Cog Page 7

  Nicholle Ryder of American Hologram took a page from her brother’s book. She has been accused of embezzling twenty billion dollars from the company. Her brother, William, was accused of taking fifty billion earlier today, after their father, Geren, was rushed to a hospital when he collapsed at work. Perim Nestor, American Hologram’s vice president, reported the money missing this evening. Police have put out an APB for her.

  “That bastard! And I haven’t even met him! We can’t go back. We can’t even call the police. Come to think of it, I’m afraid to call my friends. The ones I have left. The police might have them tapped.”

  “I’ve got a friend I can call,” Chris said. “He’ll let us stay for a while.”

  b

  Dried Earth Boulevard, Wind Rider Way, Burnt Mountain Path—names of streets in Columbia. Like disjointed, random sentences in a pakz-induced haze. Nicholle had heard tell Columbia was a city with premier neighborhoods once upon a time, with tree-lined streets and emerald grass. Now it boasted a run-down mall, dilapidated housing, and dirt-filled front yards decorated with rusted cars.

  She and Chris drove through the neighborhoods, passing house after house with peeling paint and broken shutters.

  “Nice place,” she deadpanned.

  “Not everyone’s an heiress,” Chris said.

  She bit down a retort.

  “Left here,” he said.

  She turned on Canyonhead Lane, onto a cracked asphalt street, where trash littered the gutters and cats’ eyes peered from sewers.

  “What’s the address?” she said.

  “Here it is. On the right.”

  She pulled into the driveway. Nicholle shook as she alighted from the driver’s side. Since the shooting, she had put up a front, but now she was crashing. Her legs quavered as she staggered to the front of the car and leaned against the hood. Her heart thumped in her chest, banging in her ears. Chris walked around and put his hand on her shoulder.

  “Hey, you okay?” he said.

  “Just shaken. Guess it’s been longer than I thought since I got shot at. Not quite used to it.”

  “Well, c’mon. Let’s go in.” Chris motioned his head toward the house, a narrow blue frame affair with dead grass in the front lawn and a leaning Bradford pear tree. The style reminded Nicholle of the pictures she had seen of her great-grandmother’s house back in the late 1900s.

  “This one’s your friend’s?”

  “Yeah, Corland. Taught me everything I know about wiho mesh,” Chris said.

  “I thought you were Geneware certified.”

  “I am. But that’s front door. Corland knows the back door, side door, trap door.”

  “Ah. Mm, they still have concrete.” Nicholle noticed the cracks in the driveway and sidewalk. Chris cut her a look, and she raised a hand. “I won’t be a snob. Promise.”

  When they reached the top of the stairs, a bell sounded from inside the door. Beethoven’s Fifth.

  A far-away clanking sounded, then grew louder, coming up the street. A red truck sporting flashing yellow and blue lights hovered up the street, then pulled into the driveway, sounding as if it would fall out of midair. Shaking violently, it barely cleared the mailbox, then landed with a loud bang.

  The door whisked open and a bald-headed man with heavy brows arched over dark eyes emerged. He wore a black viscous sleeveless shirt that varied its texture continuously, but whose sensors were painfully obvious under the shifting material. The man smiled generously when he spied Chris.

  “Chris! You nuch. Long time no see.”

  They hugged like old friends while Nicholle visually scanned the man for weapons.

  “Hey, man, it’s been a while,” Chris said. “Hey, this is Nicholle Ryder. Nicholle, this is L.G.”

  L.G. reached out a hand. Nicholle nodded as she shook it. “Just call me Nick,” she said, slipping into her old persona.

  Chris threw her a look, but she shook her head.

  “So what brings you here? I heard you landed some mahatma job at AmHo. Didn’t think we’d see you again,” L.G. said.

  L.G. walked inside and Chris and Nicholle followed close behind. The hardwood foyer opened to a long hallway with a staircase to the left. Grunge yellow covered the walls, accented with brown marks and small holes. Old-style computers blanketed in a layer of dust crowded the hallway, forcing the pair to walk single file back to the kitchen. Nicholle stepped gingerly along the creaking floor, wondering if it would give way any minute.

  The kitchen lay ahead, mirroring the grunge yellow of the hallway. A microgen oven sat on a burgundy counter littered with dirty dishes. A netfridge stood to the right, displaying its contents onscreen: two cases of beer, an apple, and an expired bottle of French dressing.

  Nicholle forced her face into a mask of tight indifference, even as she longed to call for a biohazard unit.

  “You guys want a beer?” L.G. said.

  “No, I’m not thirsty,” Chris said. He turned. “Nick?” His voice dripped sarcasm.

  “No, thanks, though,” she replied.

  “Cor’s downstairs,” L.G. said.

  “Great,” Chris said.

  Chris opened the door to the basement and started down the stairs with Nicholle in tow. She had expected a dank-looking room with more cracked concrete and perhaps some exposed wires. Instead, the floor was blanketed with rich brown carpet, offset by beige walls decorated with murals of oils by the masters that shifted one to the next: La Primavera by Botticelli, Daniel in the Lions’ Den by Rubens, The Astronomer by Vermeer. They changed in rhythm to pulsating music that sounded throughout the basement.

  A flash of red drew her attention away from the murals toward the middle of the large room. A huge red dragon with two fire-breathing heads clawed at a knight. The knight wielded a broadsword, stabbing the air as it kept missing the weaving dragon’s head. The sword finally found its target and slashed down on one of the dragon’s necks. The head fell off, hemorrhaging blood onto the carpet. The other head spewed a stream of fire at the knight, who raised his shield in defense, letting the fire wash over him. When the dragon’s attack relented, the knight reared up and threw the broadsword at the dragon. Its tail whipped around and batted away the sword, which disappeared at the edge of the carpet. The music grew louder. The dragon leaped forward and landed on the knight, knocking him to the floor, then raised its head with a plangent roar. As the echoes of the roar faded, the music crescendoed and the dragon’s head dove for the knight.

  “No!” Nicholle cried. She was embarrassed as soon as she uttered the word, forgetting for that split second that the scene was not real.

  The dragon froze, the music stopped, and the knight’s armor faded away to reveal a brown-skinned man with hooded eyes and shoulder-length cornrows.

  “Cor. Hey, man,” Chris said. He helped the knight up. Two people’s voices could be heard from one of the back rooms, whose door was ajar. They sounded as if they were arguing.

  “Hey, keep it down back there! Jeeb, Chris,” Cor said. “Look at you. All suited up and shit.” He looked past Chris to Nicholle and smiled. He snapped his finger and the music stopped.

  “Nicholle Ryder, daughter of Geren Ryder, who invented wireless hologram,” Cor said. “On the run from the cops.”

  “Sheesh, news travels,” Nicholle said, slightly taken aback. “But I never stole any money.”

  She changed the subject, gestured toward the murals. “You like art? Interesting choice of paintings in the rotation. Any particular reason?”

  Cor snorted. “That was left here by the previous owner.”

  “Oh. Well, anyway…thanks for letting us in.”

  “Chris here just said you needed a place to stay for a few nights. There’s an extra room on the second floor where you two can stay. Just share groceries and ut
ilities, at least for now. Any long-term stay will have to be negotiated,” Cor said.

  “Oh, we’re not—” she began.

  “Thanks, Cor. We really do appreciate this.” He emphasized the word ‘appreciate’ and raised an eyebrow in Nicholle’s direction. The two voices in the back got louder.

  “…been listening? Oron himself decanonized the animated version before he died. It doesn’t—”

  “Oron can’t decanonize because he didn’t own the rights. What are you, deaf and dumb?”

  “He’s the creator of Colony. His word is law.”

  “He’s dead. The production company gets to decide canon.”

  “Those idiots? The prequels sucked.”

  “Will you two keep it down?” Cor said. The fighting ceased, replaced by various blips and bleeps from a gaming program.

  “They go through that every week,” Cor said.

  “What are they arguing over?” Nicholle said.

  “The show, Colony,” Chris said.

  “I’ve heard of that. But isn’t it about thirty years old?”

  “It began thirty years ago, but there’s been so many incarnations, it’s hard to keep track. Some people want to accept everything as part of the Colony universe, others only what they like. It’s been the subject of many lively debates,” Chris said.

  “Hm.” She didn’t quite get the point of the argument. To each his own. “Oh, while it’s on my mind, let me pay you for some groceries.” She remembered the netfridge display, decided she wouldn’t survive long on beer and salad dressing, and wondered if they delivered groceries to this part of town.

  “Do they deliver here?”

  “Yeah, but you hafta go down to the corner to get it,” Cor said.

  Nicholle tapped open a menu. She’d transfer five thousand for the time being. A list of banks glowed down the right-hand side. She picked the National Bank of Kenya.

  Zero balance.

  “What?” she said.

  “What’s wrong?” Chris said.

  “Uh, nothing. Probably a glitch.” Perhaps the museum had been late in sending out the payroll, or perhaps Riklo had put in her Family Leave as a separation. She tried again to request a balance but the result was the same. Then she tried to access Zurich Nationale. Zero.

  Heat bloomed her face and traveled down her neck. It couldn’t be. What if—? She accessed the savings account. Zero. The mutual fund account. Zero. Her fingers blurred in motion as she tapped out the various sequences to access the accounts—Swiss numbered account, fictitiously named account, wingspread investment accounts, IRA, overnight repurchases. All zero. Her stocks were still there, but no bank would lend her money against those. She was flat broke.

  Her mouth dried, a hard stickiness that cleaved her lips to her teeth. Her legs weakened and buckled. She would’ve fallen to the floor if Chris hadn’t caught her up by the arm.

  “Hey, you okay?” he said.

  She said nothing. The last time she’d gone broke, it had driven her back to her brother, forced her to grovel. And she vowed she’d never again be in a position to beg him, or anyone, for help. Chris helped her over to the couch and sat beside her.

  “Nicholle. Talk to me.”

  “Hey, she OD?” Cor said.

  “No,” Chris said. “I don’t know what’s the matter.”

  “There’s a free clinic down the road.”

  “Thanks. I think she’ll be okay. Nicholle.” Chris tapped her cheek with his hand. “Nicholle.”

  “I’ll leave you two alone,” Cor said. “And go tell these guys what canon really is.”

  “Knock yourself out,” Chris said.

  Even when she was on the street, her father had diverted her accounts, but left some money there. A fallback. A crutch. But what would she do now? The only thing she had left was stock. And she couldn’t sell it to anyone except her father or brother.

  “I’m broke,” she said.

  “You’re what?”

  “I’m broke.” It had been kind of him to bring her here, in spite of everything. He could have abandoned her, told her she was on her own, instead of risking his own life to help her. He at least deserved the truth.

  “What are you talking about? You’re rich. You have money.”

  “Not anymore. All my accounts have a zero balance. Perim, I’m guessing, wiped them clean.”

  “Are you sure? I mean you accessed the right—”

  “Of course I’m sure. I can’t even afford a fleabag motel.” She fell back onto the couch, sinking into the plastimold, sinking into the surrealness that was her life.

  “I’ll check my accounts.”

  “Good luck,” she said, sarcastically.

  He tapped, punched, scrolled, and poked, but he kept repeating curse words, which told Nicholle that Perim had cleaned him out, too.

  “He’s good, this Perim. Did I tell you he was my brother?”

  Chris looked at her as if she had sprouted another head.

  “It’s true. The family lawyer told me. Apparently, my father had an affair decades ago. My father just found out this week Perim was his. Probably why he made him vice president. But I’m wondering if my father knew about Perim all along and just didn’t want to deal with it. He never really was good at family.”

  “Nicholle.”

  “And now we’re both broke. I mean, I have about fifty thousand in cash in my bag, but how long will that last?”

  “Nicholle, we’ve got four hackers in this house. We can back door Cog and find out where your money is. Or at least get back some of it.”

  Nicholle sat up. “You serious?”

  “I’m sure Perim changed the security protocols, but I know the system administrator rules for the wall, the algorithms for ciphers, and of course, I left several back doors to Cog.” He assumed a self-satisfied look.

  “I knew I brought you along for a reason.”

  Chris took her hand in his and squeezed. “It’s been a rough night. You okay?”

  “I’ve been chased by a killer, had my friends killed, was framed, and was robbed blind by my own vice president. It was easier on the street. When I was with Tuma, as least I knew where I stood.”

  “Wait right here.”

  Chris released her hand and headed to the room in the back. He knocked on the door. “Challenge,” he said. The door flew open and the anxious face of Cor appeared, a wide grin on his face.

  “Seriously?” Cor said.

  “Yeah, get your ass out here, nuch,” Chris said.

  Cor and the two people who had been arguing over Colony scrambled out of the room. “Nicholle, this is Arn and his girlfriend, Trenar,” Chris said.

  “Jeeb,” she said, repeating the greetings she’d heard earlier.

  Trenar sported long bright red hair and heavy eye shadow that matched her pink miniskirt. Arn’s hair matched hers in length, only his was jet black. His eyes were deep brown with red veins radiating from the pupil, as if he’d been up all night.

  “So what’s going on?” Arn said.

  “Nicholle’s and my accounts were wiped clean by an AmHo VP. We have to either find a way to get our funds back, or embezzle some from the company,” Chris said.

  Arn whistled. “Ain’t gonna be easy. Oh, but you know the codes, right Chris?”

  “I know the codes, but I’m sure they’ve been changed. And they’ve got military-quality sentinels. Although the death spike’s been neutralized.”

  “Well let’s batter up and see what we can see,” Cor said.

  “Nicholle’s with me, mesh baby TA,” Chris said.

  Chris, Cor, Arn, and Trenar reached for their fryers and pulled them down over their heads. They were supposed to provide added focus of synaptic activity and protecti
on against transmitted viruses. Chris handed one to Nicholle, who eyed it suspiciously. She had never worn one before, mostly out of fear. Rumors of fried brains.

  “Go on, it’s safe. They’ve improved since the first generation.” Chris winked at her.

  She stuck the fryer on her head and waited. The others gathered around in a circle, calling up menus in the midst of them, visible to the others. Chris guided her to a position in back of and slightly to the left of him.

  “Follow my movements and try to keep up. If you can’t, just poke around and see what you can find. Sometimes dumb luck happens in a sortie.”

  Nicholle nodded and called up her menu, the source code displayed on the right-hand side.

  “We’ll each try a different node on the grid. Chris, security, Arn, accounting, Trenar, human resources, I’ll take R and D. And on my mark. Mark,” Cor said.

  Fingers raced in mid-air, moving over lightup commands as they activated and inserted programs and blackholes, drawing the sentinels in toward them and away from the inserted programs. Nicholle had seen Chris do it on more than a few occasions, and although she knew the strategy, she didn’t have much idea as to its execution.

  On each menu, the blackholes wound in a spiral, imprinting black curlicues on the source code. Sentinels rushed to the code, their tails trying to sweep away the invaders. Hidden programs burrowed behind protocols, trying to find weaknesses, an unshielded transom, anything that would allow itself to become part of the system.

  Nicholle tried hard to keep up with Chris, but it was impossible for her to mirror his movements. He was too fast. The others were fast, as well, calling up and discarding systems in the time it took for the brain to register a stubbed toe.

  She decided to hang back and search around where she was, namely the main node. A story popped up, even as the purple specks filtered down.