Nate Kenyon - Day One

Conn.ect, Inc., was on the seventh floor. Hawke took the stairs.

As he entered the suite, out of breath from the climb, the small reception area was silent. Beyond the empty desk, a little Roomba robot vacuum was marking lines across the carpet. He stepped carefully around the busily humming robot and into Conn.ect’s main room, a wide-open space with rows of workstations lined up before floor-to-ceiling windows. Only two people were visible, one of them at his desk, peering ogle eyed into duplicate glowing screens, the other some kind of office repairman bent over one of the brand-new, ridiculously expensive copy machines that could do everything but make lattes. It had been acting up yesterday like a temperamental thoroughbred. Neither of the men glanced up when Hawke entered. The lack of activity was strange; although the company had no major clients yet, they were busy developing proprietary security software, and every other day this week the office had been humming by this hour, with programmers shouting ideas back and forth, writing on the digital whiteboard and working at their computers and tablets.

Weller always arrived early and was probably holed up in his office, where he often worked alone with the door closed. Hawke suspected he sometimes slept there. He still hoped to get that hour with Weller a bit later in the morning before the network stress test demo. He’d already interviewed several employees about their boss; they described him as a visionary—a demanding, secretive and strange genius who seemed to be wound tighter every day. But Hawke had much more to do.

Right now you should be gathering your notes and working out some kind of story angle. Except he didn’t have enough yet to know what that would be. Hawke dropped his laptop at a small desk against the wall, the place Weller had given him to use during his stay. Where was everyone? Something was going on; raised voices came from the conference room in back.

He found a small cluster of people standing around the flat-screen TV, watching a growing throng of protestors around the Wall Street bull in Bowling Green Park and spilling up the side streets. The Occupy Wall Street protests had nearly shut down the city in the past, but they had remained mostly peaceful. This was different. The crowd was angrier, more violent, chanting and holding up signs demanding a revolution. And it looked like they were about to start one.

“Must be over a thousand of them,” someone muttered. The crowd surged forward and a policeman swung a baton at a young man’s arm. A female reporter, dressed smartly, with thick makeup and expertly done hair, stood behind the throng, nearly shouting into her microphone as the anchor asked her to describe the scene. She looked terrified and about to bolt like a young calf at the smell of the slaughterhouse. The cops seemed badly outnumbered, pushed back as they raised riot shields and tried to hold their ground. Someone else threw a bottle, which shattered across a shield; the cops waded in again.

“Twitter,” Anne Young said, her round glasses reflecting the light as she glanced at Hawke and then back at the screen. “A call to action sent out this morning from someone supposedly tied to the group Anonymous, an ‘Admiral Doe.’ Take over the streets, shut down businesses, fight authority. They want blood. And the police are giving it to them.”

Young was a twenty-four-year-old developer Weller had introduced to Hawke when he’d first arrived. She was Asian, fresh faced and just out of grad school, and she appeared to idolize Weller; she tended to spend time in his office with the door closed. Hawke found her stoic, if a bit naïve, and assumed Weller was sleeping with her.

Hawke thought about what Brady had said on the phone about Anonymous: I hear they have a hand in the mess you’ve gotten yourself tangled up in this morning, tweeting about spontaneous rallies and calls to action, gumming up the public transit system. It was more than that, if what Young said was true. Hawke thought about his old friend Rick again, and a faceless army of black hats brought together by nothing more than a common goal, a revolution born out of the loins of Net culture that would change the world. An ambitious idea, to be sure, and one Hawke had bought into once himself. But that felt like a lifetime ago.

Admiral Doe was clearly an echo of Commander X, a hacker who had burst onto the world stage several years ago after posting online videos and participating in a number of prominent cyberattacks. The self-proclaimed leader of the People’s Liberation Front, a hacker collective aligned with Anonymous, Commander X had been identified as a homeless man from California who was arrested for taking down government Web sites before escaping to Canada.

Whoever Admiral Doe was, he or she had sent out a bulletin to every hacker in the world with this call to action:

We do not forgive. We do not forget. Expect us.

“I can’t understand it,” Young said, her face impassive, unreadable, still watching as another cop swung a baton. “Why would they respond to this? They’re being used to incite the violence. It’s not going to get them anywhere, at least not where they want.”

Of course she doesn’t understand, Hawke thought. All her life, she’d probably been a rule follower, straight edged and rigid. She was bright and motivated but probably raised to do as she was told. A person like that couldn’t ever imagine the alternative.

“You okay?” Young said, watching him now. He nodded, thinking about the fight with his wife, about another set of rules, those around relationships. Happy wife, happy life, Brady had said once. They had drifted outside the tent at Hawke’s wedding reception to catch some air. Brady was drunk and Hawke was, too, and Brady’d probably been joking in the way he tended to, but the phrase had stuck with Hawke through the years. He’d been angry lately about what happened at the Times and taking it out on Robin; he’d come home last night and had a drink, and that turned into several, and after Thomas had gone to bed they had gotten into it about money. Robin’s father had helped them get their lives started, move to Jersey and find a place to live. Hawke would never have been able to do it alone; journalism didn’t pay enough, and life near the city was expensive. Hawke had no family money, no safety net. But they had agreed to have children, and he had begged Robin to trust in him.

Now he had dug them an even deeper hole, and they both knew it. Last night was one of the worst fights they’d ever had. Robin was distraught over the thought of them being unable to make their rent payments. Robin’s father had offered to help again, but Hawke didn’t want to take it. He wanted to provide for his family, something his own father had never been able to do. But a boy who needed special attention, and another baby on the way, made going on their own impossible. Even if the Network story worked out, it would hardly cover more than two months’ bills.

They were going to have to move to a cheaper place, and even then, he thought, it wouldn’t be enough.

“Our local anarchist,” Brady said, introducing him. Brady was dressed as Bill Clinton, Brady’s favorite president. They were at a costume party at Brady’s place, Robin in a red, low-cut dress looking like she belonged at a senator’s fund-raiser and Hawke in his ratty jeans and secondhand button-down and socks with holes in the heels. Hipster cool that was half costume, half his regular weekend outfit. He knew he looked good enough, women liked him and he liked them right back, but this one was another species entirely.

“John’s a writer and part of the hacker underground; it’s all very secretive and exciting. I don’t suppose you’ll like each other much; Robin enjoys the civilized world.”