Thirteen

In 1988, back when a four-year-old Mark Zuckerberg was considering preschool options, a programmer named Jarkko Oikarinen wrote a program that presaged Facebook, Twitter, and every variation of chats, messengers, and hangouts.

The Internet Relay Chat, usually called the IRC, brought real-time chat to those who had agreed to connect their computers to this new “Internet” thing. The simple system allowed you to communicate anonymously with a tiny but growing circle of Internet chatters.

Today the Anonymous collective used IRC chat rooms to plan operations such as bringing down the Scientology web server by flooding it with page requests, or showing up at a protest wearing Guy Fawkes masks.

I’d finished my second pour of Noah’s Mill and had poured another when I decided to fire up an IRC client of my own and go stalking through the channels looking for Runway and PwnSec. Images of the porn on Maria’s Facebook page, the fights with Adriana, and the disdain on the face of the assistant principal charged my rage battery as I launched the software.

I went over to the Anonymous website and opened up their IRC web client, just to see if Runway was logged in. If he was, then I had a few private chat words ready for him. I used my old handle, Rosetta.

I searched the server, found that Runway was sitting in the channel, and started stalking the conversation. It was like eavesdropping on the kids sitting in the back of the school bus.

Runway: <Pokes Tron>

Tron: What? What? What do you want?

Runway: Nothing. Just seeing if you were doing anything.

Tron: Watching porn.

Runway: Any good?

Tron: Meh.

NotAGirl: Rosetta just signed on!

Runway: Who’s Rosetta?

NotAGirl: You are such a newfag.

Epomis: He wrote the Nappy Time Virus

One little virus, and you’re infamous.

Epomis: Hey Rosetta.

Busted. So much for stalking.

Rosetta: Hey.

Epomis: You haven’t been around for years.

Runway: He’s gotta talk to someone about porn.

Tron: Ha!

I sent Runway a private message.

Rosetta <private>: Hey Runway.

Runway <private>: Yeah?

Rosetta <private>: We need to talk.

Runway <private>: About porn?

Rosetta <private>: About you doing a life ruin on Maria Rizzo.

Runway <private>: What do you care?

Rosetta <private>: I care.

My cell phone rang.

What the hell?

The evening had gotten away from me. It was eleven, and my glass had somehow emptied itself again. I answered the phone, left it on speaker so I could type. “Do you know what time it is?” I asked.

Bobby Miller said, “Yeah, it’s eleven.”

“What time zone are you in?”

“Boston.”

“Then what the hell are you doing calling me at eleven?”

“I don’t know. What the hell are you doing poking around on the Anonymous server?”

I glanced at my screen. Runway had not answered me. “How did you know?”

“Mel told me.”

“Mel? You mean Special Agent Hunter? How did she know? Are you guys spying on me?”

“No, we’re not spying on you.”

“Really? Because creepy phone calls in the middle of the night suggest that you’re spying on me.”

“Listen, Rosetta—”

“See? See, that. That’s spying. You just doxed me.”

“I didn’t dox you. If I was going to dox you, I’d put your contact information all over the Internet.”

“How did you guess my nickname?”

“You’ve had that nickname for years.”

“How did you know that?”

“Mel.”

I need to figure out Special Agent Hunter.

Bobby continued. “In fact, she says that ‘Rosetta’ should keep a low profile. Something about some invaded web servers?”

“That was years ago, Bobby.”

“Don’t shoot the messenger. I’m just repeating what I heard.”

“Why are you watching me?”

“Just get off the server.”

Runway <private>: Forget it, oldfag.

Rosetta <private>: You owe her an apology.

Runway <private>: What?

Rosetta <private>: She got suspended from school.

Runway <private>: That’s why they call it a life ruin, idiot.

Bobby repeated, “Tucker, get off the server.”

“I’m busy.”

“Get off now. We’ll talk about it tomorrow.”

Runway <private>: Got nothing to say?

Rosetta <private>: Fuck you.

I said, “Bobby, I’m not getting off the server until this asshole admits what he did to Maria.”

“Whoa, whoa. What asshole?”

“Runway. The asshole who hacked Maria.”

“Trust me and get off that server now, or I can’t help you!”

I’d never heard Bobby sound desperate.

Rosetta <private>: Gotta go.

I moved the mouse up and pointed at the little window-closing X.

Runway <private>: Buh-bye, oldfa—

I told Bobby, “All right, I’m off. You happy?”

Bobby said, “You’re shouting.”

“I’m on a speakerphone.”

“You’re drunk.”

“That too.”

“Let’s talk tomorrow. Mel and I will buy you dinner.”

“Not breakfast?”

“Go sleep it off. I don’t want to watch your hangover.” He broke the connection.

Sleep it off.

Going to bed at a reasonable hour is not sleeping it off. It’s just going to bed. And there would be no hangover; just sleep until about ten and it works out. I abluted and hit the sack.

My alarm went off at 6:30 a.m., hangover clanging in my skull.

I had to go watch Maria.