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"0wnz0red" | 1, 2, 3, 4, 5, 6, 7, 8 "How far did you get?" "I didn't even make it out of the state. They caught me in Sebastopol, took me off the Greyhound in cuffs with six guns on me all the time." "The disks?" "They needed to be sure that you got rid of all the backups, that there wasn't anything stashed online or in a safe-deposit box, that they had the only copy. It was their idea." "Did you really get shot?" "I really got shot." "I hope it really fucking hurt." "It really fucking hurt." "Well, good." The door opened and Special Agent Fredericks appeared with a big brown bag of Frappuccinos and muffins. He passed them around. "My people tell me that you write excellent documentation, Mr. Swain." "What can I say? It's a gift." "And they tell me that you two have written some remarkable code." "Another gift." "We always need good coders here." "What's the job pay? How are the bennies? How much vacation?" "As much as you want, excellent, as long as you want, provided we approve the destinations first. Once you're cleared." "It's not enough," Murray said, upending twenty ounces of West Coast frou-frou caffeine delivery system on the carpeting. "Come on, Murray," Liam said. "Don't be that way." Special Agent Fredericks fished in the bag and produced another novelty coffee beverage and handed it to Murray. "Make this one last, it's all that's left." "With all due respect," Murray said, feeling a swell of righteousness in his chest, in his thighs, in his groin, "go fuck yourself. You don't 0wn me." "They do, Murray. They 0wn both our asses." Liam said, staring into the puddle of coffee slurry on the carpet. Murray crossed the room as fast as he could and smacked Liam, open palm, across the cheek. "That will do," Special Agent Fredericks said, with surprising mildness. "He needed smacking," Murray said, without rancor, and sat back down. "Liam, why don't you wait for us in the hallway?" - - - - - - - - - - - - "You came around," Liam said. "Everyone does. These guys 0wn." "I didn't ask to share a room with you, Liam. I'm not glad I am. I'd rather not be reminded of that fact, so shut your fucking mouth before I shut it for you." "What do you want, an apology? I'm sorry. I'm sorry I infected you, I'm sorry I helped them catch you. I'm sorry I fuxored your life. What can I say?" "You can shut up anytime now." "Well, this is going to be a swell living-arrangement." The room was labeled "Officers' Quarters," and it had two good, firm queen-sized mattresses, premium cable, two identical stainless-steel dressers, and two good ergonomic chairs. There were junction boxes beside each desk with locked covers that Murray supposed housed Ethernet ports. All the comforts of home. Murray lay on his bed and pulled the blankets over his head. Though he didn't need to sleep, he chose to. - - - - - - - - - - - - For two weeks, Murray sat at his assigned desk, in his assigned cube, and zoned out on the screen-saver. He refused to touch the keyboard, refused to touch the mouse. Liam had the adjacent desk for a week, then they moved him to another office, so that Murray had solitude in which to contemplate the whirling star-field. He'd have a cup of coffee at 10:30 and started to feel a little sniffly in the back of his nose. He ate in the commissary at his own table. If anyone sat down at his table, he stood up and left. They didn't sit at his table. At 2PM, they'd send in a box of warm Krispy Kremes, and by 3PM, his blood-sugar would be crashing and he'd be sobbing over his keyboard. He refused to adjust his serotonin levels. On the third Monday, he turned up at his desk at 9AM as usual and found a clipboard on his chair with a ball-point tied to it. Discharge papers. Non-disclosure agreements. Cross-your-heart swears on pain of death. A modest pension. Post-It "sign here" tabs had been stuck on here, here and here. - - - - - - - - - - - - The junkie couldn't have been more than fifteen years old. She was death-camp skinny, tracked out, sitting cross-legged on a cardboard box on the sidewalk, sunning herself in the thin Mission noonlight. "Wanna buy a laptop? Two hundred bucks." Murray stopped. "Where'd you get it?" "I stole it," she said. "Out of a convertible. It looks real nice. One-fifty." "Two hundred," Murray said. "But you've got to do me a favor." "Three hundred, and you wear a condom." "Not that kind of favor. You know the Radio Shack on Mission at 24th? Give them this parts list and come back here. Here's a $100 down-payment." He kept his eyes peeled for the minders he'd occasionally spotted shadowing him when he went out for groceries, but they were nowhere to be seen. Maybe he'd lost them in the traffic on the 101. By the time the girl got back with the parts he'd need to make his interface, he was sweating bullets, but once he had the laptop open and began to rekey the entire codebase, the eidetic rush of perfect memory dispelled all his nervousness, leaving him cool and calm as the sun set over the Mission. - - - - - - - - - - - - From the sky, Africa was green and lush, but once the plane touched down in Mogadishu, all Murray saw was sere brown plains and blowing dust. He sprang up from his seat, laundering the sleep toxins in his brain and the fatigue toxins in his legs and ass as he did. He was the first off the jetway and the first at the Customs desk. "Do you have any commercial or work-related goods, sir?" "No sir," Murray said, willing himself calm. "But you have a laptop computer," the Customs man said, eyeballing his case. "Oh, yeah. That. Can't ever get away from work, you know how it is." "I certainly hope you find time to relax, sir." The Customs man stamped the passport he'd bought in New York. "When you love your work, it can be relaxing." "Enjoy your stay in Somalia, sir." salon.com - - - - - - - - - - - -
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