An Apple for the Creature

After leaving Davidoff, Trey had gone to see his friend Herschel and the crew of geeks at the computer lab. These were the kinds of uber-nerds who once would have never gotten laid and never moved out of their mothers’ basements—stereotypes all the way down to the Gears of War T-shirts and cheap sneakers. Now, guys like that were rock stars. They got laid. They all had jobs waiting for them after graduation. Most of them wouldn’t bother with school after they had a bachelor’s because the industry wanted them young and raw and they wanted them now. These were the guys who hacked ultra-secret corporate computer systems just because they were bored. Guys who made some quick cash on the side writing viruses that they sold to the companies who sold anti-virus software.

Trey explained the situation to them.

They thought it was funny.

They thought it was cool.

They told him half a dozen ways they could do it.

“Even Word docs on a laptop that’s turned off?” demanded Trey. “I thought that was impossible.”

Herschel laughed. “Impossible isn’t a word, brah, it’s a challenge.”

“What?”

“It’s the Titanic,” said Herschel.

“Beg pardon?”

“The Titanic. The unsinkable ship. You got to understand the mindset.” Herschel was an emaciated runt with nine-inch hips and glasses you could fry ants with. At nineteen he already held three patents and his girlfriend was a spokesmodel at gaming shows. “Computers—hardware and software—are incredibly sophisticated idiots, feel me? They can only do what they’re programmed to do. Even A.I. isn’t really independent thinking. It’s not intuitive.”

“Okay,” conceded Trey. “So?”

“So, what man can invent, man can fuck up. Look at home security systems. As soon as the latest unbreakable, unshakeable, untouchable system goes on the market someone has to take it down. Not wants to . . . has to.”

“Why?”

“Because it’s there, brah. Because it’s all about toppling the arrogant assholes in corporate America who make those kinds of claims. Can’t be opened, can’t be hacked, can’t be sunk. Titanic, man.”

“Man didn’t throw an iceberg at the ship, Hersch.”

“No, the universe did that because it’s a universal imperative to kick arrogant ass.”

“Booyah,” agreed the other hackers, bumping fists.

“So,” said Trey slowly, “you think someone’s hacking our research because he can?”

Herschel shrugged. “Why else?”

“Not to try to sell it?”

Some of the computer geeks laughed. Herschel said, “Sell that magic hocus-pocus shit and you’re going to make—what? A few grand? Maybe a few hundred grand in the long run after ten years busting your ass?”

“At least that much,” Trey said defensively.

“Get a clue, dude. You got someone hacking a closed system on a laptop and changing unopened files in multiple languages. That’s real magic. A guy like that wouldn’t wipe his ass with a hundred grand. All he has to do is file a patent on how he did it and everyone in corporate R and D will be lining up to blow him. Guy like that wouldn’t answer the phone for any offer lower than the middle seven figures.”

“Booyah!” agreed the geek chorus.

“Sorry, brah,” said Herschel, clapping Trey on the shoulder, “but this might not even be about your magic spell bullshit. You could just be a friggin’ test drive.”

Trey left, depressed and without a clue of where to go next. The profile of his unknown enemy did not seem to fit anyone on the project. Bird and Jonesy were as good with computers as serious students and researchers could be, but at the end of the day they were really only Internet savvy. They would never have fit in with Herschel’s crowd. Anthem knew everything about word processing software but beyond that she was in unknown territory. Kidd was no computer geek, either. Although, Trey mused, Kidd could afford to hire a geek. Maybe even a really good geek, one of Herschel’s crowd. Someone who could work the kind of sorcery required to break into Anthem’s computer.

But . . . how to prove it?

God, he wished he really could go and rip Kidd’s heart out. If the little snot even had one.

The sirens were getting louder and the noise annoyed him. Every night it was the same. Football jocks and the frat boys with their perpetual parties, as if belly shots and beer pong genuinely mattered in the cosmic scheme of things. Neanderthals.

Without even meaning to do it, Trey’s feet made a left instead of a right and carried him down Sansom Street toward Kidd’s apartment.

He suddenly stopped walking and instantly knew that no confrontation with Kidd was going to happen that night.

The entire street was clogged with people who stood in bunches and vehicles parked at odd angles.

Police vehicles. And an ambulance.

“Oh . . . shit,” he said.

—5—

Tearing out Kidd’s heart was no longer an option.

According to every reporter on the scene, someone had already beaten him to it.

—6—