Rachel stared in disbelieving shock at her tablet, unable to tap away from the livestreams.
There were four windows open, each one showing a different feed. One from a local news crew, the others from onlookers who were Facebook Live-ing, Periscoping and BLINQvid-ing.
METRO POLICE RAID CYBER-TERROR DEN! read one scroll. But that wasn’t the one she was interested in.
#HasCassieSurfacedYet? is in the building! one BLINQ read.
Hive Mob to #BlevinsHotel. #HasCassieSurfacedYet? #Level6 #KillOnSight
It was perhaps not surprising how quickly Rachel had acclimated to internet speak now that she relied on it to check in on her daughter. She moved through each feed quickly, absorbing the acronyms and hashtags like she’d been born knowing them. Oddly, she thought of the poet Samuel Taylor Coleridge just then, of a sacred river running through measureless caverns, as the void inside her opened further, as whatever shreds of hope she’d been hanging on to began to fray and fall. The Hive believed Cassie was at an abandoned hotel and police were raiding it. Rachel had no reason not to believe the Hive. The wisdom of the crowds wasn’t particularly wise these days, but it was usually accurate. Coleridge’s “sunless sea” was real, and she was living in it.
Her daughter. In a “cyber-terror den.”
If she could even trust that description. Harlon had been called a cyber-terrorist many times in his life, had even been refused entry to prestigious technology conferences and events by interns who didn’t recognize him. Mostly because he had the temerity to “hack while black.” White hackers were just … hackers. Hackers who usually became founders of mega-billion-dollar tech firms. Black hackers, on the other hand, were dangerous cyber-terrorists. “Thugs with bugs,” they were called.
As she watched, crystal-clear 8k video streamed to her, perfect in every detail but held in shaky, inexpert hands. First there were police cordoning off the building, then the outrage of the disappointed mob.
On the news feed now, a legal expert was discussing whether law enforcement or Hive had jurisdiction.
“If Cassie McKinney is in the building, theoretically, Hive Justice takes precedence over police action. However, this has never been tested in a court of law. Furthermore, Ms. McKinney is also charged with analog crimes, including destroying her cell phone, which could color a court’s decision on jurisdiction.”
He prattled on, and Rachel found herself outraged by the faux politeness of the media, the way everyone calmly referred to her daughter as “Ms. McKinney” while just as calmly discussing her impending horrific death at the hands of a mob. It would be more honest if they called her “that bitch.”
On the livestream, people were climbing down from rooftops, jumping from the sky. Rachel couldn’t believe what she was seeing. A careful network of old construction equipment, scaffolding and fire escapes acted as a sort of vertical ziggurat for those who knew the path. Some took missteps, panicked by the cops above them or by the tinny cracks of sound that she imagined to be gunfire, so loud up close, so pathetic at a distance.
Bodies in free fall. Bodies of people in terror. “ ‘A savage place … with ceaseless turmoil seething,’ ” Rachel whispered.
Was one of the bodies her daughter’s? Was Cassie already dead?
Her fingers danced on the screen of her tablet, lighting it, dimming it, lighting it, dimming it. She yearned to call Bryce but knew that she couldn’t. She was under constant surveillance, or so she assumed. Her phone calls, texts, emails — everything was monitored, processed, collated, scrutinized. They — the scary they of conspiracy movies, now suddenly real — knew everything she was doing and saying.
“If the mob kills Ms. McKinney before the police can arrest her,” the expert droned on, “I assume no charges will be brought. Typically, Hive Justice supersedes analog concerns …”
Resisting the urge to hurl across the room the tablet and its endless prattle about her daughter’s life, she instead stood up and paced the length of her office. Finally, she did what she always knew she would do: she picked up her phone and she called Bryce.
When she got his voice mail, she cleared her throat and spoke with as much casual boredom as she could muster. “Mr. Muller, this is Professor McKinney. I’m still waiting on that outline for your special project. Please let me know if you’ll be able to turn it in on time. Is everything going smoothly? Let me know.”
She hung up, then stared at the blank screen of her phone. Hoping Bryce would respond in a way that would make sense to her. Hoping she hadn’t done something stupid.
Something that could cost Cassie her life.
Returning to the tablet, she watched as someone on BLINQ zoomed in on the rooftop of the hotel. Police were leaning over the edge of the roof, rifles aimed down.
Something that could cost Cassie her life.
Assuming Cassie was still alive.
Rachel took a deep breath, a sip of cold coffee, a pause. She couldn’t wait for Bryce to get back to her. The wait would kill her — literally, she thought, holding a hand over her heart, feeling its palpitations. No, she couldn’t wait. She had to do.
*
For the first time, Rachel understood how addictive it was — thanks to the lights and colors all the tech companies used to light up users’ brains — to be online, to reach out virtually and make an instant connection with someone, even when you were feeling more alone than you had known it was possible to feel.
Rachel’s post to #UniversityMoms hadn’t just been well received by the working moms at MS/BFU; it had spread to other university mom groups, to sister schools and archenemies alike. Someone had screenshotted it and shared it on BLINQ, and then Instagram, Facebook, Snapchat, Yardio and Guessom, and within mere hours a wave of parental sympathy was rising. Petitions were started, signed, shared. Desperate pleas from other moms, some of whom had seen their own children punished by the Hive, echoed far and wide. The thrill Rachel got each time her notifications pinged — which was every few seconds at this point — was almost enough to sustain her, and definitely enough to make her see, even just a bit, why Harlon and Cassie spent the bulk of their time online.
“Online action needs to turn to real-life action,” Rachel repeated to herself, her eyes blurry from lack of sleep and too much screen time. She squinted as she browsed her notifications. This was a start, yes. But she needed more. The public needed to see her army in action. A crowd. A protest. Something they couldn’t ignore.
*
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