Bleeding Edge - Pynchon Thomas (список книг .TXT) 📗

“Sounds like an exploit in the wind.”

“Maybe.”

“One brush with Rikers isn’t enough already, now you’re planning denial-of-service attacks?”

“Way too good for Ice. If every company with an asshole in charge deserved a DOS hit? be nothing left of the tech sector. But here, let me share with you my latest invention, this is like a hors d’oeuvre.”

He shows her on his laptop. Seems he has recently launched the Vomit Kurser, named in homage to the ill-regarded Comet Cursor of the nineties and developed in partnership with a bruja from one of his old neighborhoods. Via eye-catching but fake pop-up ads promising health, wealth, happiness &c, the Kurser will surreptitiously lay old-school curses on selected targets—click in once, your ass is grass. Somehow, as the Latina sorceress has explained to Eric, the Internet as it turns out exhibits a strange affinity for the dynamics of curses, especially when written in the more ancient languages predating HTML. Through the uncountable cross-motives of the cyberworld, the fates of unreflective click-happy users are altered for the worse—systems crash, data are lost, bank accounts are looted, all of which being computer-related you might expect, but then there are also the realworld inconveniences, such as zits, unfaithful spouses, intractable cases of Running Toilet, providing the more metaphysically inclined further evidence that the Internet is only a small part of a much vaster integrated continuum.

“This will bring down Ice’s system? He’s Jewish, he doesn’t know from Santeria, this sounds over toward the woowoo end of the spectrum even for you, Eric.”

“You may chill, it’s not the main event, only a trailer, meantime not only have I been corrupting his malloc(3), I’ve turned it out trickin in the street, years of therapy before it’s straight again.”

“Please just watch your ass, I think I saw the movie, it ends on a sort of vindictive note. Something in the tail credits about ‘is currently serving a life sentence in the federal pen’?”

She hasn’t seen this look on his face before. Scared but resolute also. “There’s no Escape key here. No way back to Game Shark hex cheats and them high-spirited li’l overflow stunts, no more happy times, now the only way left for me to go is deeper.”

Unhappy kid. She wants to touch him but is unsure of where. “Sounds like that could be tricky.”

“All good. Do you have any idea how many large-cap bad guys there are on Ice’s client list? I can at least show other hackers and crackers how to get into some useful places. Be a outlaw guru.”

“And if some of those colleagues turn out to be already bent? and shop you to the feds?”

He shrugs. “So I’ll have to be a little more careful than I was back in my script-kiddie days.”

“Someday, Eric, they’re going to have the time machine, we’ll be able to book tickets online, we’ll all get to go back, maybe more than once, and rewrite it all the way it should have gone, not hurt the ones we hurt, not make the choices we made. Forgive the loan, keep the lunch date. Of course, at first tickets’ll be an arm and a leg, till the product-development costs get amortized . . .”

“Maybe there’ll be a frequent-time-traveler program, where you get bonus years? I could pile up a lot of those.”

“Please. You’re too young to have that many regrets.”

“Hey, I’m even feeling bad about us.”

“Us, what.”

“That night after we got back from Joie de Beavre.”

“A warm memory, Eric. I don’t think it’s in the criminal code yet, foot-related infidelity? Nah.”

“Did you ever tell Horst?”

“Somehow the moment has never been right. Or to put it another way, why? Have you mentioned it to Driscoll?”

“Nah, pretty sure I didn’t . . .”

“‘Pretty sure’ you . . .” Realizing she’s slipped her shoes off and has been rubbing her feet together. At least, you’d say, wistfully.

“Can I ask you something else?”

“Maybe . . .”

“You know, there really are these little tiny people who come out from under the radiator with . . . with little brooms, and dustpans, and—”

“Eric, no. I don’t want to hear about it.”

32

Next morning Reg Despard calls from over the western horizon. “Watching the Space Needle as we speak.”

“What’s it doing?”

“The Macarena. Are you OK? I would’ve called sooner, right after the towers, but I was on the road, and then when I got finally out here, I was house hunting and—”

“Just as well you got away in time.”

“Came on the car radio, I thought about hooking a U-turn and heading back. Didn’t, just kept going. Survivor’s guilt here.”

“Interstate hypnosis. Don’t overthink it, Reg. You’re out there now in Riot Grrrl country with the wholesome evergreen trees and charcoal briquettes pretending to be coffee and whatever, right? please. Release yourself.”

“All I see is what’s on the news, but it looks grim back there.”

“Lot of grieving, everybody’s still nervous, cops stopping anybody they want to, looking through backpacks—about what you’d expect. But in terms of attitude, life goes on, in the street nothing’s too different. Did you find work yet?”

Hesitation. “I’m temping at Microsoft.”

“Oof.”

“Yeah, the dress code takes some getting used to, all the breathing apparatus and stormtrooper gear . . .”

“Seen your kids yet?”

“Trying not to push anything, but . . .”

“You’re from New York, they’re expecting pushy.”

“Got invited over to dinner last night. Hubby did the cooking. Bouillabaisse, local ingredients. Some kind of Yakima Valley chenin blanc. Gracie still has that awesome-new-man-in-her-life glow, like I need to see that. But the girls . . . I can’t tell you . . . They’re quieter than I remember. Not sullen quiet, no scowls, no lower lips, once or twice they even smiled. Maybe even at me, couldn’t be sure.”

“Reg, I hope this works out.”

“Listen. Maxine.” Uh-oh. “This phone line we’re on, is it—”

“If it ain’t, we’re all doomed. What.”

“That DVD.”

“Interesting footage. One or two shots you maybe could’ve used a spirit level . . .”

“I keep waking up at three A.M.”

“It could’ve been anything, Reg.”

“Those guys on the roof, those A-rabs in that closed room at hashslingrz. Training sessions. Had to be.”

“If Gabriel Ice is playing a part in some large-scale secret operation, then . . . you’re suggesting . . .”

“Even though the Stinger crew look like private-sector mercs, it would still have to be with encouragement from higher levels of U.S. government.”

“Eric thinks so too. And March Kelleher, well, goes without saying. You’re OK with her posting the video?”

“That was always the idea, I tried to spread around ten, twenty DVDs hopin somebody with the bandwidth would post one at least. Someday there’ll be a Napster for videos, it’ll be routine to post anything and share it with anybody.”

“How could anybody make money doing that?” Maxine can’t quite figure.

“There’s always a way to monetize anything. Not my department. I’m happy enough with the exposure.”

“Build up your traffic, hope that network effects kick in, yes, sounds like an all-too-familiar sad but true business plan.”

“As long as the material gets out there. Long as somebody puts in some HTML that’ll make it easy to repost.”

“You really think Bush’s people are behind this.”

“You don’t?”

“I’m just a fraud examiner. Bush, don’t get me started. The Arab angle, I have these Jewish reflexes, so I have to work to avoid paranoia on that subject also.”

“Hear ya. It’s all good in the brotherhood, don’t intend no disrespect to nobody, too busy workin on my new packaging, Reg 2.0, nonviolent, West Coast and stress free.”