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Back in my bed, I toss and turn. I keep seeing weird shapes and I can’t sleep. Tonight only the H-Loop can keep me sane. I wrap my quilt around me and tread back to the computer desk.
I tap on the keyboard and notice I never logged out. Not smart. The customized console program I wrote to connect to the loop creates a daisy-chain through different servers, so I’m never detected. But still, you can never be too safe.
As I start scanning the list of people logged in, I noticed a new chat window is open. One single line stares at me.
$IgNiTe> I know what you are.
The timestamp of the message is now. The cursor blinks. My heart keeps the same beat. I tell myself the words mean nothing. It’s just some idiot playing games. I’ve no idea who this IgNiTe guy is, but I’ve run into his kind before. He needs a taste of Warrior’s cyber wrath. Just what I need to keep my head free of the ghosts weighing me down.
I rub my hands together, load my tracing program, and type a message to keep the jerk online.
$Warrior> Do you, skiddie?
He calls himself a hacker when he’s nothing but a cracker. I hit enter and just as I’m doing it, a belated sixth sense warns me to stop, but it’s too late. All three monitors go blue and white text starts raining down the screen, repeating the same thing over and over again.
I know what you are. I know what you are.
I know what you are. I know what you are.
I know what you are. I know what you are.
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CURSING, I DROP TO my knees and fight to untangle myself from the stupid quilt. I slip and slide in an effort to get traction on the parquet flooring. Under the desk, I’m faced with three CPUs and a tangle of cables swathed in dust bunnies.
Furiously, I push everything out of the way until I find the power strip. I press the button and the LED light goes out, indicating the flow of electricity has been cut off. In the same instant, the uninterruptible power supply kicks in and starts to beep. I scramble to unhook all the cables to the battery backup. Damn, why do I have to be such a meticulous freak?
Finally the hum of the CPUs dies down. I lay under the desk seething, wanting to strangle something. He better pray I don’t find him, because I’ll kill him, very slowly. No one messes with my equipment, my sanctuary. My ears are hot, and if I was a cartoon character, there’d be steam coming out of them.
When the rage subsides, my mind hits fifth gear. How did he do it? How did this IgNiTe jerk get through my intricate security measures? Everyone in the H-Loop knows I’m the hacker to beat, so it’s obvious why he’d want to mess with me. But how did he do it? My system is tight. The hardware, my code ... I don’t ever leave any trails. I rack my brain trying to figure it out and come up empty. I’ve been outsmarted, and I don’t even know how.
Suddenly, I feel like crying. I can’t even hide in my room anymore. I shake my head. Self-pity isn’t something I allow myself. Slowly, I crawl out from under the desk. The clock reads 5:29 A.M. I groan. When the display changes to 5:30 A.M., I walk over to the alarm and turn it off. Time to leave for the dojo. I ponder whether I should go or sleep for an hour before school. The bed looks tempting, but after what just happened my brain won’t quiet long enough to let me sleep. Only punching something can help me now. That is ... if I can even stay upright long enough to do it.
I start jogging on the spot, letting my arms hang like a dummy’s. They swing from side to side as I turn my head around and bounce on my toes. My body feels supple enough in spite of the lack of sleep. Okay, I guess I’ll go. I try to never skip practice. The emotional focus that martial arts gives me is critical. It keeps the shadows and the fear away.
Looking back at my desk, I’m tempted to stay to assess the damage to my computers. Tension bites the back of my neck at the simple thought of what that good-for-nothing cracker just did to me. Anger flares again, but I get it under control after a few deep breaths. It looks like I really need to go to the dojo to clear my head. I can’t let emotions control me.
This is how my life goes. Every day is a struggle. An endless array of do’s and don’ts designed to keep the shadows at bay. And after what happened last night, after discovering the torture I would endure if I let my defenses down, I can’t afford to make any mistakes.
If only my worries amounted to no more than what outfit to wear today.
***
AFTER ALMOST TWO HOURS of grueling practice at the dojo, I enter the locker room and throw my sweaty karategi in a plastic bag. I fold the belt and drop it on top. The contrast between the white canvas pants and the black belt isn’t as startling as it should be. The uniform has been washed too many times and it’s now starting to look more yellow than white.
New leather pants. New karategi. New helmet. New computers? I sigh.
I don’t have enough money to pay for all those things. Not after having spent my savings on the Kawasaki. Clearly, it’s time for a hacking gig, except for the minor inconvenience of my system being infected by some punk’s virus.
I sling my sports bag over my shoulder and wince. I hit the heavy bag too hard while I was drilling and hurt my wrist. Sensei took a look at it, bending it this way and that. It hurt like hell. He said I should ice it and then bandage it at least. I told him it would be fine. It already feels better.
“You’re a lucky sucker, Guerrero,” he said.
“It has nothing to do with luck,” I told him. “It’s all about toughness.”
He laughed and frowned at the same time. “It’s gotta be. I don’t know how you always bounce back so quickly.”
I walk through the dojo, sports bag bouncing against my side. The short, forceful battle cries of the 7 A.M. students fill the air, as well as the flat sound of their uniforms snapping with each of their kicks. I wrinkle my nose at the gym-sock smell and wave Sensei goodbye.
“Nice workout, Guerrero,” he says with a quick grin, before turning back to instruct the class. “Check out the tournament website, will ya?”
Steve Yakamoto, your ass is crazy if you think I’m joining that tournament.
“Sure deal, Sensei ’Moto.” I wonder when he’s gonna give up. He thinks I should care about winning trophies and medals. I don’t.
As I walk down the sidewalk toward my bike, I relish the calm left behind after the hard workout. Kicking and punching the bag and pads make my limbs sore and heavy. The physical exertion grounds me, roots me to the pavement, makes me worry about my body. Not my mind.
Sensei ’Moto doesn’t understand that this is all I need from karate. He always asks me why I don’t want to learn Kata or try meditation again. He says it would improve my technique even more. But Kata, with their repetitious, choreographed moves, require me to concentrate on one thing for too long, while meditation demands that I think of nothing at all. Yeah, like I want that kind of trouble.
I strap the gym bag to the back of the bike, on top of my book bag. Running gloved fingers along the curve of my helmet, I cringe at the scratches from last night. I’d just bought the stupid thing and now it’s less than perfect. Man, I’m so glad we took Clark’s Yamaha and not my new Kawasaki. Lovingly, I pat the bike’s leather seat. My new toy was worth every hard-earned penny, every line of glorious code.
I check my phone. No answer from Xave to my earlier text. I hope the idiot can still think for himself this morning. After putting on my helmet, I straddle the bike and start the engine. It roars to life, putting a smile on my face.
I tear down the street, slipping between two SUVs. The driver of the Blazer screams at me through his open window. I flip him the bird and punch the bike for more gas. Within minutes I’m at school.
Oh joy!
Dragging my feet, I join the throng of equally enthusiastic students. I wish I could skip ahead to trying to find out who hacked me, but I’ve pretty much maxed-out my absences. For now, I’ll hold on to the few I have left, just in case. The way things are with Xave and the virus attack, I have a feeling I may need them soon.