fact it is. You have done a fine job Mr. Boxton. Which should make what I'm about to tell you less of a problem, I'm sure."

"Of course. Look Frank. I don't have any time right now. About to hop into a critical conference call on AsiaPac distribution. So I have to say goodbye. Thanks for your—"

"Mel. I warn you. Do not hang up."

"But—"

"Mel, we've decided to cancel the contract. There's too much suspicion going around and we can't be seen taking the wrong kinds of actions. Not to mention that your methods," Frank generated a small cough, "haven't exactly been reducing the amount of piracy going on, and that's a problem."

"Be serious Frank. Progress is there, and we'll meet those aggressive targets I talked about last time."

"I need the money back in the MIAG's account by next Monday."

"Are you craz—I mean, Frank, that's not going to be necessary. We'll hit the targets, all seventy-five percent in the next month, I promise."

"Sorry, my good fellow."

The bullet sped through the alley, kicking the gun back against Andrea's wrist, sending her off balance. Tara's hand rose, the black gun pointing towards Andrea. Red spurted from a spot above Tara's collar bone on the side of her neck. The droplets flew through the air as Andrea fell backward. The hand with Tara's gun lowered awkwardly, then pulled up sharply. A crash echoed in Andrea's ears as smoke blew from the front of Tara's weapon. Andrea landed hard on her back.

"Oh god," Andrea heard Dorian shout. She turned to see him staring at her, shocked. Why? What was wrong? She'd only fallen down. She turned back to look at Tara, couldn't see her. Andrea sat up. Geez, everything was moving so slowly. Like underwater. Again. Was the rest of her life going to be lived in super slo-mo?

It felt like smoke billowed around her. Finally her view cleared. She could see, craning her neck to looking over the tops of her shoe tips. There she was. Andrea pointed with her gun, so Dorian could see. "She's like a sack of potatoes. Look at her. Potatoes with catsup." The words spilled from her mouth, like lines from some bad thriller movie she'd seen in the distant past. She turned to Tara and yelled. "Don't try to hurt us." Then the shaking started.

Andrea stared as she rolled over and started to get up. As hard as she looked, Tara didn't move. Tara had crumpled on top of herself, legs twisted around in grotesque patterns. "I got her Dorian. I got her. We're still alive." The shaking felt like it had taken over her whole body. Her knees didn't want to carry her.

"But...what's wrong with you?" Dorian's words came out in a squeak. He lurched to his feet and came to Andrea's side. "Are you hit?"

"What do you mean? Where?" her voice quavered. She couldn't control it.

"Look at you, on the ground. Trying to get up. Where does it hurt? Oh god." He swallowed. "I'm sure it's ok. You'll be fine."

"I'm fine. Look, I'm really fine." Still she couldn't keep her voice from jumping all over the place.

"But you fell."

"I lost my balance. Her bullet hit back there. I heard it."

Dorian looked at her oddly. It made Andrea question if she was right.

"Is there something you see that I don't know about?" she asked.

"No. Nothing."

Andrea, still shaking, finally managed to climb to her feet. All her joints and muscles did the right thing. She brushed off her clothes. "I think I'm ok."

Suddenly Dorian put his arms around her shoulders and squeezed hard. "This is good. This is good," he murmured.

She tried to suppress the bile in her throat. The shaking had calmed down a lot. She felt like a person again. "We need to secure the scene." Here she went, imitating a cop again. It was like some weird instinct.

"Yes."

Andrea walked over to Tara. Lantern eyes stared out at Andrea unflickering. Red blood painted Tara's face in thick layers. Vomit boiled up into Andrea's throat, forcing her to choke it back down. She swallowed hard to keep her insides from spraying all over Tara. She had to keep herself together. Then the shaking started again. The body in front of her looked just like squelch in San Francisco. She'd never wanted to see that again. But in her heart of hearts she'd known she might well have to. And here it was, only a few days later. And this time it had been herself doing the killing, creating the dead body. Fuck.

"We have to go," Andrea said, looking around. If she pretended she knew what she was doing, maybe it would work. A needed a bit of acting class again. "We'll have the fuzz here in a minute or two. Not to mention the goons she called."

As if to emphasize the point, Tara's flip phone began playing its Bolero ringtone. Dorian froze.

"Now! Dorian!" Andrea pulled his hand, dragging him from the alleyway. His eyes had glazed over, unseeing, nearly catatonic.

Andrea caught them the first cab she could, and ordered it to her hotel. It was the best place they could go, at least for the next few hours. Hopefully by then Dorian would snap out of it and she wouldn't have collapsed. And hopefully the shaking would take over again.

As the taxi turned uptown, Andrea could hear the first of many sirens.

This time she really had done something wrong.

## Lists

"It can't be avoided. We have to go there. I must use the Deep Node List to warn and find the others. I only have the USB key which contains the encryption code but not the list. I have nothing without the laptop."

"You're crazed." Andrea wasn't sure that this version of Dorian was better than the glazed model he'd replaced. "They will be watching."

"I know how to get in. There is a service entrance. I tried before. Believe me."

"You don't think the whore," Andrea saw Dorian wince, but she didn't care, "checked the hotel out the same way you did." She'd been toughening herself inside. She could taste the shooting on her lips. She wasn't a killer, she repeated under her breath for the hundredth time since she'd shot Tara. She had to, or they were both dead. It still didn't convince her.

"She was ignorant," he said, shaking his head. "No, actually you are right. She knew exactly what she was doing." He ran his hands though his hair twice quickly, jerking his arms. He put a finger to his lips, pacing the floor near the window. "We can't—I can't come up with a solution that doesn't mean I get the list. They will all be dead."

"Can't you warn them?"

"And what will they believe?"

"They trust you."

"We also need a place to stay. Someone to hide out with."

They'd been debating the wisdom of storming Dorian and Tara's hotel room to retrieve his laptop for what felt like hours. Andrea thought it must surely be the most stupid idea ever invented, but she couldn't convince Dorian to drop it. She felt it would have made much more sense to try to find the killers, and stop things from that side. There had to be a connection with what had happened at Melbox and all the killing. Once they'd figured that out, then they could stop it and save the remaining Deep Noders. That was her thinking. But the truth was that their only real connection to the killers was now herself dead, and the Deep Noders were clearly at risk.

"We need to do this," Dorian repeated for the nth time, seemingly trying to convince himself as much as her.

What real options did they have? The plan seemed ridiculous, and almost certain to get them killed. Or at least get Dorian killed, but then waiting around for the killers to find them was probably much worse.

Andrea threw her hands into the air. "Ok, we do it. I'll wait in a taxi outside." She grabbed her backpack, and walked out of the room.

To Andrea, the drive cross-town felt surreal. The tall New York buildings rolled by slowly as a slightly dusty breeze wafted in the taxi windows. Dorian had talked about Ruutor and Striptz and nil8 and that if they didn't do something quickly, they'd soon be dead. For her part, she felt bemused, as if watching herself from the outside. Wasn't that the first sign of schizophrenia? She could see that girl, there, Andrea, yes, the one sitting on the fake leather taxi seat, butt sweating, hair in a drooping ponytail. Was that girl's life going to be cut short in the next hour? Was this the day she was due to die?

The muffled sounds of some baseball game blared from the speakers in the front of the cab.

Andrea cleared her thoughts. It didn't matter, they were saving those stupid pirate kids, even Dorian, god bless his sorry Italian ass. She executed her famous hair toss, slightly dampened by the ponytail, and poked Dorian in the shoulder. "Fuck it, brother, we're going to save—everyone!" And she smiled. Determination surged through her. She sat up straighter, and pushed her fear aside.

"I'll be in; I'll be out. Simple," he smiled back.

Dorian stopped the taxi a block after the rear service entrance of the hotel. "Don't move," he ordered Andrea and the cabbie. He walked back, hoping the driver didn't notice anything odd. The walk cleared his head, leaving only the fact that he had to do this. No other option remained possible. Save his friends. Then run.

He squeezed the door open, pretty sure he was not being followed, though he had to admit he had absolutely no idea what his enemies looked like. His only reference was a vadered voice.

He walked nonchalantly to the service elevator without encountering anyone, punching the up key. A few moments later, he exited on his floor, to a loud rattling of the door. He padded down the hall, avoiding noise as much as possible, realizing suddenly, that he should have asked Andrea for her gun. Why the fuck had he forgotten to ask her? What was the point of all this planning if he didn't actually prepare? Fuck. He needed to go back. No, that was crazy. Would give them more opportunities to see him. Just had to be quick, and hope, hope, hope, they weren't in the room and if they were that he'd see them in time.

At the door, he put his card key in the slot. Schickt, the lock rasped back. He ducked down, opening the door with a smooth motion, pushing against the spring that held it in place. Silence, and everything in place. He crept in on hands and knees, muscles ready to spring into action. Nope, nobody in the bathroom.

He kept the door open with his toe as he extended into the room from the corridor, sliding on his belly. He poked his head into the room. His toe slipped as he tried to get his grip back, then the door slammed shut. His heart jumped. adrenaline springing him to his feet. Without a thought, he charged to the other side of the room, jumping onto the bed and over it.

No one. The room was empty.

Ok, he'd get the laptop and be gone. He thought about grabbing his suitcase, but decided against it. He went to the closet where the laptop was. He opened the door.

"What the hell is going on?" Andrea said, she flipped over to have a better look out of the back window. She saw two burly men run into the service entrance. Why were they in such a hurry she wondered. It didn't make sense. It wasn't as if they were firemen, was it?

Shit, the realization hit, she knew exactly why they were there. They must have bugged his room. How else could they know? Hopefully they didn't have someone else inside. She ground her teeth. How would she warn him?

"Hey sir!" She banged on the Plexiglas divider to the cabbie. "I need to borrow your cell phone."

"Use your own."

"I don't have one."

"Give me a break."

"I lost it, you prick. I'll pay you, god damn it. Just give it to me right now. I don't have any time to lose."

The cabbie hesitated.

"This is life or death, I'm not kidding," she screamed.

"Ok, ok." He reached into his pocket and pulled out an old Nokia, and handed it to Andrea through the plexiglass divider.

She dialed four-one-one and pressed the green button.

"What city please?"

"New York."

"What is the name of the caller you'd like to reach?"

"Grossmount Hotel, please."

"Should I dial that for you, it will be fifty cents extra?"

"Yes. Goddamn it yes."

After a few rings. "Grossmount Hotel, how can I help you?"

"Can you connect me to Dorian's room?"

"I'm sorry. Do you have a last name?"

"Dorian."

"I'm sorry?"

"I don't know! I'm sorry." Andrea breathed deeply. "Ok, he's an Italian guy, with a blond short-haired girlfriend." What a lame excuse for a plan. She pounded the seat of the cab. How likely was it this bored guy remember them?

"Oh yes. I do know who you are talking about. Dorian—let me connect you."

"Thanks."

The line clicked. Then clicked again. It simply wouldn't connect the call. What kind of cell phone did this guy have? Should she grab some guy on the street. She looked around for someone somewhere with a better phone. Nobody. Just little ticking sounds on the line.

She heard a ring. Thank god!

Two rings.

Three rings.

Three rings. Should he answer it? Dorian turned. No. He focused back on the closet. Where the hell was the laptop? It was just missing. Did Tara move it? He really should get the phone.

Four rings. Ok, yes, he better get the phone. He turned, and picked it up. "Hello."

"It's Andrea. Thank god you answered. They're coming. Get out of there now."

"What? What are you talking about?"

"Get out now."

"Ok." Adrenaline surged again through Dorian. He ran to the door of the room, knocking his knee on a sharp edge of the bed. His knee buckled, then picked up again. He ripped the door open, and looked in the hall. Nothing. He ran for the emergency stairs, hoping that wasn't the way they, whoever they were, were coming. He passed the service elevator, and heard the doors begin to rattle open. He pushed through the doors and into the stairwell.

"That's him," he heard from behind as he scrambled down the stairwell, his feet sliding as he rounded each landing. Eight floors to go.

He'd made it about four storeys when he heard the door above fling open. He didn't turn. A loud explosion echoed a few flights up, the same sound he'd heard twice in the alleyway where Tara died. They were shooting at him. He continued to run, his feet skipping steps with each stride. He knew he could slip and easily break a leg with each lunged stride, but his feet seemed to know what to do, landing safely after sailing through the air.

Another shot splintered a banister ahead of him, something piercing into his arm. He didn't take the time to look, and kept running. Finally he'd made it to the bottom, ran the short corridor to the back entrance, and shoved his way out, looking toward the cab to his left.

He stood for a second, his mind reeling. The taxi was gone. Or just invisible?

"Dorian," he heard Andrea's voice behind and to the right.

He looked, and there she was, leaning out of the cab, a few feet away.

He ran, his muscles taking control before his mind had decided what to do. She slid down the seat, and he slid in next to her.

"Go!" she told the driver.

"Yes, ma'am."

"Now, or we're dead."

The taxi pulled away slowly into the street, accelerating. Dorian thought he saw two men come out of the hotel entrance, but he couldn't be sure.

He closed his eyes, covered his face with his hands, and started to cry, his whole body shaking. "I can't. I can't," he sobbed. He felt Andrea's hot hands around his neck and shoulders. "It's too much. Why me?"

Finally, when the sobs had left, he looked up, and realized that Andrea had been crying too. He reached his arms around her, and they hugged, until the cabbie said, "we're here."

A man in a top-hat opened the door, allowing them to climb out. "Are you checking in?" he said.

"Yes," Dorian answered.

The doorman's eyes narrowed. "You look a frightful sight."

"Do I?" Dorian answered.

The doorman pointed to his arm and leg.

Dorian looked. A large splinter of wood stuck out of his arm, and a bloody scraped knee peeked through ripped pants.

Anger welled up in Dorian. "I'm here from Italy, and I want to bang my girlfriend." He pushed past the shocked doorman, and walked into the lobby.

When Andrea caught up, backpack on her shoulder, she grabbed him by the chin, turning his face to hers. She kissed him quickly on the lips and said, "Fat chance," and pushed him away. A small smile played across her lips.

## Who's alive?

"Did you see anything?" Colonel asked through heaved breaths.

"Who me? I was behind you," Lieut answered.

Colonel's arm tensed, muscles snapped into place, ready to fling his gun across the busy street. But he stopped himself. He looked around, belatedly realizing where he stood, and stuffed the weapon into his jacket. "Hide your gun, you dimwit," he growled at Lieut.

"Yeah," Lieut smirked. "I'm on it."

They peered in a full circle. No one had noticed. Must be a New York thing, thought Colonel. He adjusted his pants so they weren't twisted in knots around his crotch. They crossed the street, returning to the dingy café where they'd been stationed for the last few hours, reading the paper and working hard to look inconspicuous. "We should have been watching the entrance instead of counting on the electronics."

They stared glumly at their dishwater cold coffee. As Colonel opened his mouth to speak, his cell phone rang.

"Hello," he said.

"It's Mel."

"Yeah."

"Don't give me that shit. I'm pulling the plug if you don't get results now."

"Sure. Now's a good time. I think you've picked the perfect moment. We're in excellent spirits."

"Fuck off you lowlife. Don't talk back to me and don't tell me you can't. Or simply repay all those piles of money I've been sending you."

"No chance. When you pay, you've paid. Especially for this line of work."

"So, tough guy, prove you were worth it."

"Don't doubt it." And Colonel hung up. Screwed. He turned to Lieut. "It's going to be a Plan B, mate. We're going to have to do it without the fucking list."

"That's the thing I was trying to tell you earlier," Lieut said, touching his upper lip delicately, "when you weren't listening."

"I _will_ kill you when we're done with this."

"You see, I, in fact, have a very good Plan B. And now I need to check if it's worked." He cracked his knuckles. "With luck, we've got a flight to catch."

As they arrived in the hotel, Dorian dropped onto one of the beds in the room. He looked down. "There's nothing left to do. Without the DN list, we might as well give up."

Andrea looked at him quizzically.

"The people that are after us are sure to find us soon." He yanked the covers down, jumped in and before Andrea had said anything, fell asleep.

He was weaker than he looked. The thought struck Andrea with a shock. It made her nervous. Very nervous.

But then, he'd been through a lot. Hopefully he'd snap out of it.

She watched him sleep, his body shaking at times with hidden frights. She busied herself thinking through all the options that remained. Best she'd not think about the life she'd thrown overboard with ridiculous abandon. Not that it seemed like ridiculous abandon at the time. This was what she was meant to do. Swashbuckle through New York like some chick in _Pirates of the Caribbean_. Ok, Tara looked more like Keira, in truth. But then, didn't she look more like Jessica Alba? _Sin City_? Maybe?

Swashbuckle? Who was she kidding?

She should let this kid sleep, and when he woke up refreshed, and hopefully (that was a big hopefully) less scared out of his wits, maybe they could find these Deep Noders.

She shifted to a comfortable position on the bed, feeling a moment of envy for Dorian's ability to sleep. Every time she turned her head, or did anything, Tara's dead staring eyes pushed themselves into her brain. Had she done the right thing? Did she even have a choice. At the time, it just almost happened.

Andrea tossed her hair, flicked on the tube and watched HBO. She told herself it would all be fine. That was, as long as she never closed her eyes.

What would her mother say?

By the time Andrea succeeded in waking up Dorian from his monumental, almost comatose sleep, night had fallen, the sky illuminated by the orange glow of reflected streetlights. As Dorian rubbed his eyes, Andrea spoke to him, her eyes staring closely, slightly nervous of his reaction. "I'm worried," she chose her words carefully, hoping he was back in control of himself. "Dorian. What are these people up to? What do they want? They don't care about killing, and it seems they want all you Deep Noders, and your parents and family too."

"Yes." Dorian stretched and yawned simultaneously. Then shivered.

He had better be back, she thought. "So we have to get in touch with the Deep Noders, right?" she said.

"But how can we do that? I don't have any addresses."

"Dorian, you are seriously being a dunce. Get to them on IRC. That's how you contact them normally."

"Duh, I know that." He looked genuinely ashamed for being so stupid.

He scratching his stomach, brain still on cotton candy. "But wait; there's a mole on the IRC. Anything I say will give me away. All the warnings will be transmitted to the enemy. That's why I'd discounted that option."

"You only need them to know they have to lay low and get off IRC."

"It won't work." Finally awake, he fixed her with a resigned stare.

"They need to know they are in danger. That's the least you can do. Otherwise they'll most likely all die." Andrea stared harder, willing her eyes to penetrate his thick skull. "Look, I'll go online and warn them. Just they won't believe me."

"Exactly."

"They trust you. They know you. Give them some facts. You could refer them to the killing in San Francisco." She paused, thinking. How they'd connect the killing to squelch was still an open question. "In fact, let's both do this. I'm the leading suspect. Together we have the best chance of overcoming the opposition."

"Yes. Great idea," Dorian said, his voice full of sarcasm.

"We are known to them. They know who we are, don't you get it?"

"True." Dorian covered his face. "I just want to sleep. Let me go to sleep again."

"No you don't, you big baby." Andrea went to him, and pulled his hands off his eyes, gripping them in hers. His hands melted easily into hers. "We have to help. You said so a few hours ago."

"That was when I thought I could help."

"You still can." She squeezed.

"I still can?"

"I mean it."

"How?"

"Shut up, we're going downstairs."

He never squeezed back.

They arrived in the lobby, where Dorian went towards the concierge desk. "Get over here you dummy, they've got a business center," Andrea pulled on his arm.

Dorian stopped short. "You don't know anything, do you? They'll trace the contact and lock onto this place before I can say boo."

"Why? You've kept your location secret before this."

"With the crypto software I had on my laptop, yes. On a public computer, that will take too long. We need to get in and out. I'll run a crypto program we can use without installing, the problem is we'll be found out pretty quick." He pulled her arm, tugging her outside. He flagged down a cab. "Upper West Side please. I need an internet café up there."

"Sure boss," said the Cabbie.

"At least you're back doing something," Andrea muttered, feeling a little encouraged.

Forty minutes and much traffic later, the cab dropped them off at a seedy internet cafe near Fordham College. Inside, Dorian found the most protected computer possible, which still meant anyone could walk down the aisle and look over their shoulders. He set to work. He began by logging onto web sites via IP addresses, cryptic numbers. Pages flashed by that looked like hieroglyphics. Andrea was impressed at the ease with which he wormed and manipulated, with only a browser at his disposal. She knew she'd never had that kind of hacking skill. The public record office was more her level. He was the brain, she was the brawn. She laughed. Dorian never noticed.

After long minutes, Dorian shifted. "I'm in. We can stay here about two hours, but then we have to leave. We'd be crazy to stay longer than that. Especially because they know we're in the New York area most likely. They can narrow—"

"I believe you. Get going."

"Ok, ok."

    USER Code ENTERS CHANNEL

    Code:       I'm back. Miss me much?

"You're being light-hearted. This is serious shit."

"Don't worry. They expect it to be light. Just watch."

And they watched.

    Code:       Hello? Why's everbod so
                quiet? Sumbod makin' pixes?
    Code:       HeLLOOOOOOOOO?

"Man, you turn into an illiterate twit when you get online. What kind of slang is that?"

"Shut up. That's the way we communicate. We've always talked this way. It started as a way to disguise our own voices." He smiled to himself. "Then it started to be our own personal language. Like a secret handshake almost."

"Whatever," Andrea interrupted, furrowing her brow. "Are you sure there's someone there?"

"Oh yes. Twenty-four seven. We're always online."

"Not right now."

"I know. I don't understand."

"I understand. Something isn't right."

    Code:       \\REDALERT\\Guys. This is an
                emergency. Response now,
                dudz.

"What was that?"

"It sends an emergency signal to everyone who's signed up to the site. If they are there, sleeping or anything, this will get them. They have pagers on that signal or at least a text message."

They waited anxiously.

"I don't think anyone's coming." Andrea said some minutes later. She felt her teeth hurt, realizing with a start how badly she had wanted someone to answer. It would feel like the world was still stable, still working the way it was supposed to, if only some of those Deep Noders were there. "We've been waiting almost an hour. They'd be online by now."

Dorian's hands twitched as they hovered over the keyboard.

"I'll get you a coffee," Andrea said, afraid of how Dorian would react next. He needed a bit of mothering right now. So did she. Too bad. "Where's my mommy?" She whispered under her breath.

"What?"

"Nothing."

"I'm going to start a data mining algorithm," Dorian said. Andrea overheard him saying to himself: "I should have done this sooner. Damn!"

When Andrea got back with two Starbucks coffees in her hands, Dorian had four windows open on the computer, simultaneously spewing characters across the screen.

"What the hell is that?" Andrea asked.

"I'm running a distributed data mining search. It's the only way to get the records off the IRC encrypted channels _after_ the chat is over, and we can only get fragments."

"But I thought the history was lost forever."

"Not exactly. It officially is, but because of all the search spiders on the internet, like Google, and Yahoo, constantly trawling for information, secured channels get cracked open a little bit. Or more accurately, the encrypted channels will leave a character here or there, sometimes a word, and that will get absorbed into the search engines. What I have to do is come up with the right search engine spider trajectory, which tells me where the spider was when, and I can piece together the conversations."

"That will never work. It's crazy."

"It should be. But it's part of the entropy of systems. You know how every action has a reaction. It's a basic thing in physics. Newton's Third Law." He smiled at Andrea. "The internet is no different. Every piece of information dents the world around it, even encrypted information. It's those traces, the dents, that the spiders pick up, not the actual data. They store it, even though to them it's pretty much a waste product. It's easier than trying to eliminate it.

"What I do is: I search the engines, picking the right pieces of returned information, and with that I can take an impression of the words." He looked back at her, her furrowed face frowning over his shoulder. "I have to pull logs off the routers that connect to the IRC servers of course. That's what gives me the telemetry which links in with the spiders. Also some of the words leak out there too."

"That sounds like bullshit. How do you get access to the routers. They're supposed to be secure."

"It's our IRC server. So I have access to those routers. And any other ones, I break into."

"But seriously. Can it really work?"

"Totally. The third law makes encryption that much harder, since you pretty much go around it. You don't look at what's encrypted, you look at what's not encrypted, and see what's missing. You use the equal and opposite reaction to the encrypted data. You look at the dent."

"So how long do we have to wait?" Andrea said, unconvinced.

"Another fifteen minutes."

"So keep talking gobbledygook. No, actually, drink your coffee. Here."

Dorian took the drink, sipping slowly through the tiny plastic slit on the white lid. "We have an hour left." He shook his head. "I need to remember the adcryption ID that 70mm gave me. It was for emergencies, but it's on the laptop. I know it. Given this weird situation, I'm sure he would have used it." His eyes scanned back and forth. "It's something like: already decided." He looked over at Andrea. "All one word. But reversed of course."

He typed into the search box:

    alreadydecided

He typed the characters reversed

    dedicedydaerla

He hit the return key.

    Your search -- dedicedydaerla - did not
    match any documents.

"It's something like that. Can't believe I forgot it."

"What the hell are you doing?"

"70mm would have bought an ad using the key phrase."

"So?"

"Since no one will ever search for that word—well, the backwards version, I'd be the only person ever to see the advertisement."

"Advertisement?"

"Yes. He buys a search advertisement. As soon as I search for the word, and click the link, I go to a web site with the secret information."

"That's ridiculous."

"Then the ad disappears because he only paid for one click."

    preordained

    deniadroerp

Return key.

    did not match any documents.

    wellknown = nwonkllew

No documents.

And so on, for `easilyunderstood`, `freelyadmitted`, `trulyobvious`. Nothing worked.

`foregoneconclusion` went to `oisulcnocenogerof`. Again nothing.

"Hang on, you missed the first letter. Are you getting tired?"

"Where?"

"Conclusion, note the 'N'."

"Oh shit.

    noisulcnocenogerof

Dorian hit the return key. Just then, all four of the other windows on the computer started beeping.

"I think we've got a reconstruction. The dots are the characters it couldn't find."

Words stood out among the long rows of characters.

    ..long trip..
    ..striptz..
    ..nil8..
    ..meetin' up fo once, not too shabby..
    ..fuck..
    ..how could it be code, he's..
    ..there killing?..
    ..run for it..
    ..no joke..
    ..is it safe..

They stared for a long time.

"So that explains why we couldn't find anyone online. They're running away," Dorian said finally. "They think it's me." He threw his hands through his hair, clearly shaken. "Someone is saying I'm responsible. See where it says 'how could it be code'? That's me."

"Are you sure these aren't some other random conversations."

He turned slightly red. "Don't you trust me to get it right?"

"I do. I totally trust you." Andrea didn't like touchy Dorian. She was a techie and this was about her too. "I'm asking a legitimate question if you don't mind."

"I don't mind, ok?"

"So those phrases all come from the same discussions?"

"Yes."

"You're sure about that because that's how the algorithm works? Or you're sure because you've done it before?"

"I'm sure because that's how the algorithm works and because I designed the algorithm and because I've done it before. So yes, Andrea, I'm sure."

She shook her head. "Touchy touchy. But ok, I understand now." She couldn't help adding, "But still, that doesn't change that you seriously need to stay calm if I question you on something. My life's on the line here just like yours."

"Sorry."

"So anyway, to confirm: according to them and these reconstructed phrases that you're sure are all from the same conversation, you're the one responsible for the killings."

"Exactly." He looked at her. "And I really need you to believe me here."

Andrea swallowed. She was being a bit passive-aggressive, wasn't she? But she did have a right to have a bit of control, didn't she? Ok, so she liked to be in control, was that so bad?

"So can you trust me?" Dorian stared into her eyes.

"Yes. I promise." She tossed her hair and clamped her lips together. "Ok, so moving on. Not only do they think you are responsible, but they are going somewhere. Where are they going? Can we find that out?"

"I don't know."

"Hey," Andrea pointed excitedly at a blinking window. "I think the last search worked."

    Sponsored Link

    Do you have noisulcnocenogerof?
    Noisulcnocenogerof can be an issue
    www.noisulcnocenogerof.com

"Oh thank god. That's it!" Dorian said. His voice betrayed his excitement. He clicked on the link, closing his eyes.

## Nothing Doing

The browser flashed several times, the link apparently redirecting through a number of pages. Finally it landed on a blog. The blog only had one entry:

    WELCOME TO THE HOME OF THE FUTURE

"What the hell is that?" Andrea asked.

"Damn!" Dorian said, "nothing. The system hasn't been triggered. Maybe they're already dead." He shuddered. "This way if someone finds the page, nothing happens. Makes it hard to search, and hard to find. And no links." He searched Andrea's face for reaction. She smiled back. Dorian wondered how she remained so calm. It was impressive how she didn't react as much as he did. How she was able to keep her cool was something he would love to understand better. Not now, though.

A browser window flashed. Dorian flipped over to it.

"Pretty much anyone could put up a page with a bit of text on it. We're counting on the fact there are billions of web pages out there, so finding this one on some site is as remarkable as finding a receipt lying on the ground."

Andrea made a face. "Do I look like some wide eyed NooB? Save the patronizing explanations."

"Sorry. Sometimes. Well mostly, people don't get it."

"No doubt," Andrea huffed, "and copy down the URL. The system might be triggered later."

"It's our only choice, isn't it?" Dorian sighed. "Not to mention we're almost out of time here. Let's go back to the hotel and try in six hours."

That time, Dorian noticed, she hadn't kept her cool quite so much.

"Hey, look at that," Andrea pointed at the screen.

    USER nil8 ENTERS CHANNEL

    nil8:       hey. how you?

"Finally. Hopefully he can tell us what's..." Dorian started typing, his sentence unfinished.

    Code:       where in hell is everybody?
    nil8:       dunno.
    Code:       nobod been on for hours.
                thatz weerd
    nil8:       normal as shit to me.
    Code:       come on. always peeps on
    nil8:       not now, bud. but now there's
                me, goddit
    Code:       sure. just can't explain. a
                new flick out? you all
                pixing?
    nil8:       don't u doubt. we be pixing
                soon nuff.
    Code:       when u last on?
    nil8:       few hours go.
    Code:       and?
    nil8:       peeps was here. I think they
                all resting.

"Something's not right, no?" Andrea said.

"Right. I sent a fucking red alert. He's acting like I didn't do anything. Soon as he logged on, he would have seen it. And that's if the text message never arrived."

    Code:       and my red alert? Waz
                happenin wiff?
    nil8:       dude. thought u jokin. alls
                think same.
    Code:       u know its meaning. don't
                give me shit.
    nil8:       my man, chill. weez nev use
                it. Not now either. maybe we
                weak, maybe not. where you
                at?
    Code:       that's classified
    nil8:       just askin. We've been
                friends for long
    Code:       K. I'm in Boston.
    nil8:       shit, thought you were in big
                apple
    Code:       what? who tole u? why big
                apple?
    nil8:       nuffin. unlucky guess
    Code:       who are you really?
    nil8:       nil8 here. nil8 here. what
                hell u talkin' bout?
    Code:       where is everyone?
    nil8:       nowhere.
    Code:       who's been saying shit about
                me?
    nil8:       what u talking bout? Nobod
                said any.

Dorian started shaking, his head weaving back and forth. He typed furiously in a different window, his voice trembling. "I think nil8 is ReeperG."

"No fucking way," Andrea blurted.

"It makes sense. That's where he got all the info. He's wanting to throw us off track."

"Do something. Write something. He'll get suspicious."

"Yeah, I know." Dorian switched back to the IRC window.

    Code:       dunno. been busy. thought
                someone said somethin
    nil8:       nah. all quiet. I think
                people don't like this shit
                with pixes no more.

Fingers flew. "I'm trying to get a trace on him," Dorian said to Andrea.

    Code:       whatz next release?
    nil8:       hey. gotta go. later. Not for
                a bit. by.

    USER nil8 EXITS CHANNEL

"Shit I lost him." His heart sank.

"You didn't get anything?" Andrea's face fell. "We've only been trying to figure out who's after us for ages."

"I know. He must have gotten worried. Maybe I triggered an alarm. Or maybe he figured out that I was lying because he'd traced me. Maybe they're on the way here right now."

"Shit. This is crazy."

"That's him. I know it, right here in my stomach. Us Italian's always know things in our stomach. It's really really that shit bastard." Dorian's hands banged on the table, startling the other people in the small shop.

Hurriedly Andrea and Dorian packed their few things and left into the streetlight-lit night.

"At least we know it's him," Andrea said.

Dorian swallowed a wave of sobs. At least that.

Around 4am, after their alarms woke them from fitful sleep, they cabbed it to an all night internet café in Times Square. After the obligatory minutes of setting up the encryption, Dorian checked the web site again. Nothing.

"I need to set us up when we are ready to move," Dorian said cryptically. He bent to his task, flipping wildly between windows.

Twenty minutes later he looked up in triumph. The harsh fluorescent light cast ghoulish shadows. He pointed to the screen. "Here are fake IDs and a credit card."

"Ok?"

"We need a Hertz #1 Gold account. Wherever we go, we'll need a car. And that way we can pick one up without speaking to anyone."

"Ok."

"Can you do it?"

"You mean hack an account? I've never hacked Hertz before."

"Prove you can, Bunny," Dorian smiled. "I'm too tired not to screw up."

"I see," Andrea laughed, "So this is a challenge, then, is it? I love a challenge."

Dorian looked over at Andrea lounged on the bed, the hipster hotel room softly illuminated around her. She stared intently back at Dorian who lay on the other end. He couldn't really tell what she was thinking. He was struck again, by how effortless she seemed. She could do anything, it seemed to him. Sure he was a better hacker, but somehow, she had the confidence. She had saved both of their lives. More than once.

A wave of thanks rolled over him. He needed someone he could trust. Thank god he had it.

"So who are the Deep Noders that nil8 will have lured?" Andrea asked.

Dorian hadn't thought about it. That's a bit of a stupid way to go about saving people, he thought.

"So there's nil8. I'm pretty sure he'll go, since it would be very suspicious if he didn't. Then 70mm. That's who we're counting on to tell us where he went. Without that, I don't think we have a chance. I know him best, too."

"What's he like?"

Dorian thought back. Even though he'd spent hours with these guys online, he'd never spoken to them in person. And they had their lingo online, so it was even harder. Of course that was intentional. They'd organized themselves so that no one knew anyone else. "He's older. Like me."

Andrea laughed.

Dorian ignored her slight about his age. "He was the only one of us that got _Sin City_ so he's a bit of a legend. After me, he's got the most wins and often has the best pixes." He trailed off.

"That's it? How many years have you been doing this."

"Three or four."

Andrea shook her head in dismay.

"I think he'd be the first to be suspicious," Dorian continued. "He's really good with operational security. This one time, he thought the feds were on to us, and had us shut down for a month. We wiped our servers and our IRC channel. After a month, when I logged back onto my server, I found traces of someone having hacked in. He'd been dead on."

"So we're counting on him." Andrea idly bunched up a bit of the duvet in her fingers, her head drooping, her face slack with sudden exhaustion.

"Yeah. Funny thing is he thinks he's better than me, but he's not. At least not so far." Dorian stopped, his eyes misting over. "But I can't get over nil8. Sure he's a dark one. He definitely likes to see the blacker side of things. But I really thought he was a friend."

"You'll have to get over it," Andrea said, motioning Dorian to come to her. He crawled across the bed until she could wrap her arms around him. He laughed, because her arms made him feel better. "Why are you laughing?" she asked.

"Nothing."

Andrea gave him a squeeze. "So more about nil8. What about him? Other than that of course you want to kill him."

"Other than that?" Dorian snorted. He squeezed back, feeling more comfortable than he had in a long time. "He joked a lot. Weird. He's actually quite cautious. That's what makes it all so strange. I think he's a bit younger. I know, I know." He patted Andrea's arm. "Younger than me, ok? I think he's East Coast based given the hours he's usually on. Does that help?"

"Not that much, I'm afraid. But maybe that's the point."

"Yeah." Dorian felt himself falling asleep, the warmth of Andrea's body soothed him.

The hotel lobby seemed all steel and plexiglass to Dorian. He and Andrea had been waiting since their breakfast, tucked away in a few chairs in a nook. Light streamed from the windows onto the deep blue carpet flecked with silver and glanced off the plastic walls and steel rails of the heavily designed interior. Not the most comfortable place he'd ever been.

He jerked his watch into his line of sight for the nth time: 8:32am. When would the damn licenses arrive?

It must have ben the eight hundredth time he'd glanced over, when the pretty blond woman at reception motioned for him.

His muscles tensed, willing his body to run to the desk. No, he forced himself. He needed to clamp down. Be calm. This was the wrong moment to let his emotions go. Not now. No need to draw attention to us. He let his breathing slow and walked to the desk with what he hoped looked like a casual saunter.

"Yes?" He placed his hands flat on the counter.

"Two letters actually, sir," the woman said.

"Thanks."

He walked back to Andrea, ripping the envelopes open. Inside were the two driver's licenses they'd managed to divert. He looked at the first one. Andrea's hair was the right color, but her cheekbones and eyes were a bit off. Not too bad if you didn't look closely. He pulled out the other credit card-sized license. It didn't really look like him. His alter ego's face was a bit too square. The eyes were a bit off. But if used with a usual quick wave of the ID, both would surely be fine. And, he reassured himself, at least the licenses were genuine. Nobody could call them fake.

"We can go check the web site now," he said to Andrea, handing her one of the licenses. "But let's not forget about triangulation."

"You mean they pick a place at the center of all the internet cafes we go to, and that turns out to be where we are staying."

"Yeah, exactly."

"I was the one who pointed that out to you."

"You did?"

"Yup."

"I guess I'm pretty tired. Sorry."

"Look, look," Andrea almost shouted.

Dorian swiveled around from his half asleep slump, jerked awake. What looked like a GPS coordinate had appeared on the blog under the words "Cycle Trail."

They'd spent the better part of an hour in yet another dingy internet café, this time in the meat-packing district. Sagging and faded posters of idyllic scenes in some country he never bothered to figure out, adorned the walls, strafed by the same fluorescent glare they'd seen many times before.

"He's decided to trust us!" The words started tumbling out of his mouth. "He's trusted us because he thinks something's suspicious. I'm sure of it." Dorian high-fived Andrea. "Quick, let's put that up on a map." He paused to grab a breath. "This is great. I'm so happy. I was really getting worried they'd all been killed. Thank god. Jesus, they really kept us waiting didn't they?"

Andrea nodded, firing up a second internet terminal in the next booth and plugged the coordinates into a map she pulled up in the browser. She peered at the screen, brows furrowed. "Looks like they are just outside of LA. Funny." She looked over at Dorian. "Home Sweet Home."

"Yeah," Dorian responded, not really taking in the irony. "Keep monitoring the coordinates. I'll book us flights to LAX under the new IDs. What time is it now?" He looked down at his watch. Simultaneously, they both answered: "Ten past ten a m." They both laughed excitedly.

"There's another one," Andrea said typing. "Looks like they're heading east, or north eastish."

Dorian busied himself booking flights and a rental car. First he created a new credit card in the American Express servers he'd commandeered what seemed like years earlier. He used the numbers to book the flights. That worked out pretty well. The rental car was easy, since they'd already created the Hertz #1 Club account. Just book it in.

"They seem to be driving on major highways," Andrea commented.

"I've booked a flight for one p m. We need to leave here eleven twenty to get to the airport in time."

"I've got all my stuff. Do you have yours?" Andrea looked down at her backpack.

"And the gun?" Dorian whispered.

"Oh yeah." There was no way they could bring the gun on the plane.

Andrea looked up a shipping office that they could send the gun to in LA, finding one that would be open and take the same-day delivery. "Hope we arrive in time," she muttered.

She walked to the front of the internet cafe cum postal services store, coming back with a small box and some bubble wrap. She packed the pink gun and the extra ammunition inside, filling the gaps with the bubble wrap, while Dorian kept anxious watch for curious glances.

"I've express mailed the box to myself, well, my you know," she pointed to the fake ID when she came back from her second trip to the front of the store, "for same day pickup when we arrive. We just need to be at the shipping office before five."

"If nothing goes wrong," he scowled. That gave them two hours from scheduled arrival in LA to pick the package up. A bit tight.

"We need to go," Dorian said, glancing at his watch.

"Look, they're on smaller roads now. I think we're close to a lock on their final location."

"We can always check when we get there."

"Just a few more minutes. That's all it will take."

"I don't want to miss the flight. Not to mention we've only got another ten minutes after which the killer bastards whoever they are should be able to lock into our location. I don't want to wait for that."

"Look, they're in Lake Arrowhead." Andrea pointed to the screen.

As Andrea plotted each coordinate, Dorian could almost picture the car driving along, 70mm stuck inside uneasily watching unfamiliar roads zip by the windows, surely wondering if he'd done the right thing. What had made 70mm decide to start sending them coordinates? What had triggered his suspicion? Hadn't nil8 convinced him to go on the run? Was 70mm already a prisoner? Were all the Deep Noders already together? What would happen next?

The latest coordinate printed out as 14 Culbertson Way, Lake Arrowhead, CA 92352 in the mapping software. The satellite picture showed what looked like an isolated house at the end of a dead end road. It was hard to tell how recent the map was.

"This must be it," Andrea said, clearly convinced, pointing at the screen. "We can go." As she turned, another coordinate blinked onto the screen. "Hmm, that's a bit different," Andrea said.

She plugged it in. The arrow pointed to a large stretch of desert just outside of Reno, Nevada. "No, that can't be right." She threw a worried look at Dorian. He shook his head. Had 70mm been screwing with them?

"Let's catch our flight," he finally responded. What else could they do?

"Wait a few more minutes. Let's see if another coordinate comes through."

"You sure. We don't have much time."

"Yes," Andrea nodded her head.

The minutes crept by. All he could feel was despair. Had all those coordinates been worthless? No, they had to keep on. This was their only hope. 70mm couldn't have teleported that distance, what with technology where it was at. Dorian mustered a cold laugh.

Meanwhile, Andrea ceaselessly drummed her fingers on the desk. The sound started to pound in Dorian's head. No, best not to complain.

Ten minutes passed, the second hand clicking around the watch face. "If we don't leave now, there's no chance we'll make the flight," he said finally. "We have to..."

"Ok, let's go." Andrea's face betrayed her worry.

In the taxi to the airport Dorian had a thought. "What if that last coordinate was an end of file marker? Maybe he was telling us that no more coordinates would come."

"Do you think?"

"Yes, in fact that makes total sense."

Andrea gave him a quick hug. "Good boy," she smiled. The look on her face, however, couldn't hide her doubt.

They raced through the terminal in LAX, knowing it would be a miracle for them to get the package that night. And by the time they'd picked up their rental car, there was no way, short of a helicopter, that they would make it to the shipping office in time. Dorian pounded the dashboard in annoyance. "Why can't those damn airlines get their flights on time?" The words had been running in a loop through his head for the last twenty minutes. He'd probably bored Andrea to death by now, stating the obvious.

"Tomorrow," said Andrea, her voice flat.

"We could always find a rock to bash them over the head," Dorian suggested. "Then we wouldn't need the gun."

"Even I'm not that crazy," Andrea laughed.

"True. Shit shit shit. I hope there's still going to be time."

"We'll go find a hotel in Pasadena," Andrea said, steering the car, her lips pressed in a thin line. "So what about the others?"

"The Deep Noders?"

"Mmm. The one's you haven't told me about." They'd avoided the topic on the flight. In fact, in the hopes of maintaining operational security, they'd avoided speaking about anything related to their current situation.

"Well, there's the ones we have to assume are dead." The words sounded final, reminding Dorian that he still had no idea what had happened to his family. Had nil8 really killed them? It all seemed so far fetched. He looked over at Andrea as she drove. The thought popped into his head, almost to his surprise: impressive skill. He let his mind wander just a tiny bit. At least he wasn't alone. But the thought pushed Tara into his mind, bringing an ache into the pit of his stomach. But Andrea couldn't really be on the other side, that wasn't possible. She would never have killed one of her own. No, she had to be legit. Any other thought would be crazy.

"The dead ones would be Gaffer, Albu, fps. Man, fps; he's been offline a decent while." Had they really been doing this for so long? "And squelch. You know all about squelch." He looked at Andrea.

"Yes," she gulped. "They just cut his throat, simple as that. Horrible." She shuddered, then regained her composure. "I can't believe that was nil8. At least not alone. And anyway, if that was nil8, then who were the people following me in Los Angeles? They looked pretty rough. Not to mention the guys in the hotel. Do you think they were pretending to be movie geeks for all these years? It's pretty obvious this thing is bigger than him, don't you think?"

She glanced over to pat his arm, almost as if to get reassurance herself.

"If it really still is nil8. Truth is, someone could have taken over nil8's account. Although, we probably would have noticed a change in tone of voice, so that doesn't seem likely." Dorian paused. So who was left? He circled his hand around his wrist. "Then there's Striptz, Early Bird and Ruutor. That's who's left. It's so strange. It was almost like all the work they had done to keep themselves secure was now backfiring, making it so that it was almost impossible for him to save his friends. They'd been rooted like a hacked server. The enemy could do anything. He and Andrea could only break back in. "Striptz is good, but he does things a bit sloppily. He's the reason we had to put out a PROPER. He didn't check the release completely before it went out. Broke around the fortieth minute. Embarrassing."

"Ok. Striptz."

"And Ruutor," Dorian laughed despite himself. "He's a nice kid. He's in the inner circle 'cause he's done some good work with his secondary server. But oh boy, it's almost like he does this for work. He's so serious. Always getting into big battles on the technical side."

"How do you mean?"

"He's so convinced of his approach sometimes, that he can't get over it. He'll argue for a long time even when other people have agreed to a different approach. It can get really annoying. But at least he cares a lot about it. And it's not like his ideas are wrong. He's good. Young, but good."

"Got it."

"Which leaves Early Bird. Like Ruutor, he's close. But he's still just a kid."

"You're still just a kid. He must be a baby." Andrea grinned over at Dorian.

"Ok, he's still just a baby," Dorian smiled back. "But then...but then, they're all about to be killed." The realization hit him hard. "Doesn't make them much like babies anymore." He frowned. "And the truth is we're pretty likely to die too."

"I know." For the first time that Dorian had know her, Andrea actually looked scared. "I've never shot a gun before," she said.

"Except for when you shot Tara," Dorian hesitated, "that woman."

"Except for that."

"And you got her in one go."

"So I'm good now? Is that what that means?" She chuckled, not convinced.

"That's what it better mean."

"Yeah."

## Cross Country

They spent the night in a sleazy low-slung motel they found in Pasadena. Their room contained a utilitarian queen sized bed and warping yellowish wallpaper. But the bathroom was clean enough. Before going to sleep, they managed to check 70mm's web site by begging the night manager to let them access his reservations computer. It was easy enough once Dorian realized what was needed. He left to let Andrea do a bit of flirtation.

The website revealed no new coordinates. Was that a good thing or a bad thing? At least it meant they had all the information they were ever going to have. He fought the urge to start another entropy search. No, it wouldn't reveal anything. He hoped what they had was the right information, and he prayed his friends were still alive.

After a bit of fast food they went to the room. "We'll need all the energy we can get tomorrow," Andrea said.

Dorian climbed into his side of the bed, while Andrea climbed into hers. Thoughts chased through his brain like clouds in a tornado. What would happen? How tough were these people? Who was still alive? Were they even going to the right place? He wanted to scream to drown it all out. No chance of sleep. Under the sheets, he felt a soft hand wrap around his, squeezing. He squeezed back, tears and sobs nearly bursting into the open. He slid closer, draping his arm around Andrea's waist. She put her arm around him, pulling him close. "We'll be ok," she whispered in the dark. He could feel his thoughts finally draining away in her warmth. He drifted off to sleep.

They woke early. Dorian felt himself fighting an exhausted haze, and Andrea didn't look much better, even though they had the benefit of a three hour time change on their side. A typically brilliant blue LA sky blazed around the edges of the drawn curtains, forcing itself into the corners of his eyes.

Dorian struggled. The thought that this could be his last day on Earth ran through his head over and over to the point where he wanted to pound his skull against the wall to make it go away. But twinned with that thought was a much more surprising thought. Somehow, he didn't quite understand it, he was really happy that he would be spending his very last day on Earth with Andrea. If this had to be it, he wanted it to be with Andrea.

After quick showers, they gathered their two moderately filled backpacks, and set out.

The gun and ammo were easily picked up at the shipping office. Back in the car, they headed east. About an hour and a half later, after exiting the freeway, they followed a slight right fork in the road and continued up the hill onto Culbertson Way. Neither spoke. Dorian contemplated what they were about to do, still not entirely convinced.

"We're vigilantes," Andrea managed. "Should have called the cops."

"They wouldn't do anything. You're a fugitive, remember?"

"Hanging out with you I actually managed to forget. Thanks for reminding me."

They passed a few houses, none of which were number fourteen. Finally, at the very end of the street, a dirt road continued. Through scrub brush and dried out trees, they could see a house in the distance. On the beat up mailbox, the number "14" peeled in the heat.

"This is it," Andrea whispered.

"Let's park the car by one of the other houses," Dorian whispered back.

"Good idea. Maybe we can go behind, get out of sight, behind that house over there on the right. Then we sneak up from the back of fourteen, behind that hill over there." Her fingers traced an arc in the air.

"Yes. Let's do it. You have your gun, right?"

"Yep."

"Full of bullets?"

"Yes."

"We might need extra. I'll carry the box."

"Can we really trust 70mm? Couldn't he be luring us into a trap?"

"Why are you saying that now?" Dorian felt his throat tighten.

"I've been wondering it, but here we are." Andrea shrugged. "There's no time to think about it after this."

"We have to trust him," Dorian said, not completely sure. "He's one of the best Deep Noders. Without him, the whole team wouldn't exist. No, he's got to be trustworthy."

"Then you don't think they know we're here?"

"Let's be careful."

"Of course."

Andrea locked the car. As she turned around, Dorian put his hands on her shoulders. She looked up into his eyes. "What?" she said.

Dorian, feeling more that a little bit out of body, leaned over and kissed her on the lips. His heart beat crazily. Andrea startled, then pushed herself against him. She wrapped her arms around his chest. He pulled her into his arms. The kiss felt like it lasted forever. Warm. All encompassing. The world froze around Dorian. He felt every bit of himself slipping through his lips, through Andrea's lips and merging into every corner of her body.

He never wanted to let go. A small corner of his mind realized this moment was the happiest of his whole life. How had that happened? Never mind. Happiness! He focused back on the softness of Andrea's lips.

Andrea pulled away slightly. Her small movement tingled all over Dorian. "I love you," she said in a small voice, wiping tears from her eyes. He wanted to say "yes," but she put a finger on his mouth. "There's no more time."

Dorian nodded, the world around him flooding back, forcing itself on him. In an instant everything came back. He'd never been so scared.

They linked hands for another few moments, looking in each other's eyes. Their hands dropped to their sides slowly.

Nothing quite made sense to Dorian anymore. Had she just told him she loved him? How had that happened? Was that what had driven him to grab her a few moments earlier? It had felt just right. Everything was right. But wrong. He didn't know anymore. No. Andrea was right. What they were about to do was right. But everything was wrong. Everything that had happened to him and his friends and to Andrea. That was wrong. Now they had to save his friends.

And if they didn't, he reminded himself, he and Andrea were probably next.

He shuddered.

Andrea, looked back quickly, clenching her jaw. She set out, with Dorian behind. They followed a small path into the trees and behind the hill. Around the corner lay the house where the Deep Noders were surely being held hostage, if not already dead. And that was unless they were actually somewhere in Reno. No, forget that thought.

## Throw the Dice

The house stood ahead of them, glowing in the mid-morning sun.

"See that woodshed over there," Andrea pointed. "If we get behind that, or maybe into it, nobody can see anything. They won't know we're here and we can observe easily. What do you think?"

"What if they have surveillance? Could they see us running around?"

"Shit yes. I thought this was a small band?" Andrea looked uncertain.

"Let me find out." Dorian pulled out his cell phone. "I've got a channel sniffing program on here. If they're communicating, we'll know it." He fiddled with the device, scanning for signals across the spectrum. "Ok, we have a jamming signal, but nothing else. Well, some phones that appear to be scanning, but they look like they are inside the house. We'll have to circle the house a little bit to triangulate for sure. But that could be risky." He looked up but no one was there. "Andrea?"

His eyes snapped, scanning the small forest. God, what had happened to her? And she had the gun. Fuck. Every instinct in him wanted to shout her name. He scanned the woods and the house frantically, for what felt like forever.

There she was, waving to him, from the back side of the woodshed, one hundred meters ahead. What the fuck? Had she just gone? Andrea signaled at Dorian to run over to her, simultaneously pointing at a small open window through which they could climb into the shed.

Fuck it, _ragazzo,_ he told himself. He ran, arriving at the shed flat out, his heart beating a frantic rat-a-tat.

"I figured quick was better than slow and steady," Andrea whispered in his ear. "The longer we waited, the harder it would be to go. Fear," she said. "It's not like we had much choice."

"You're crazy," he squeaked. "These guys are not jokers. You've seen what they can do."

"I know, I know. I'm sorry honey." She stroked his hair. A small part of his fear stricken mind reminded him how incredibly beautiful she was. Her smile, the way she tossed her hair. Her skinny gangliness.

"Now climb through this window," she ordered, yanking him back to the present.

"Yes sir."

They went up to the second floor of the little shed, after propping up a small ladder. On the second floor, they positioned themselves on their stomachs looking out a tiny window under the low-slung roof. Andrea tried pointing her gun at the one door they could see. "I can get a shot off. It's only twenty feet or so. Hopefully I'm good enough to shoot to kill 'cause there probably won't be a second chance."

Dorian felt a chill down his spine.

"Go see if you can get a view of the front door from that other window," Andrea pointed. "Also stay back from the windows, so if they're looking, they don't see us."

"Of course." Dorian crawled to the window, the dust on the floor scratching at his eyes. "Assuming they don't see us already." He sneezed. "I see just outside the front door. One car out there."

"Model?"

"Can't tell. American? I haven't been in this country long enough to know brands. It's big. Like a taxi in New York."

"Ok."

"For sure not Italian."

Dorian heard squealing tires. Twenty minutes had passed quietly before that. After a moment, he could see a second car driving up to the house. A tall kid with glasses tumbled out of the side rear door. A large man with a ridiculous looking handlebar moustache stepped from the driver's seat.

He watched as the kid–which Deep Noder was he?–was ushered or possibly even pushed into the house by the big man with the moustache.

Dorian looked over and gave Andrea a thumbs up. Reno was out. Definitely based on the way the big man was treating the kid. Something was clearly wrong here, even if he couldn't definitively recognize either of them.

Colonel and Lieut stared down at the cell phone lying on the table in front of them. Their faces showed a mixture of concern and disbelief.

"But look," Colonel said. "Operationally, we've got everyone where we need them."

"Not even close. Are you crazy?" the voice erupted from the cell phone cum speakerphone.

"No, trust me, this is the exact place you want them."

"Could you hang on? I'm in a bad spot right now. Let me find a quiet location. I'm yelling in the middle of a restaurant. People are fucking looking at me. You guys are too fucking much."

Sounds of motion followed by the sound of the outdoors.

"So let me explain," Colonel said.

"Shut up, you moron. You don't do any more explaining. I'm at terrible risk here with you shitheads showing yourselves to these punks. How easy will it be for them to trace you to me. Don't they know some of them have died? Aren't they pretty clear on who has done what?"

"Hang on. Nobody knows anything."

"Oh yeah. They don't notice their buddies missing, or families disappeared. You some kind of nuthead?"

"First of all, we keep them here until the targets are met. You get paid. Everyone is happy. No problems. It will happen quick. We're also getting the info on all the servers so we can shut them down ASAP."

"You don't understand a thing. This can never, not ever, not even in a million years get out. I can't afford it, and worse, the industry can't afford it. Don't you get it? The fact that we're even having this conversation in the first place is a serious fucking breach of the security of this whole operation, don't you understand? You're literally trying to compromise me right now."

"Calm down now. I fully understand," Colonel said, exchanging a glance with Lieut. "We will eliminate the evidence. You've made it clear, and we're ready to do what has to be done. In any case, you can count on the targets being met, guaranteed."

"Good. I don't want to hear anything more."

## Exit Stage Left

"What should we do?" Dorian asked in a whisper, looking over at Andrea.

"Good question. We're pretty comfortable here now," she whispered back, hoping Dorian would get the joke. Her arms had started to ache even though they'd only been there a short while. "We've got no idea of the layout inside. Anything new up front?"

"Nope. Don't you think we better act before it's to late?" Even in the dim light, Andrea could see Dorian blanch, and she felt a stab of fear in her own gut.

"How about this?" she said, gathering up her courage. "I walk up to the door over there and test if I can open it. You cover me. At least we'll know a bit more. I'll try to look inside while I'm there."

"I guess it's relatively safe. But maybe I should do it, since you're the one with the gun experience. Why don't you cover me?"

Dorian began to slide towards the ladder.

"Shh," Andrea whispered urgently.

"What?"

"Someone's coming out."

In front of her the side door opened, revealing a boy. Or was it a short man? He was followed by a much larger man gripping him tightly on the shoulder.

"Do you recognize those guys?" Andrea asked Dorian who had now crept over to her window.

"I don't, though the big guy might be one of the guys that was chasing and shooting at me at the hotel."

"You think?"

"Maybe. Not sure. And the little guy is definitely not the guy they brought in earlier. The one in the car. The big man also is different than the one earlier. So they have at least two people."

Andrea slid the window slowly wider, to hear what the pair were saying.

"What's your name, son?" the big man asked.

"70mm. I told you already."

Dorian's eyes widened. "Shit."

Andrea raised her gun and aimed it at the big man.

"You have three seconds to tell me the truth. Your actual name. Got it?"

"70mm is all there is."

"Look over there, son," the big man pointed. "See that hill over there in the distance." He turned 70mm around to look where he was pointing.

The big man pulled out a gun. It appeared too fast for Andrea to react. Where had the gun come from, his pants? Inside a jacket? Where? Andrea saw the silencer attached to the front, recognized from many movies. "Duck," she wanted to shout, tried to shout, but Dorian had stuffed a hand over her mouth. Her finger reflexively pulled the trigger of her gun

Nothing happened.

The big man's finger pulled the trigger of his gun, as she frantically pulled her trigger again.

The front of the boy's face exploded in a burst of red that drifted about his head for a few moments before it rained on to the ground. A moment later, his body dropped to the ground where it lay twitching.

Tears streamed from Andrea's eyes. She could feel vomit retching in her throat. "That fucking bastard," she whispered. "You should have let me distract him. What did he just do? How could he?" She put her hands around Dorian, and dug her head down into his chest. "I couldn't shoot the gun. I couldn't. It just wouldn't do anything. I could have saved him. Oh god." Her insides felt like a knot.

"It's ok. You tried." Dorian didn't look so sure.

"I must have forgotten the fucking safety lock," she realized.

"He would have killed us instantly," Dorian said, holding Andrea tight. His face looked as shocked as hers.

"How could he? How could he?" she whispered.

Outside, the big man picked up 70mm's body by the arms and dragged it around the corner, out of sight of the door he and the boy had come out of. He returned, leaned over and grabbed a few handfuls of dirt which he spread over the walk. The brown flecks barely hide the wet red splatter. He turned around, grunting slightly, opened the door and went inside.

"What will he do next?" Dorian said in a wooden voice.

"I need to get down there," Andrea slid back from the window.

"Are you crazy? Look at him."

"We have to stop him."

She shimmied down the ladder, climbed out the back window, and ran until she was crouched behind an angle by the side door.

She didn't have a plan. This was the moment where she had to act. If that man came out with another boy, she'd have to kill him. She didn't have an option. She looked down at the gun, clicking the safety to off. How could she have forgotten that before? A moment later Dorian arrived behind her. She could feel his presence hovering and it comforted her. She concentrated, and pointed her little pink gun at the top of the side door. "I'll get that piece of shit, watch me," she whispered to Dorian without turning her head.

"Let me," Dorian whispered, and pried the gun from her hands. "These are my friends." Dorian shifted in front of Andrea, ending with the gun pointed once again at the top of the door.

They fell silent. Andrea's thoughts were in turmoil. She waited in fear for the door to open a second time. If Dorian had a chance to stop a second death, would he be able to shoot? Should she have let him take the gun? Could she handle if he got hurt? But then really, she had no more experience with the gun than he did. Well, other than shooting Tara. That wasn't really experience, was it? But the worry remained. At least she'd killed someone while Dorian had never even shot a gun. Could he deliver?

The ten minutes that passed seemed like a month to Andrea. Her muscles felt cramped, rigid, aching. Finally the door opened. This time the big man pushed an African-American teenager in front of him. You're about to die, Andrea wanted to shout to the boy. Had no one heard anything because of the silencer? And where the hell was the big guy's gun stored? Even knowing it was there, she still couldn't see anything.

"What's your real name, son?" the big man asked.

He's going to notice us, Andrea worried. We're only inches away.

Dorian stepped out, sending a shiver of adrenaline through Andrea, hands firmly gripping the tiny pistol in front of him. Should they really have gotten this close.

She looked at Dorian, hoping he knew what to do.

"Ask me," he said in a low voice, the incongruously pink gun pointed straight at the man's head. The big man's head jerked around, hands streaking toward his waist. Dorian twitched. Will he pull the trigger? she wondered. This could be it.

A loud crack echoed around the small clearing. Andrea stifled a scream. Dorian must have pulled the trigger. There were no weapons in the big man's hands. After a moment, a red circle appeared on the big man just above the right nostril. With a strangely deep sigh, he crumpled to the ground, blood oozing slowly out of the small hole. Dorian had shot him, it dawned on Andrea. He'd done it!

Her head finally clear, she rushed forward, grabbing the frightened kid and clapping a hand over his mouth as quickly as she could. Somehow she managed it before he made more noise. The boy struggled, though his resistance was surprisingly feeble. He must have been too shocked to react. That was the only explanation.

"I'm Bunny and that's Code," she spoke into the kid's ear without moving her hand from his mouth. She could feel him stiffen. She needed to play for a bit of time. She needed to convince him quickly. "Before you fight me, let me show you something. If you don't believe, I'll let you go." She half guided, half pushed him around the corner. She felt him startle as 70mm's body came into view. "This is what these guys are doing." The boy's chest jerked with shock.

"So who's inside? Tell us now," Dorian demanded quietly as he joined them. His eyes had the look of a wild person. His cheeks blazed like two bright red apples, his body one single tense muscle. "And who are you?"

Andrea released her hand from the boy's mouth.

"I'm Striptz," the kid said, words slipping around numb lips, his body rigid. "Well, Tyrone Walters." He'd clearly decided to trust them.

"Hello." Dorian almost managed to smile. "I'm Code."

"Yeah, she told me," the boy said. "Inside they've got Ruutor, nil8 and Early Bird. And the bad guy. Colonel he calls himself. And nil8; he's a bad guy too if these guys are really killing people." He looked over at 70mm, as if to convince himself.

"Yeah, we figured out about nil8. Anybody else?"

"They said there were snipers."

Dorian's eyes snapped around the clearing, searching the forest for guns.

"How about ReeperG? Is that nil8" Andrea asked. Turning, she put her hand on Dorian's arm. "Don't worry about the snipers. If they were here, we'd be dead already."

"How do you know that?"

"The movies, you slut. Would have happened a long time ago." She laughed nervously. She could have gotten them killed.

"Oh."

"ReeperG?"

Striptz shrugged. "Never heard of him."

"And who's that?" Andrea pointed back around the corner at the body of the big man Dorian had just shot.

"That's Lieut, I think his name is. He seems to do whatever the other guy wants."

"Lieut." The name struck a chord in her mind.

"They told us they were protecting us. Jesus, Jesus."

"We're going in," Andrea announced, locking eyes with Dorian, whose face had taken on a pallid shade. "Give me my little gun and grab the big guy's gun. You're my backup when we walk in. And you're coming too, Striptz."

"Yeah. Ok. Fucking fuck," Striptz sputtered. He put his hands on his head. "Snap out of it, Tyrone," he told himself. He grabbed Andrea's shirt as if she could stop him from drowning. "So," he said urgently. "Once inside there's two ways to get to the living room where everyone's being guarded." He let go of Andrea, his hands snaking through the air as if he was conducting an orchestra, pointing the directions. "Let me go first, since they won't be expecting anyone else. It could give us an extra second or two." He swallowed, hard.

"Let's make it quick," Andrea said. "We don't have much time before the Colonel guy will be looking around. He probably wasn't expecting to hear a gun shot."

Striptz opened the door, and walked in, his face etched with fear. Andrea and Dorian followed. Andrea had to adjust her eyes to the gloom, revealing a narrow kitchen. She could hear voices in an adjoining room. Striptz pointed to the left. "Go around that corner there, and then turn the corner to the right. The door is there," he whispered. Andrea followed Stripz's finger with her eyes, her whole body on the verge of shaking. She bit a finger hard, gaining some temporary control. Striptz looked back at her and Dorian, turned, and walked to the right and out of sight.

"What the fuck are you doing here?" Andrea heard a deep voice say.

"What do you mean?" she could hear Striptz answering.

Someone stood up. She couldn't wait any longer. Now was her moment. She gritted her teeth and gripped her gun, briefly looking back at Dorian, locking his sweet face in her memory. She dashed around the corner into the room, running immediately to the right as she crossed the doorway, her gun at ready. "Put your hands up," she screamed. Her eyes darted around, finally pointed her gun at a big but compact man with a moustache she saw walking towards Striptz. Her darting glance took in a number of people sitting on couches towards the back of the room. She focused her eyes back to the man with the moustache. A split second later, Dorian entered through the other door. "Hands up," he yelled. "Hands up."

The compact man seemed almost relaxed. Strange. Suspiciously relaxed. He put his hands out in front of him, smiling a friendly smile, as if he had expected all of this.

"Don't you move," Andrea growled. "I promise I'll shoot."

"I know you will," the man smiled. "I'm cooperating, see."

"Who here is ReeperG?" Dorian screamed, his eyes scanning the room wildly, his voice barely under control.

No one answered.

"The traitor. Who is the traitor? Who made you all come out here? Who is nil8?"

A tall kid with glasses pointed at a kid with the paisley pants and black as night hair. "It's h-h-him."

"Yeah, you bitch, it's me," the black-haired pale-faced kid spit out. "What of it?"

"You can check out 70mm outside," Andrea growled back, keeping her eyes and aim on the compact man. The man who must be Colonel. "He's dead. The other guy didn't hesitate to kill him."

"No, you're lying," the black-haired kid, nil8, shouted.

"It's fucking true you bastard," Striptz yelled. "You trying to get us all killed."

Striptz charged at nil8. Andrea screamed, "Stop," as loud as her voice could. Her gun wavered and in that moment Colonel twisted out of her aim.

## Glory

"I want the people of America to realize that our programs are working. The threat of counterfeit movies is controlled." The Southern Californian sun reflected blindingly off Mel's aviators; sweat glistened on his forehead. He stood in front of a pack of reporters on the Santa Monica Courthouse steps, boom mikes aimed at his face. He had come to explain and comment on the outcome of the latest anti-piracy trial. "We've created programs that give the American people the chance to do the right thing. In the last few weeks we've seen a twenty percent drop in movie piracy, and that's thanks to our customers realizing and agreeing that they want the real deal, the true thing, not fake, destructive, low quality, virus infected movies downloaded from illegal servers.

"In fact," Mel raised his two hands above his head in a sign of victory, "we will be seeing a drop in downloads of almost seventy percent in the next few weeks. This all due to our outreach programs and explaining the benefits of genuine movies." Mel allowed himself to think about Colonel. That shithead had better have gotten it right, or Mel would look like a fool. Forget fool, much worse could happen to him. He threw the thought forcibly from his mind. "I hope to see trials such as this one, of people guilty of distributing low quality garbage, drop away to zero, as the re-education and re-clarification programs continue. I see a bright future for the filmed entertainment industry and for the choice and possibilities for the American as well as the worldwide consumer. A golden age where the people get what they want, and we, the movie business have the privilege of delivering it to them. There is no contradiction between artists properly compensated for their hard work, and proper, law abiding customers that eagerly consume what is on offer, paying a fair price for what they are receiving." He paused for breath. "That is all I have time for today. I am thankful for the opportunity to address you all at this time, and I want to thank you for coming. Good bye."

"Mel, Mel," a reporter shouted. "A simple question." Mel didn't want to answer, but somehow the insistent voice kept him from dashing out of the room. "Is it a good idea to sue your own customers?"

"No comment. I should say, this trial is of criminals distributing stolen material, not of our customers. We don't sue our customers, only pirates."

Another shouted followed up: "How are the programs really working? The re-education programs. Doesn't everyone want to download high quality movies over the internet? The commercial services available are expensive and limited, so can you really tell us that consumers are done with pirated movies? What you are saying makes no sense."

"Let me be clear," Mel said, pushing away the urge to call the reporter a dirty word, or better yet, to strangle him. "We've done studies, and we are seeing that our outreach programs, along with a select enforcement campaign, are having the desired effect, that of the consumer respecting our copyrights. Our research shows consumers firmly choosing genuine movies over fakes."

"Mel, Mel."

"That's all the questions I'll take."

Mel stormed to his car. Why didn't they believe him? The programs _were_ working. Didn't matter. Soon enough, they would see that he was right, those doubting bastards.

Once inside his limo, he dialed Frank Close. "Look Frank. I know you want the money pronto. But I've just given a press conference—"

"Who authorized you?"

"Let me finish. But hold on here. First of all, since when do I need authorization? I'm the CEO of a major movie studio. I give a press conference whenever and, importantly, wherever I want." He paused to compose himself after Frank's insult. Best not to react now. Keep the temper in check. "Anyway, I've given a press conference where I explained that piracy will drop by seventy percent in the next few weeks. Now, you might be asking why I'm making such a crazy statement, especially if no such thing has happened to date. Am I right?"

"You're nuts is why."

"Well, not exactly. In fact, I've put in place a solution to our problems which entails removing the supply from the source. No drugs, no junkies. No movies, no piracy."

"What the hell is that supposed to mean?"

"What I mean is that I've stopped the top pirates, the one's that have put all the material on the internet in the first place. There's no one else to put the movies out there."

"How do you mean, stopped?" Frank breathed. "Actually, I don't want to—"

"Let's just say I've terminated their activities," Mel crowed, "with extreme prejudice."

"Oh fuck."

"The results will be immediate."

"It doesn't matter what kind of success you are achieving or about to achieve. I can't leave you the money. Doesn't matter what happens to the numbers. I've already told you, the board requires it back."

"Oh no. The results will be here almost immediately. Don't you worry."

"And don't let me ever hear another word about your tactics."

"Not me, dear Frank, not me."

And Mel hung up the phone. That bastard would never get his cash back, but he'd get what he wants. Mel would make that prick a hero.

Mel leaned forward in his plush limo, to pour himself a cool scotch on the rocks. He had this place under control. No one could touch him. Not now, not ever. In a few hours he'd check with Colonel to ensure the mission was complete, and that would be that. Triumph was his.

But even so, in the great Mel Boxton, a little flicker of worry remained.

## The Hostage Situation

Dorian's brain had frozen on the thought of nil8 sneaking into his room to kill him. Finally he had the person who had killed his parents here in front of him. The person who had the answers to what happened to his family, his parents, his sister. Dorian's finger twitched, his gun pointing straight at nil8's heart, the silencer looming large in front of him.

Suddenly Striptz charged. Dorian realized with a start, that he had become a bystander. He could only watch passively. His brain sluggishly noticed that he needed to click back into the moment. In front of him, Colonel twisted his body sharply to the right while pulling a gun from behind his belt, landing softly on his shoulder. Colonel rolled over and aimed towards Andrea while Andrea twisted her gun back toward Colonel.

Dorian's instincts kicked into motion, his body beginning to move. Smoke and fire erupted with a deafening crack from the gun in Colonel's hands. Andrea screamed, falling to the ground, her pink gun thumping to the pile carpet.

Dorian managed to turn his gun toward Colonel, sensing the rest of the room motionless, mouths open, in stasis. No sound from Striptz who had stopped mid-charge, none from Ruutor or Early Bird. Nothing. Why did no one duck? or drop to the floor? or hide?

Time started again. Someone shouted "Shoot, shoot, for god's sake shoot. The bastard has a gun. SHOOT."

The words broke through to Dorian. He snapped his gun in Colonel's direction, and squeezed the trigger, once, twice, three times, his eyes squinting in concentration and aversion. What happened? Had he hit him. Dorian's vision cleared. There was Colonel, red spots spreading across his chest and onto the carpet, gun limp in his hand, and there was Striptz running up and grabbing it away.

"It worked!" Dorian shouted. "It worked." He doubled over in violent agony, his stomach in knots.

"I think I've been hit," nil8 said in his high voice that poked through Dorian's pain.

Quickly Dorian uncurled, his worry overriding his stomach. "Where's Andrea?" He looked around the room.

"I'm hit," said nil8.

"I-I-I think s-she got shot," said Ruutor and pointed behind one of the couches.

Dorian ran to look. Behind the couch lay Andrea, a puddle of blood spreading around her middle. "Oh god. Are you ok? Please, Andrea. Be ok!" He banged a fist against his forehead. "I should have shot quicker. I froze. I'm a coward." He looked down at Andrea. "Fucking Striptz," he turned, his face twisted, a hand raised. "What were you thinking running at nil8 like that?"

"I'm alive," Andrea said gasping through huge breaths. "Barely, but alive."

"Oh my god. Oh my god," Dorian said. "Help me here, guys. Let's find out where she's hurt."

They gathered around her, peering down, looking for a bullet wound in all the blood. Early Bird ran from the room, coming back with toilet paper. They wiped away the blood.

"Guys. I's hurt. I can't feel my fingers," nil8 mumbled from the couch.

Good, Dorian thought momentarily. Nil8 deserved it. Then a second wave of panic rose in his throat. This kid was the only person who could explain what had happened to his parents and sister. If nil8 died, Dorian might never know. But it din't matter right now. Andrea mattered.

"We'll g-g-get to you next. Can't you see A-Andrea's bleeding?" Ruutor said, pushing his glasses up his nose. "Traitors come last in the order, don't you understand?"

"Look at that," Early Bird pointed after looking Andrea over closely. "If that's the only wound, we don't have much to worry about. It's only grazed her calf. Except a bit of blood loss. Do you feel any other pain than on your leg?"

"I'm getting my breath back. I think it was my breath knocked out of me. Not really feeling any other pain."

"I can't find anything else," Early Bird said looking at the others. "How many hit points is that?" Early Bird handed the toilet paper to Dorian.

Dorian felt a wave of relief.

"Can you bind it up?" Early Bird said to Dorian, "while I check out nil8. I don't think this t.p. will be enough. Someone, should find some towels to stop the bleeding."

"I need to speak to nil8, then," Dorian said, his mind switching instinctively. And almost inaudibly, "he killed my family." He turned to look at nil8.

Ruutor ran out in search of suitable blood removal materials while Early Bird moved over to the couch. "So where are you hit?" Early Bird asked.

"I think down there somewhere." Nil8 tried to point, but only managed to move his chin.

Early Bird looked down and Dorian followed his eyes. A massive puddle of blood seeped between and around nil8's legs. The couch had acted as a basin and the dark color of the couch had hidden the dark color of the blood.

"I think I'm a bit short of the red stuff," nil8 said slowly. "You guys gotta get me to a hospital."

"Yeah man," Early Bird said. "Guys, I need some help here."

"I feel like I'm fading, you know." Sweat had popped out over nil8's eyebrows. His black hair looked dank and dull. "They made me do it. Forced me." He licked his lips, his voice faltering. "Some guy...wanted it done. Wanted...all the Deep...Nodes destroyed. They were working for him." Nil8 groaned softly. "Fuck, that _is_ pain." A finger twitched. "I fucked up, dudes. I killed you. I was...ReeperG. Code?...Dorian, are you ok?" nil8 tried to turn his head toward Dorian, but very little happened.

"Take it slow," Early Bird said. "Husband your strength, you'll need it."

"They demanded everything Code, you know? At least you're still alive. I couldn't get it all, but I had to try. They wanted to kill my parents. You know. Oh shit, that hurts." Nil8's hand clenched.

"There's no excuse" Dorian said, his body filled with rage. "You came into my room with a gun." Tears forced themselves unbidden into his eyes. "You went all the way to Italy to kill my family. You threatened me."

"Don't you see, Code. It wasn't—oh god, my chest hurts—I wasn't the one." nil8's fingers trembled. "I only gave them the DNS entry for your server. That's..." he gulped. "...how it started."

"I can't see the wound in there. He's lost a shitload of blood. What do we do?" Early Bird said.

"I've got a first aid k-k-k, k-kit," Ruutor said, returning to the living room. "Holy fuck. That b-boy's a goner." He clapped a hand over his mouth, realizing what he'd said. "Y-y-y-you'll be fine." He stroked nil8's head with a shaking hand.

"Who was it then?" Dorian yelled, pushing his face into nil8's. He wanted to grab nil8, but the boy was covered in blood, almost bathing in it. Dorian could see consciousness seeping away and with it his last chance to question his parent's killer. He had to try something. "Guys, we have to call 9-1-1. This kids in serious trouble. He's our only connection to these bastards. Without him we can't find anything."

"I-I-I-," Ruutor said.

"Good god. This is a fucking emergency, and all you can say is I, I, I?"

"I tried. All the phones are jammed. I haven't found the device yet."

He had no choice, he had to get the answers now. "Tell me what happened." Dorian went to grab nil8, but someone pulled him back. "Tell me!" He tried again, this time he felt arms wrap themselves around his chest.

"You need to leave him alone," Early Bird said.

"Tell me!" The scream echoed in his head, leaving Dorian spent. There was only a gurgle from nil8.

" _Porca miseria_ , I'll go get my car," Dorian said. "We'll have to drive him to the hospital." Panic rolled through him again.

He ran out and down the driveway, down the few hundred yards to where they had parked. It seemed like that had been hours earlier. He jumped into the car after briefly fumbling with the key. He had a bad feeling. A very bad feeling. He gunned the motor and raced the car up the driveway to the front door. Running into the house, he called out, "Grab him and put him in the back seat."

"No," Ruutor said, "It's t-too l-l-late. He's dead. No pulse."

"We can't give up. He's one of us, even if he fucked it good."

"Stop it, Code," Ruutor pleaded, tears in his eyes. "He's as dead as Colonel."

Dorian looked around. All Dorian's friends were looking at him, heads shaking.

"But I need my questions answered."

"No way. It's over."

"We can't go anywhere, Dorian," Andrea said from behind the couch. "If we go to a hospital, they'll immediately arrest me. I'm already wanted for murder in San Francisco."

"Then we leave you here, drop him at the door to the emergency room and run."

"FYI," Ruutor said. "Unless he's alive, we might want to be careful. They record everything at those hospitals. We'd be on tape right away, no matter what we did."

That was certainly true, Dorian had to admit. That and the exercise clearly had no point anymore anyway. Nil8 had died. He'd probably never know what had happened. That he would have to live with.

Why hadn't he paid more attention when they walked in the room? Why had he frozen? What kind of idiot was he?

"Um, guys?" Striptz said, interrupting Dorian's thoughts. "Where did Colonel go?"

Dorian looked at the corner of the living room where Colonel had fallen dead. The only thing left behind was a streak of blood that trailed out the door.

## Colonel

"No way. This can't being happen," Dorian shouted.

"Careful, he's dangerous," Andrea said.

"Striptz, come with me, and take Colonel's gun. The rest of you keep safe here. Use Andrea's gun to defend." Dorian looked around wild eyed. "Don't get shot, ok?"

In the hall outside the living room, the blood trail stopped in a balled up wad of toilet paper. "He must have blocked the flow," Dorian said. "Used t.p. to do it. Why didn't I notice this blood before?"

"That dude is hard."

"Yes." Dorian held out the gun in front of him, the same way he'd seen them do it in the movies. He'd started getting used to the feel of a gun in his hands. "Watch out that he doesn't jump out from behind something, ok?"

"Sure." Striptz dashed into the kitchen, emerging stuffing a butter knife in his pocket. "In case the gun doesn't work. All other knives were missing. They didn't want us to attack, can you see? Good thing though, now there's nothing for Colonel." Striptz' sounded rattled.

They checked the rooms upstairs next, looking under beds, carefully prying open closets. As they were coming back down the front landing heading for the basement, something caught Dorian's eye.

"Look," he pointed out the window. "I think he's out by the car."

They ran to the front door and down the driveway. Colonel, bathed in sweat stood banging on the trunk of his car with a large metal rod, trying to smash the lock.

"Stop right were you are," Dorian yelled, keeping a safe distance. He could see Colonel considering throwing the metal rod at him. "Now drop the rod. Actually, throw it that way." He pointed with his gun.

Colonel complied. "You'll never win, you little pirate." He winced. "You think you can do it all because you have a pistol in your hand. But you can't you little shit. We're coming after you and we have you covered."

"Yes. With the invisible sniper you don't have." Dorian brushed back his hair with his free hand.

"Like the hole I'm going to put in your head." Colonel rested his hands on the trunk, wobbling slightly as he struggled to find the strength to stand. He'd stuffed wads of toilet paper through his shirt where the bullets had entered. "I'm still on my feet, aren't I?" He turned to rest against the car. Dorian inched closer, still keeping his distance.

"Tell me, Colonel, why do you want to kill us?"

Colonel laughed a deep rumble. "Because I like eliminating garbage."

"I swear I will shoot you. And this time I won't miss your head."

"Do I look scared?"

"You should be, but it is your choice." Rage swirled through him. He desperately wanted to pull the trigger. Killing this piece of dirt would feel great. But no, that wouldn't give him the answers he needed. Better to stay calm.

He needed to apply pressure. If only he knew how to cock the pistol, as seen on TV. But he wasn't sure it would work, and he didn't want to risk disabling the gun. "Tell the others inside that we've caught him," Dorian told Striptz without turning his head.

As Striptz left, Dorian continued his questions, the gun pointing straight at Colonel's head.

"Tell me what the hell is going on here."

"We're eliminating online piracy, can't you tell? Each of you rodents that's eliminated, fewer movies online."

"It's not like we're killing anyone."

"Well, we are." Colonel laughed, but without humor.

How do I get him to tell me what happened to my family? Dorian wondered. And what incentive does he have to tell me anything?

"Do you know how much we liked going into your dorm room?" Colonel had a wicked look on his face. "Putting that gun next to your head."

"That wasn't ReeperG?"

"Hell no. I wouldn't send a child to do a man's killing."

"But I'm not dead."

"Doctors orders. Look what we got instead. All of you shits here in one place. Where did you keep the Deep Noder List anyway? That's what we needed before we'd kill you."

"Looks like you didn't need it."

"Nope. Didn't. Plan B turned out better than Plan A."

Striptz came back from the house. "Don't we have to tie this guy up?"

"Yeah. Look for some rope, or that silver tape for pipes. That should do it. I'll stay here and guard."

"Ok." Striptz stuffed his gun in his pants.

"I can tell you everything," Colonel said after a pause. "All you have to do is let me free. When you leave, you close the door and leave me here."

"And for that, for leaving you behind, I can find out who killed my family?"

"No, that one's free." Colonel leaned forward. "I killed your family. Me and my team." He laughed again.

Dorian's finger quivered on the trigger. He should just kill this bastard right now. He man had killed Federica, and...Jesus, how could he be so casual about it. He would kill Colonel now.

"But if you shoot me, you'll never know who paid me to do it. Don't you want to know that?"

He should just kill him. Did it really matter who ordered it? Dorian breathed out slowly. "Yes. I want to know."

"Come closer and I'll tell you. But first, promise to let me free."

"If I can find the person, then yes, I'll let you free. At least so you can testify in court."

"There's my little rodent. So, come closer. I'm not telling the whole world, just you."

Dorian moved nearer, his finger tighter on the trigger. He couldn't let Colonel overpower him. The man had already done it once.

"Closer." Colonel's voice faltered. He seemed to shrink against the trunk of the car, his wounds having taken most of his strength.

"No." But Dorian inched closer.

"So, the person who paid me all this money was..."

And faster than Dorian could ever have imagined, Colonel went from weak and bleeding, to an airborne bundle of muscle. The motion startled Dorian, causing him to slip and fall backward. The slip meant that Colonel missed him, and landed on the ground behind him with a crunch. Dorian's back cracked against the ground, and his finger triggered a shot that whistled through the air. Colonel climbed to his hands and feet, swiveling. At the same time Dorian swung around on the ground, looping the gun so it pointed at Colonel again. Before Dorian could, Colonel grabbed hold of Dorian's free hand, yanking hard and launching himself onto Dorian. In the last moment, Dorian, moving the heavy gun with all his force, placing it between himself and Colonel, and pulled the trigger. A black and red spot appeared just below Colonel's right eye, and the whole charging bulk of the man crashed onto Dorian's prostrate body, knocking the breath out of him.

"What the hell is happening?" he could hear Striptz yelling. More voices came towards him.

"I had to shoot him again. He jumped me," Dorian gasped. "He was going to tell me who ordered all this." The weight of the prostrate body crushed his lungs so he could hardly breath.

Striptz appeared in Dorian's view, leaned down, and, with great effort, managed to roll Colonel's body off of Dorian's chest. "Man, he's heavy."

"Actually, he obviously had no intention of telling me anything. It was all to get me to lose control, drop my guard and give him a chance."

Striptz knelt down, and touched Colonel's neck, feeling for a pulse. "There's nothing. I think this time you got him. Fuck, this is crazy."

## Trapping

It took another twenty minutes until they found the jamming device. It was a PS3-sized black box under the seat of one of the cars. Ruutor disabled it using the prominent button on the front. "Not that hard really. I bet it's mostly a battery anyway."

"Effective though," Dorian said. He wandered obsessively from the living room to the side door to around the back and then to the front driveway, checking gingerly that each of the dead was actually dead, keeping the panic in his thoughts under tight control. He had to keep working forward.

After his third round of checking, he came back to where the rest of the band were examining the extra phone they'd found. The one that could only have belonged to Colonel or his brutish friend.

"I've got a number here," Andrea said, staring intently at the phone. She was sitting at the kitchen table with Ruutor, Striptz and Early Bird. "It should be the last number they dialed. Right before trying to kill you all." She paused, twirling some loose strands of hair behind her ear. "Now how do I take advantage of that?" She looked up. "Can one of you do an internet search on the phone number?"

"I've got a r-recording of Colonel's voice, if that would help," Ruutor said. "It's on my cell." He clicked a button and the Colonel's voice spoke brusquely from his tinny speakers.

The others looked at him in astonishment.

"I-I thought he was a bit suspicious. Thought it might come in handy, you know."

"I'll say. That should help," Andrea acknowledged. "Well, actually," she looked at Ruutor, "So then, um, how does that in fact help us?"

"Well, if y-y-you edit it to answer the phone, we can c-call the number and maybe record the person on the other end."

"Genius," said Striptz.

"And that's something you can do, edit it to answer the phone?" asked Andrea.

"Yep."

"So who has a phone that can record the call?"

"I do," said Striptz.

"So we have a plan?" Dorian asked. He couldn't help but think it was an extremely thin plan.

"Hopef-f-fully,"

Dorian watched as they spliced and snipped Ruutor's recordings of Colonel's voice, searching for phrases throughout the audio that they could repurpose to sound like someone answering the phone.

"It will sound a bit weird, but not that much worse that a bad cell phone connection."

Finally, they had a recording that could simulate Colonel answering a phone call. The whole activity took about thirty minutes. Afterwards, they rehearsed how they'd handle the call, making sure everyone's role was carefully choreographed. This was one of their few chances to catch the person who'd tried to kill them all, and possibly the only way Dorian would ever specifically find out who'd had his family killed. If this went wrong, or the person got suspicious, they could lose track of him or them forever.

Or worse, whoever it was could keep on looking for them. One day, when they were least expecting it, someone would show up and kill them. They couldn't afford to screw this up, could they.

He looked around at his friends keenly focused on their tasks. He needed to keep these thoughts to himself. If his fear seeped out, what would they do?

The constant practicing of the call had started working. They simulated a ring and each of them did their part, answering, recording, and playing back their various pieces. They tried out various possible directions for the conversation, some worked better than others. Then time ran out; Colonel's phone rang.

"Quiet everyone," Andrea said. Then, "Three...two...one." She clicked on the answer button, Striptz tapped his phone, and Ruutor tapped his.

"Hello," Colonel's disembodied voice spoke out of Ruutor's phone.

"Hello," said the voice from the call.

Ruutor tapped again. "What do you want?" said the recording of Colonel.

"What do I want?" said the speakerphone. "Are you fucking crazy? What do I want? Who are you trying to fuck with here, buddy?"

Andrea looked thoughtful, signaling to Dorian that maybe she knew the person. Dorian shook his head. He'd never heard the man before. She pointed to Ruutor to play the next part of the recording.

"Working on it," the recorded Colonel said.

"Well, that's better. When will you be done? You know I want to get this over with as quickly as possible. I've got people breathing down my neck. No time to whack off boys, got that? Busy, busy."

Now Andrea was nodding. She looked sure she knew the voice. Dorian's spirit's rose.

"Hello? You there?" said the voice. A pause. "Why aren't you saying anything?"

Ruutor shrugged and pressed a button. "Four hours," said his phone.

"Four more hours? That's ridiculous. Just a few bullets, my friend. Have you shut down the servers? Look, you have one hour exactly; after that, I'm expecting an answer."

"Later," the recording said.

"Later? Later? Are you kidding me?" Andrea's eyes went wide. Her arms waved, signaling that she knew who was on the phone. "Don't even get me started," said the voice. "One hour. That's it." The call ended.

Andrea made a chopping move across her neck and ended the call. Striptz halted his recording. She stared at the four Deep Noders in turn. "It's Mel Boxton." She stabbed the air. "That's who hired these monsters." She looked around at the blank faces. Dorian couldn't make a connection with the name. "You don't know him? Don't you all upload movies?" She paused. "He's only the head of Melbox Movies."

"No way?"

"Yes way." Andrea high-fived everyone around the table. "We take him down, and all this shit stops for good."

## In the Frame

Andrea stood up from the table. "Ok, we now know what we have to do, right?"

"Y-y-yep."

"Any doubts that it will work?"

"Tons," Dorian sighed.

"But it's the best plan we got, right?"

"Mmmm."

"Then let's execute." Andrea glanced around the room. "No pun intended."

Dorian found the local Walmart, where he bought one pair of leather winter gloves, five pairs of rubber gloves, bleach, a vacuum cleaner and cleaning supplies. As he walked through the aisles he rehearsed a story about cleaning up an abandoned house in case anyone asked about his unusual purchases. In the end, however, the girl at the checkout didn't care in the slightest, focusing all her concentration on maniacally chewing gum. It reminded Dorian of a cow chewing her cud.

Back at the house, Dorian handed out the rubber gloves, and the Deep Noders fanned out through the house to clean, bleach and hopefully hide all evidence that could lead back to them.

"They might even get their deposit back," Andrea whispered to Dorian, who laughed.

Dorian watched Andrea fight to slip the leather gloves onto top of a pair of rubber ones, to ensure there wouldn't be any DNA in the leather ones. She then went out onto the back porch where she fired Colonel's gun pointing upward and away, arcing the bullet high over the woods behind the house so that it would never be found.

"They'll notice a bullet or two missing from the gun," she said to Striptz "which will make them wonder. But they'll find GSR on the gloves which will clarify that someone here fired the gun. Make sense?"

"I think so. Hope you're right. Hope CSI taught you how to be a criminal." His mouth turned in a crooked smile.

"In the end they'll have to conclude there was one shooter left after these two were dead. If the police are really lucky, they may even connect these guns to New York. But the goal is they won't connect anything to us."

"But they won't know who that extra shooter was?"

"No."

"Not until they find the evidence."

Early Bird poured the bleach on Andrea's blood stain and all surrounding areas, the couch, the walls, the fireplace.

"Are you sure that's enough to destroy the DNA," he asked Andrea.

"Just using my CSI," she answered. "Not much we can do if it doesn't. It's supposed to make it unreadable. Let's scrub it a bit to get out as much as possible."

A few hours later, every surface in the house had been cleaned, vacuumed and wiped down.

Finally, when all was complete, Dorian, using a huge marker to disguise his handwriting, wrote Squelch's address on a bit of newsprint and left it in the garbage crumpled. Dorian figured that by connecting the two killings, Andrea might be cleared of Squelch's death, by tying everything to Colonel and his team instead. At the back of his head he new the opposite was also possible, and all the killings would be tied back to Andrea and therefore to him, but that eventuality had to be discounted. If they got everything right in the next few hours, there'd be little doubt who was the responsible party.

Dorian could feel a sheen of sweat that stuck to his armpits, the little space under the nose, and the inside of his thigh.

"I think we're really done, now," he said.

"We've cleaned the driveway, right?" Early Bird asked.

"Check."

"Vacuumed all hair and polished all surfaces?"

"Check."

"Cleaned the tool shed, and checked for anything left behind?"

"Check."

"Gun residue on the gloves?"

"Check."

"And the little special note in the garbage for the police to search real hard and find?"

"Done."

"Colonel's phone wiped down and on the kitchen table?"

"All done."

"Let's pray they don't find any of us. However, even if they do, I think we can easily show how we acted in self-defense. It just might take a lengthy trial to determine that."

"Let's move. Don't want anyone else showing up."

Dorian looked back at the house, shuddering as he thought about the four corpses lying throughout the house and garden. The image that bothered him the most, and he didn't really know why, was nil8, sitting on the couch sunk down in a pool of his own blood, life fading away.

## Trapping

Dorian jerked out of a restless sleep and looked around. For a moment he didn't recognize the shabby beige and floral curtains or the fake park-life wall paper. Where was he? What was going on? He recognized Ruutor's voice sounds coming from somewhere nearby, a different room?

The room snapped into focus. Now he remembered everything. They'd stopped for the night in the same hotel he and Andrea had stayed in the night before. Had it only been yesterday that they had left this place? He could have sworn that years had passed.

He looked at his watch. It must have started.

Dorian walked through the fire door into the adjoining room with identical floral curtains. Ruutor and Andrea were hunched over a few smartphones by a small desk against the wall, fiddling intently with the devices. Striptz sat with a laptop on the edge of a queen-sized bed, covers still in place, typing rapidly, his stocky body indenting the side of the mattress. No one noticed him.

"How far are we along?" Dorian asked.

Andrea looked up and smiled. She pointed to Striptz with a nod of her head. "He's uploading the recording we took at Lake Arrowhead. Should be done in a few minutes."

Dorian ran through the plan through his head one more time. A few things had to go right, but all in all it seemed pretty good. Just it had to work. Dorian would stop Mel no matter the consequences. He owed it to his family, and to the Deep Noders.

Striptz looked up, interrupting Dorian's musing. "I've got the recording on my server. Over to you Ruutor."

Ruutor got up, walked over and started typing into the laptop after taking it from Striptz. "Ok," he said without looking up. "Hacking into the Greater Los Angeles Surveillance System or GLASS as they like to call it." He looked up. "B-b-breaking into glass, that really does fit."

The room fell silent but for the clicking of the keyboard.

Everyone stared tiredly at Ruutor. "I'm planting the recording so that it will look like it got picked up during an automatic cell phone scan." He typed some more. "That way they'll b-b-be able to use it in court," he explained, rubbing the outside of his nose with his finger. "All they need to do is search on the right number, and up it will pop, tagged with some relevant phrase."

"I thought that was illegal."

"What? Wiretapping? Are you j-joking? When the federal gov does it, don't expect the locals to be f-far behind."

Dorian walked over to Andrea and stroked her neck, then dropped himself onto the couch at the back of the room. Tomorrow would be a full day. Within moments, his eyes had shut.

After waking up, Andrea and Dorian left Striptz, Ruutor and Early Bird and drove to the Melbox Lot. The flat sun-stroked landscape of the Valley flew by, endless stretches of ranch style houses, palm trees and concrete with Spanish sounding place names: Ventura, Alameda, Camarillo. Dorian kept getting flashes of the corpses strewn around the house in Lake Arrowhead. He suspected Andrea was suffering the same. They didn't speak much, with too much going on inside their heads.

Having come off the freeway, they navigated the local streets until they pulled up outside a huge stucco entrance with art deco lettering spelling out _Melbox Movies_. Andrea pointed to the sign but didn't stop, continuing on for a few minutes around the studio which was surrounded by thirty foot high reddish-tan walls. "We're going to go in through the back side," Andrea explained. "It's closer to where Mel Boxton parks his car. And anyway, it's the only place we can sneak in without a pass."

The boundary of the studio went from being a wall to a chain link fence, at which point Andrea slowed and parked across the street. They got out, Andrea pulling a heavy backpack from the trunk. She indicated a break in the enclosure. "I use this 'entrance'—well, _used to use_ this entrance—when I forgot my pass for the tenth time, or didn't want anyone to know I'd left early." She smiled and tweaked his cheek. Dorian wriggled, but smiled.

"You are a tricky one," he said.

Once they'd slipped inside, they walked between prefab office buildings completely unchallenged until they came to a small parking area. In the far corner, a gleaming tan Bentley parked nonchalantly in a large reserved spot.

"That's Mel's car. It's a good thing he's here," she said. "That was the only thing I was worried about."

"We would have had to delay a day."

"Well yeah, but sometimes he's away for longer than that."

"True."

"And it would have led to more plausible deniability for him. Sooner is better."

"We also don't know whether he has an alibi for two days ago."

"Probably not a great one since he was calling us." Andrea cracked a small smile.

"Exactly." Dorian kissed her on the lips. "It's going to be tough from here on in. Let's hope it's done quickly."

"I know," Andrea said. She looked around, searching for people that might be watching. The nearest person was at least a hundred yards away, and not in the least interested.

She nodded to Dorian who pulled the black jammer out of the backpack. They'd disarmed it at the Lake Arrowhead house and Dorian had insisted taking it along. And last night he'd added some software to give the powerful radio a few extra tricks. He pointed it at the tan Bentley and pressed a button. Nothing seemed to happen. However, after a few minutes passed, the doors to the car unlocked with a soft satisfying thunk. "Brute force attack. Works every time. For some reason they only use forty-bit keys on car doors. No one knows why. You pay so much for a car, and the electronic lock lets you down."

"Our gain."

Dorian and Andrea pulled on rubber gloves they'd brought in the pack. Using the yellow gloves, Dorian popped open the trunk. Andrea pulled a plastic bag out of the pack, and dropped it into the Bentley's trunk. She ripped back the plastic wrapping revealing Colonel's gun and the pair of leather gloves she'd used earlier to fire the gun. "That will tie him to the scene for sure."

Dorian slammed shut the trunk.

"And now, all that's left is to spring the trap," Andrea said. She smiled, looking around once again to ensure there was no one watching.

She's so beautiful, Dorian thought, looking at Andrea. And she gets me.

"Hey, what's up," Andrea said, "what you waiting for?"

Dorian shook himself slightly, and dialed the cell phone that Ruutor had leant them. "Do it," he said.

He turned to Andrea, dreading what he would do next. He handed the jammer to Andrea. "Give me your gun."

"What are you going to do?"

"Just give it to me."

"No," Andrea looked at him sharply.

"Please. They guy had my family killed."

"You're crazy." Slowly, she pulled the gun out and handed it to Dorian.

"I'm going to hide in the back of the car, so follow us when Mel drives out of the lot. I'll need backup. I'll wave to you if I need you to come closer. Lock me in with the jammer." He climbed into the back of the Bentley confident the tinted windows made it impossible to see him. He waved to Andrea, and she didn't react. Thtat's a good start.

He lay down while the locks re-engaged. This was almost certainly crazy. He put the phone back on his ear. "How's it going?"

"I've got the call set up," Early Bird said, "so it will look like I'm calling from Lake Arrowhead when I dial 9-1-1. Just listen in."

"What is your emergency?" said a female voice.

"Oh god, I just stumbled on a murder. There are dead people everywhere. Please come now," Early Bird's vadered voice said.

"Where are you located?"

"14 Culbertson Way."

"You are in Lake Arrowhead, correct?"

"Yes, I think so. Oh god, it's so horrible." Early Bird sniffled.

"Can I get your name?"

"It's so disgusting. You should see the blood.."

"Your name please. I need that to make a report."

"I have to go. I see someone walking this way. Sorry." Dorian could hear Early Bird end the call.

Andrea left the lot the way they had entered. Once outside, she drove around to where she could watch the guard station from the car. Setting aside her worry about what Dorian wanted to do she dialed the number to Mel Boxton. This would be a bit wild. A part of her was excited to be taking action against someone so powerful.

"Hello?" The same voice from the speaker phone the day before.

"Mel Boxton?" Andrea said her voice successfully vadered.

"How did you get this number?" he responded. "And what is wrong with your voice?"

"Don't worry about that. I know all about what you have done. The people you have had killed."

"What is this? Some sick blackmail attempt? I'll have this call traced you know."

"You need to be aware that Colonel and Lieut are dead. I am coming for you next. And that's if the police don't beat me to you. They know everything now too. The police are searching a house in Lake Arrowhead as we speak."

"I have no idea what you are talking about," but Mel's voice cracked so that Andrea could clearly hear it.

"You don't need to. You are dead just the same. Goodbye."

Andrea hung up.

The adrenaline in Andrea worked for a while, but she found it hard to stay focused on the entrance to the studio. She played little tricks, like counting types of cars that went by. When that didn't work, she stared down at the phone, waiting for something to happen.

    CELL PHONE INTERCEPT -- AUTOMATIC VOICE
    RECOGNITION AND TRANSCRIPTION IN PROGRESS

    <flagged="for law enforcement",
                *KILL*,
                *TERRORISTS*,
                *DEAD*
    /flagged>

    <words marked in *CAPITALS* are
    triggering automatic transcription to law
    enforcement based on NSA and SoCal
    ordnances 23956 and BS429>

    <ver 1.243>

    PHONE OWNER:     Mel Boxton    (AT&T)
    PHONE OWNER 2:   Frank Close   (Verizon)

    1:          Hello? Frank?
    2:          Yeah. What is it this time,
                Mel?
    1:          Someone knows everything. I
                just got a call.
    2:          Slow down part noir
    1:          The person threatened to
                *KILL* me. I need your help.
    2:          Mel, your panicking. Calm
                down won't you.
    1:          They must be *TERRORISTS*. I
                need help. Can you find this
                person?
    2:          How am I going to do that?
                And is that the same shit you
                were talking about yesterday?
    1:          Yes, the terminated situation
                isn't as terminated as it
                needs to be. Colonel and
                Lieut are *DEAD*.
    2:          Who are they?
    1:          I shouldn't have said
                anything.
    2:          Exactly.
    1:          You have to contact Senator
                free zone. The caller
                mentioned the police have my
                name too. You have clout with
                her.
    2:          Oh great. The police too? How
                fucked is this?
    1:          You don't want to get dragged
                in, due you?
    2:          Fine. You are a total waste.
                A mistake. Fuck, fuck, fuck.
    1:          Stop whining and do it.
    2:          Okay. You jack ass.

There! The tan Bentley pulled out of the studio. The motor roared, turning the heavy vehicle right, down the street away from her. Andrea fumbled with the ignition and lurched her car into gear. By the time she'd pulled into traffic, the Bentley was a few lights ahead, and picking up speed. Fortunately there wasn't much traffic. She just had to hope that the lights didn't change and stop her. Stay focused. Dorian's in that car.

She dodged around a slow-moving pickup truck and crossed the light just as it turned yellow. A bit closer now. The Bentley turning right a few blocks ahead, forcing her to gun her engine so she was going as fast as she dared. There was no point in getting stopped for speeding, she'd lose the Bentley then for sure.

She turned right where the Bentley'd turned and momentarily couldn't spot the car. She hit the accelerator again, hoping he hadn't turned down some obscure side street. But truth was, this was the fastest way to the freeway, so it was highly likely that was where he was going.

She drove a few more blocks, getting more and more worried as she went until finally she saw the car, revealed when the truck it had been hidden behind turned right. She sighed out loud with relief.

By the time the Bentley pulled westbound onto the Ventura Freeway, Andrea was only a few car lengths behind. She prayed that Mel was too panicked to notice someone tailing him. She was pretty sure someone looking out for a tail would see her, given she knew nothing about tailing cars and hadn't learned it on CSI. Well worst case, even if she lost Mel, Dorian was in the back seat. But that was good and bad. Good, because Mel wouldn't get away. Bad because Dorian would be by himself with a homicidal maniac.

Frank picked up his phone, and dialed, his heart pounding in a very bad and ominous way.

"Senator Freestone, this is Frank Close of the MAIG."

"Yes, I know you Frank. Good to hear from you. How's your wife?"

"Excellent. And your husband and the kids?"

"Good as well. Timmy just graduated from Stanford."

"You must be truly happy."

"I am. Extremely." A polite pause. "What can I do for you then, Frank?"

"I need your help. I need you to put some pressure on to cool a situation."

"Frank!"

"This is serious. After all the cash I've thrown at you, you need to suppress this investigation, or whatever it is that's about to happen. Otherwise we have a real problem. I've never come to you with anything this important I promise you."

"Frank, stop."

"Mel Boxton's got someone threatening to kill him because of some anti-piracy shit he's done. I want you on the case and making sure nothing blows up. This is critical to the movie industry. We can't afford to be on the wrong side of this scandal. I need it to disappear."

Senator Freestone sighed. "Frank. I'm sorry. I will have to say no."

"You don't fucking say no to me, do you hear?"

"Frank, we are speaking over an open line." She paused. "A _recorded_ open line, Frank."

"Do I look like I care?"

"I'm sorry."

The Bentley merged smoothly onto the 101 Freeway heading South. Andrea followed, trying to keep a low profile as best her driving skills allowed her. She couldn't tell by the way the car was driving if Dorian had made himself known, or even if anything at all was going on.

Whenever Andrea drove longer distances, her mind would tend to wander. She had a name for the part of her brain that did the driving: autopilot. It left her mind to wander into numerous angles of worry, all of which ended up with Dorian shot with his own gun. That wouldn't be good.

What was Dorian up to? The whole thing seemed ridiculous. Why hadn't he left it as they'd agreed. Let the police pick up the job of mopping up the mess. There was no need for his heroics.

And then why had she let him do it in the first place? She could have stopped him. Now she was stuck in a car, in a chase that would never end well.

Except for, she remembered, what happened to squelch and what she'd seen at her own apartment. Not to mention the police searching for her, Tara, and Colonel and Lieut. She was lucky to be alive. No, the reason she'd let him go ahead was because she wanted to see Mel pay for what he'd done almost as much as Dorian did.

The Bentley turned onto Route 1 towards Malibu. Andrea followed as close as she dared.

At this point surely Dorian had revealed himself and was telling Mel where to go. But from where she was, there was no indication that anything had changed.

After continuing into Malibu, the Bentley turned right, just as the highway was heading back towards the water. The road rose steeply up into the hills. After a number of seemingly random turns, each of which kept their path climbing, they turned onto Horizon Drive. The road soon wound it's way to the top of a scrub brush covered ridge. Rounding a turn, a bright white cylindrical water tower loomed at the end of the road. Andrea felt cold, even in the strong sun. This must be it. Dorian must be guiding Mel here. But how Dorian had found this place, she didn't know. She was sure he was going to try to extract what happened to his family out of Mel. She prayed Dorian knew what he was doing. Mel was almost certainly a world class liar.

The Bentley pulled to a stop and the driver's side door opened followed immediately by the rear left door. A defiant looking Mel Boxton, his hands above his head, got out, closely followed by Dorian, pink gun pointing straight at Mel's head. Andrea slowed, then parked about fifty yards away, and got out.

"Jam the cell phones," Dorian shouted.

She pulled the jammer out of the backpack and pressed the button. Checking the phone in her pocket, she saw she had no signal.

A spectacular view of the ocean stretched out behind Mel by the edge of a steep ravine that cascaded down toward the water. It reminded Andrea how much she loved LA. The thought broke as she focused back to the situation at hand.

She walked closer. Mel's eyes widened. "You? I can't believe it. What are you doing here?" He quickly regained his composure. "This guy's kidnapped me. And he thinks he can just get away with it. He claims I've been involved in some strange conspiracy to kill his family. You know me," he pleaded. "You know I'd never do anything like that. Don't listen to him. He's fooling you. You have to be careful of these kinds of people. They're unhinged. Lots of crazies around."

"Shut up," Dorian said quietly, a strength in his voice Andrea had never heard before.

"He's still claiming he's got nothing to do with this," Dorian said. "I should just shoot him."

Andrea worried that he might. "The police are probably on their way already. We've only just jammed the phones now."

"I know," Dorian said quietly, then turned to Mel. "Now is your time to explain what happened. Or, and it is your choice, to die." His voice cracked at the end of the sentence.

"Ok, ok. Look. I can tell you maybe how things got started." He spread his arms a bit over the top of his head. "Do you mind if I lower my arms? They're hurting."

Dorian nodded assent. "Go on. Quick."

"So I needed to reduce the amount of piracy. I had a contract."

"What does that have to do with killing people?"

"I didn't know anyone was dying. That wasn't me."

"Then who was it?"

Mel shifted uncomfortably. "It must have been Colonel and his guys. They must have gotten out of control."

"You paid them and then blame them for doing what you want. They are just contract killers."

"No, god no. I never wanted them to kill. Actually, they promised to solve the problem. I assumed they had found you all and had a plan for how to intimidate you so that you'd stop stealing movies. That's all I wanted. I wanted them to intimidate you and your friends."

Andrea could see that Mel was warming to his subject, just as she'd seen him do many times before.

"So given they said they could do it, and I had a contract, I thought I owed to my clients to get the job done."

"By killing people." Dorian's face turned bright red.

"First of all, you are one of those movie pirates, right?"

"I uploaded movies for fun."

"Yes, that's what you think. You know you destroy the livelihoods of thousands of people by doing that. That's why you and all your kind have to be stopped. Peoples' jobs are on the line."

"So it's my fault my family was killed. Is that what you're trying to tell me."

"Look, they were going to convince you to stop. No one was going to be killed. I didn't know anything about that. It's a terrible tragedy of course."

"So why are so many people dead?"

"I didn't do it. I didn't know. You know, sometimes things happen. Unintended consequences. I think that's what we're dealing with here. It sounds like you've punished them enough."

"Hmmm."

"So really, you've got no reason to threaten me. I've only hired the wrong people who then went on a rampage. If you let me go, I'll let everyone know you were acting in self defence. I think you've got nothing to worry about."

Dorian looked at Andrea, then pulled out the cell phone. He pressed a button, and the sounds of the conversation the Deep Noders had recorded of Mel telling Colonel to get the job done, played back.

Mel looked pained at first, but confident. But when Mel heard the phrase 'just a few more bullets', he shrank back, his face going pale.

"That wasn't me," he said almost inaudibly.

"That's the number we called to tell you we were coming," Andrea said. "It's you."

"And you killed my family, who had nothing to do with all of this."

"Milan?" Mel whispered, looking even paler.

"Milan."

Andrea could see Dorian fighting himself. His knuckles went white around the grip of the gun.

"Don't shoot, let the police handle it," she said.

Dorian beat his fist against his head. His jaw clenched and unclenched. He looked longingly at Andrea, making her feel like her heart had stopped.

Pain shone from his eyes. Part of her wanted Mel dead just as powerfully Dorian did. She took a deep breath.

She could see Mel drenched in naked fear. And equally, Dorian was only moments away from shooting. She had to try something. "Let him sit in the car for a second. Please. Give me a few seconds to talk."

Dorian nodded ok. "Don't close that door. You're dead if you try that or anything else."

They followed Mel, letting him sit down in the driver's seat. A small worry in Andrea's head wondered if that was actually a good idea, but she really had to bring Dorian down. Otherwise there would be more blood, and this time it wouldn't be possible to keep the police from looking for them.

Dorian stood by the rear door, gun pointed steadily at Mel's head.

"You don't want to kill him," Andrea said. "Right now there's nothing connecting us to this case." She put a hand on his shoulder. The muscles felt like stone.

"Other than Mel. He's a witness," Dorian said.

"Too true. But the more he talks about us the more he's involved in this. He won't talk. If he starts talking about you it proves that he knows about Milan. Watch out!" The car started moving silently; the motor off.

"Fuck." Dorian instinctively grabbed the frame, but couldn't keep hold. He let go and aimed the gun again at Mel who rolled slowly away. Another ten yards and the car came closer and closer to the edge of the road and the steep ravine behind. "What are you doing?" Dorian shouted.

Though the front door was still open, Mel did nothing to jump out of the car or turn the wheel. The tan Bentley rolled onto the verge and accelerated down the steep brush covered slope. Dorian and Andrea ran to the edge, watching dumbfounded. The car bounced once, speed up, then bounced a second time. It flipped front first then rolled sideways, faster and faster. The tail hit rock, bounced the whole car high into the air then landed on the hood with a massive crunch. The rear of the vehicle dropped to the ground and everything stopped. Suddenly a small flame flickered out from under the tires, starting near the back of the car. Within seconds the whole car burst into flames. It looked like a scene straight out of a Melbox Movies blockbuster, Andrea noted in a dispassionate recess of her brain. Like the end of some overproduced car chase.

A wailing scream came from the wreck followed by four of five heavy grunts. The grunts were a sound she'd never before heard in her life, deeper, more frighted, like someone ripping their heart out. Then that faded too.

Andrea put her hand on Dorian's shoulder. "We need to go now. The police will be here soon."

"Ok."

Dorian turned under her outstretched arm and followed her to the rental car. She could feel him shaking.

"I didn't kill him. I wanted to. I almost did. I wanted to shoot his brains out, just like he let those bastards shoot my sister. But then I didn't. Not because I was scared. It was weird. Fear disappeared. I realized that's not the person I am. I'm not a killer. I...more than anything, I didn't want to be a killer. I couldn't do what he would have done to me in an instant if the tables had been turned."

"I know."

"Except back at the house."

"You had to. It was kill or die."

"Yeah." He sighed. "I don't want to ever do that again."

"Me neither."

Dorian grabbed Andrea's hand. "I love you," he said.

She smiled, her heart suddenly full of happiness. "Aren't you too young for me?"

"Not anymore."

"No I guess not."

They were halfway down the hill when they heard the sirens. They began slowly, one simple wail, increasing to a wailing crescendo as some ten police cruisers roared past.

THE END.

## Glossary

**Adcryption** | Buying an ad on an obscure keyword on Google, where the ad only appears at the very bottom of the page, and links to a special website. Once the ad has been clicked on, it disappears forever because it only has budget for one click. A way to leave information hidden in plain sight.  
---|---  
**Bat** | Battle. Argument on IRC where different participants try to put each other down.  
**Cloaking** | Ensuring your identity won't be revealed by your online activities.  
**Convoc** | Hackers compete for getting a movie out the fastest.  
**Deep Node** | A server deep in the pirate movie network that is only known by the 3-5 servers that connect to it and their hacker administrators.  
**Deep Noders** | The loose group of hackers that Dorian is a part of that get and distribute movies illegally over the internet.  
**Flame** | To flame someone, is to write a nasty email, response or forum post, in reply to a perceived mistake by another emailer, responder or forum poster.  
**IRC** | Internet Relay Chat, a popular communication method for hackers.  
**Lurking** | To be in a chat room without participating.  
**MAIG** | Movie Association Industry Group – the lobbying arm of Hollywood.  
**Mid Node** | The lower level servers that are slightly less secure than the deep nodes, where the first version of a pirated movie is pushed before it is placed on the peer to peer networks.  
**Node** | A server that contains movies that seed the peer to peer networks.  
**Noob** | Short for Newbie, which refers to a person who is new to something. Newbies are often flamed for apparently stupid questions.  
**Peer to Peer Network** | A network of computers that connects movies on a hard drive on one computer to other computers where movies are needed (also known as P2P).  
**Pixes** | Short for pixels. This refers to the resolution of the encoded movie and the quality of the color, especially on very fast moving scenes where the movie tends to 'pixilate', showing large blocks instead of fine detail.  
**Pre-Air** | A movie or television show posted before it has gone into distribution or been shown on television.  
**Privoice** | A private voice discussion facility built into chat software. It allows users to speak without other people in the chat room to hear.  
**Rip** | A version of a movie captured from a DVD or other medium and made ready for playing on a computer.  
**SEO** | Search Engine Optimization refers to modifying a web site so that it appears higher up in the search results in search engines such as Google and MSN.  
**Vadering** | changing voice pitch and tone so that it can not be recognized. Used on internet calls where it is easy to insert a filter.
