Daniel Wilson - Robopocalypse

“That’s fine, Fred. We’re sending help now. What kind of weapon do you have?”

“Right. I’m armed, okay? I’m armed and I don’t want to share more than that. And I’m not going to prison, either, you hear? If that’s it, then I’ll kill myself and them and we’ll be done with it. I’ll not be going anywhere tonight, understand? And, ah, I’m not talking anymore.”

“Fred? Can you stay on the line with me?”

“I’ve said my piece, right? I’m hanging up now.”

“Can you stay on the line with me?”

“I’m hanging up now.”

“Fred? Mr. Hale?”

“Catch you in the funny pages, duchess.”

Click .

An office chair creaks as the figure stands up. With a sharp snap, the blinds flip open. Light floods into the room, instantly saturating the webcam. Over the next few seconds, the contrast adjusts automatically. A grainy but discernible image emerges.

The room is filthy: littered with empty soda cans, used phone cards, and dirty clothes. The chair squeaks again as the dark figure drops back into it.

The tough-talking man is actually an overweight teenager wearing a stained T-shirt and sweatpants. His head is shaved. He sprawls back in the beat-up office chair, feet resting on a computer desk. With his left hand, he holds a cell phone to his ear. His right hand is tucked casually under his left elbow.

From the phone, a faint ringing.

A pleasant-sounding man answers. “Hello?”

The teenager speaks in his own shrill, adolescent voice, quivering with nervous excitement.

“Fred Hale?” asks the kid.

“Yes?”

“Is this Fred Hale?”

“That’s right. Who’s this?”

“Take a guess, you ponce.”

“Excuse me? Look here, I don’t know—”

“It’s Lurker. From the phone phreaks chat room.”

“Lurker? What do you want?”

“You thought you could speak to me any way you wanted? That I’m no class? You’re going to be sorry for that. What I want is to teach you a little lesson, Fred.”

“How’s that?”

“I want to hear your wife cry. I want to see your house go up in flames. I want to punish you to the extent of my abilities and then just a bit more. I want to break you today, mate, and read about it in the papers tomorrow.”

“Break me? Oh my god, what a bloody joke. Sod off, you poor little Billy no-mates. Lonely, are you? Be honest. Is that why you’re ringing me? Mum out with the girls and left you all alone?”

“Oh, Fred. You’ve no idea who you’re speaking to. What I’m capable of. I’m as nasty as the day is long and I know every trick in the book. If I want you, mate, I’ll get you.”

“You’re not scaring me, you silly little dimwit. You found my home number? Och, congratulations. Listen to your voice. What are you, maybe fourteen years old?”

“I’m seventeen years old, Fred. And we’ve been speaking for nearly two minutes. Do you know what that means?”

“What are you sodding off about?”

“Do you know what that means?”

“Hold on—someone is at my door.”

“Do you know what that means, Fred? Do you?”

“Shut your mouth, you little bugger. Let me get this.”

The man’s voice is fainter now. His hand must be muffling the phone. He curses. There is a bang and the sound of splintering wood. Fred shouts, surprised. There is a thunk as his phone drops to the ground. Fred’s cries are quickly drowned out by stomping boots and staccato orders shouted by a team of authorized firearms officers: “Get down.” “On your face.” “Shut up.”

In the background, faintly, a woman cries out in fright. Soon, her sobs can’t be heard over the shouts, the glass breaking, and the vicious barking of a dog.

Safe at home, the teenager who calls himself Lurker listens. Eyes closed and head cocked, he absorbs every bit of satisfaction from the phone call.

“ That’s what it means,” Lurker says, to no one in particular.

Then, alone in his filthy room, the teenager silently raises his fists over his head like a champion boxer who has just gone ten rounds and come out on top.

With one thumb, he hangs up the phone.

The next day. Same webcam. The teenager called Lurker is on the phone again, lounging back in the same relaxed position. He balances a soda on his bulging belly and holds the phone to his head, frowning.

“Right, Arrtrad. Then why hasn’t the story played yet?”

“It was fucking brilliant, Lurker. I called the headquarters of the Associated Press and spoofed my phone as the Bombay consulate. I posed as a bloody Indian reporter calling from—”

“That’s great, mate. Fantastic. You want a fucking cookie? Just tell me why there’s a story written about my prank floating on the wire but there’s no headline in my local rag?”

“Right, Lurker. No worries, mate. There’s one thing. In the story, they say it was some kind of computer glitch that must have caused the raid. You were so good that they didn’t even trace it back to a person. They think a machine did it.”

“Bollocks! I’ll ask you one last time, Arrtrad. Where is my story?”

“The story is locked by an editor. After the piece was submitted, it looks like this bloke went in for another edit and then never left the page. So, it’s been stuck in edits for the last twelve hours. Fellow must have forgotten about it.”

“Not likely. Who is he? The editor? What’s his name?”

“I was already on that, see? As the Indian reporter, I got the guy’s office number at his bureau. But when I called, it turned out he never worked there. They don’t know him. It’s a dead end, Lurker. It’s impossible to find him. He doesn’t exist. And the story can’t be picked up off the wire until it comes out from the edits, see?”

“The IP.”

“Oy?”

“Am I stuttering? The fucking IP address. If the cunt suppressing my story is sporting a false identity, then I’ll track him down.”

“Oh my god. Right. I’ll e-mail it to you now. I sure feel sorry for this bloke when you get hold of him, Lurker. You’re going to take him out. You’re the best, mate. There’s no way—”

“Arrtrad?”

“Yes, Lurker?”

“Don’t you ever again tell me that something is impossible. Ever. Again.”

“No worries, mate. You know I didn’t mean to say—”

“I’ll catch you in the funny pages, mate. ”

Click .

The teenager dials a number from memory.

The phone rings once. A young man answers.

“MI5, Security Service. How may I direct your call?”

The teenager speaks in the clipped, self-assured voice of an older man who has made similar calls hundreds of times. “Forensic computing division, please.”

“Of course.”

Clicking, then a professional voice answers. “Forensic computing.”

“Good morning. This is Intelligence Officer Anthony Wilcox. Verification code eight, three, eight, eight, five, seven, four.”

“Authorized, Officer Wilcox. What can I do for you today?”

“Just a simple IP lookup. Numbers are as follows: one twenty-eight, two, fifty-one, one eighty-three.”

“One moment, please.”

About thirty seconds pass.

“Right. Officer Wilcox?”

“Yes?”

“That belongs to a computer in the United States. Some sort of research facility. Actually, that didn’t come easy. There was quite a lot of obfuscation involved. The address bounces globally from a half dozen other places before landing back there. Our machines were only able to track it down because it exhibits a pattern of behavior.”

“What’s that?”

“The person at that address has been editing news articles. Hundreds of them over the past three months.”