Ryan Somma - The Spiraling Web

"What?" Devin gasped, bewildered, and remembered to push the intercom button, "What did you find?"

"A law enforcement record," Patrick announced proudly, "from almost twenty years ago. A juvenile offense for one Almerick Lim, AKA Necromancer was recorded in San Francisco for Credit Card fraud."

"We're not looking for an avatar named Necromancer though," Devin was frustrated, punchy, "I told you, it's Flatline."

"I know that," Patrick sounded defensive, "Like I said, it seems he uses multiple avatars. Necromancer is one of them. He also goes by EvilDead, Reanimator, MorticianOne, Sexton, Post-Mortem, and GraveDigger."

"I'm seeing a pattern here," Devin muttered.

"Yeah," Patrick gave a short laugh, "WTF?"

"How did you find that?" Devin asked, "I thought juvenile convictions were private."

"Free Information Network," he replied, "It beats doing the footwork yourself."

Devin nodded, of course. The Free Information Network was a loosely organized club of hacker's from around the world like the Legion of Discord who believed in total freedom of information. They published corporate salaries, political donations, criminal records, and anything else proprietary they could get a hold of. No sooner would one push stolen data to the Web then the International Web Authority would shut them down, but then it was too late. The information was out. All evidence suggested the Network was comprised entirely of individuals operating solo, decentralized, attributing their actions to the Network out of idealism rather than actual membership. The Free Information Network was a cause to fight for, not an organization to follow.

"Can you give me a printout of the record?" Devin asked and Patrick stiffened.

"I don't think that's such a good idea," Patrick cautioned, "You get caught with this information, you go to jail."

"I know," Devin said.

"For a long time," Patrick emphasized.

"I need the information," Devin pressed, "I have to stop him."

"What are you going to do?" Patrick sounded skeptical, "Go over to his house and beat him up? That won't stop his computer virus."

"No," Devin responded, "I'm going to take it to the police."

"What?" Patrick exclaimed, "Are you on meta-amphetamines? You can't take this to the police! You'll go to jail! And me too!"

"No you won't," Devin promised, "I appreciate what you're doing for me and I'm not going to turn you in. I'll tell the police I found the record online myself."

"I still don't understand why you can't just look this up yourself," Patrick muttered.

"Because he won't let me online, I told you that."

"How?" Patrick asked, incredulous, "How can he keep you offline?"

"I don't know. Look, please get me a hardcopy of that document. I promise you won't be mentioned," Devin pleaded.

"All right," Patrick sighed, "but I want something in return. What can you trade for it?"

"Whatever you want," Devin answered, "I've got plenty of pirated software, movies, music, porn-"

"Porn," Patrick cut him off, "I want gobs of porn."

"You got it," Devin replied coolly, "I'll upload it to your server when I get back online." Pornography was the universal currency of the information world. Devin didn't care for it on principle. It was an evolutionary maladaptation to become aroused by virtual sex, where there was no chance of reproduction.

"Okay, give me a second," Patrick went silent, his gloved hands working with invisible objects in front of him. He stopped, "That's odd."

Devin stood up, alarmed "What's odd?"

"It's gone," Patrick sounded confused, "The record's gone."

"Patrick, log out," Devin told him, panic edging into his voice.

"That's really weird," Patrick continued, "Even if the site went down I should still be able to print out a hardcopy. I can't even find the document in my cache."

"Patrick," Devin raised his voice, emphasizing each word, "You have to log out now. It's Flatline. He's onto you. If you stay online he'll get to you."

"That's ridiculous," Patrick dismissed him, "How could someone even detect me, much less-" Patrick stiffened suddenly, and collapsed to the floor, convulsing.

"Patrick?" Devin reached down and ripped the helmet off. Patrick shrieked and went still.

Devin stood still, watching Patrick and holding his breath. His heart raced as he considered the boy, whose head was tilted back awkwardly and his eyes rolled halfway up into his head. He convulsed slightly every few seconds and drool slowly oozed from the corner of his mouth.

Then Devin heard the sirens and felt a wave of relief. It was law enforcement, not Flatline. They had blasted Patrick with a strobe feed to send him into a seizure that would detain him until they could get here. Then Devin's relief was replaced with dread. They were going to arrest him.

Devin swung the bedroom door open and bolted down the hallway. He slipped on the stairs and skidded on his butt all the way down to the first floor. From there he stumbled through the foyer and through the front door. After a quick dash around the street corner, he forced himself to resume a normal pace as several law enforcement vehicles bearing the Black Water Security logo flew past him.

Only then did he check his monocle for the local area again. It was hopeless. Devin simply didn't know how things worked out here. Any moment those Black Water officers were going to get the video stream of him fleeing the house. Once they sold his face to the other law enforcement companies, they would patch it into the face recognition systems and Devin would have nowhere to run.

"Hey buddy," Devin jumped back from the shabbily-dressed man approaching him.

What's wrong with him? Devin thought to himself, "Are you okay?"

"I'm trying to get enough money for a sammich," the man held out a weathered hand. "Could you spare me 42-cents?"

"Sure, I guess," Devin pulled out his debit card and looked at it. "I'll transfer the money to your account."

The man looked confused and off-balance. He said, "Naw. I ain't got no account. I need money. You know a quarter, a dime, a nickel, and two-pennies... Or four dimes and two-pennies... or two-dimes, four-nickels, and-"

Devin stared at the man and got an idea. He held out his debit card, "I'll trade you this for your hat, scarf and coat. There's enough money to buy you all new clothes and a sandwich on it. My allowance was credited today."

The old man took the debit card and looked at the balance. His eyes widened, "It's a deal!"

"Great," Devin smiled, "Do you know a place without cameras where I can change into them?"

Sinking into the mound of trash bags, Devin peeked over the dumpster's edge to make sure the coast was clear. There were no signs of pursuit. He nestled down into the plastic, pulling a few bags over his legs for warmth. He then pulled up the collar of his coat and tucked his arms into the sleeves. He was thankful for the hat, but could do without the rank odor of smoke and bile the scarf carried. His heart jumped once when he saw flashing blue lights, but the patrol car passed silently by in the dark and he tried to relax.

His stomach grumbled and he frowned at it. All of this walking, running, climbing, and other physical nonsense was consuming far too much energy. He only needed a couple of snacks a day to keep him going online. Eating, pooping, eating, pooping-what was the point?

Needing a distraction, he placed his monocle over his right eye and browsed its local folders. There was the Library of Congress, but Devin's mind was focused on more utilitarian softwares. He found a folder labeled "Flatline Warez 2.0," these were the programs Flatline had shared with him during their friendship. He quickly slipped the disc into his monocle and ran an inventory of its contents. Among the credit-card number hackers, software crackers, and phone-card swiping programs were three avatar-specific programs. This programming code was incomprehensibly complex, but filled with notes Flatline had written in absurdly erudite technical jargon for no other reason, Devin suspected, than to illustrate his superior intellect to anyone who might read them.