Firmware: 01 Hijacked

By True Colbytrax

In the City, a thriving metropolis encompassing a third of a billion souls, a man can change his world as easily as crossing the street.

It is a place of a million cultures, the world in microcosm.

For some it is their last hope for survival. For others it is their playground.

And for others it is their hunting ground.

Isaac Sarason is a talented hacker. A Doctor of Applied Network Theory, trusted employee of British Telecom-Sprint, he lives in a world which ninety percent of his fellow citizens can only imagine, and he has a problem.

His health is failing, his job is on the line, his world is crumbling around him.

He wants out, and the street is his only escape.

What happens when the life you dreamt of is killing you?

What do you do when you find yourself Hijacked?

• Language: English
• Publisher: True Colbytrax
• Release date: Aug 23, 2012

True Colbytrax

Colbytrax is a pseudonym of Robert Ferguson. He lives in Green Bay, Wisconsin with his wife, two cats, and two dogs. When not writing, he can be found coding in Python, updating Colbyjack.net, or watching the puppies wrestle. Colbytrax is also the voice of Audio.Colbyjack.net, where he has read works as varied as Cory Doctorow's "For the Win," E. R. Burrough's "A Princess of Mars," Trisha M. Wilson's "Nightmare," "The Nut Heist," "Fowl Play," and "From the Flames," as well as his very own "Firmware."

Book preview

Table of Contents

Firmware: Hijacked

Chapter 1

Chapter 2

Chapter 3

Chapter 4

Chapter 5

Chapter 6

Chapter 7

Chapter 8

Chapter 9

Chapter 10

Chapter 11

Chapter 12

Chapter 13

Chapter 14

Chapter 15

Chapter 16

Chapter 17

Chapter 18

Chapter 19

Chapter 20

Chapter 21

Chapter 22

Chapter 23

Chapter 24

Chapter 25

Chapter 26

Chapter 27

Chapter 28

Chapter 29

Chapter 30

Chapter 31

Chapter 32

About The Author

Works from Colbyjack.net

1

Have you heard about the Star-X Line? Frankie asked me as I slid into the booth across from him. We were in Fritz’s Italian on Clancy, in Park Terrace, the place made up to look like a Mussolini era ristorante. Il Duce stared at us from several dozen black and white photos and full color painted posters. I can’t read a lick of Italian, though the pasta is to die for.

 Heard of the Star Line. Heard they’re numbered from one starting in the Burroughs through forty at North Lake. Ride Star-17 every day. Never heard of the Star-X. I answered. The waiter took my order, baked manicotti and a bottle of Tuscany Rosso. My head throbbed, a frontal headache, been getting worse lately.

Frankie noticed me rubbing my temples. You still getting those headaches? Migraines? Stress?

Don’t know, I answered. Been to a dozen specialists and none have a clue. All I know is the Maxalt-Reglan doesn’t work. It’s like there’s a fire behind my eyes and it just won’t quit. Saw this quack in Port Dickinson last week, claimed my implants caused it.

Did you call him a Luddite bastard and storm out of there? The wine arrived, Frankie poured. Those Luddites are as bad as those freaks who thought wireless signals were burning out our brains. Spiegel-Reuters ran a piece just the other day on the bad science being perpetrated by Luddite scientists. They said it was just like when ‘scientists’ tried to blame autism on vaccines.

I’d heard this all before. These ideas boiled up from the gestalt with every advance in technology. People are scared of the new. I watched as our waiter crossed the room with our plates. Doesn’t matter what they say, need the implants, project security requires full interface. Food arrived, a wave of nausea washed through me. Everything looked and smelled wonderful, nothing wrong there. What was wrong with me? I played with my food. What about this Star-X line?

Just a bit of water cooler storytelling. There’s this guy I know, who’s got a friend, who claims his uncle got on Star-18 late one night. The uncle was a bit past drunk and passed out. When he woke, the speaker was blaring about last stop, everybody off. He wobbled off the train, figuring it was his stop, as he lived a block from the end of 18. He remembers glancing back at the train cause the stop didn’t look right. Very posh, no buskers he knew, even the adverts were different. Adverts for Virgin-Orbital vacations, private car services, the new BMW-Boeing 186. There were frakking adverts for million dollar flying cars. I shit you not. Frankie took a bit telling this, between mouth fulls of ravioli.

So this guy no one really knows gets off at a strange station, so what? I slowly ate. The nausea subsided slightly with each bite.

Frankie got excited. The sign on the train said Star-X, the station was the North Lake terminal, right down by the lake beneath the Gold Coast. Last stop for Star-40, the poshest property in the City, and somehow he got there from a Star-18 stop.

Nice, a train that travels the entire length of the Star line. Hate to get stuck on that one. Must have taken him, what, six hours to get there. The uncle’s lucky he didn’t get rolled for his organs. The wine pushed my headache back to a low throb.

I get you, phantom train, what’s the big deal? I’ll tell you. Been asking about the Star-X line in a few of the rougher spots on my route. You know how I get down as far as Jian Village and Brackney? A month or two ago, I passed through Little Chiba and thought what the hell, if there’s one place someone might know about the Star-X line, it’d be Little Chiba.

I interrupted. Let me get this straight. Mr. Suit-and-tie pharmaceutical rep stops in the heart of the land of black clinics and organ bandits to ask about a train. A train which, one, comes nowhere near the place, and two, you don’t even know what it is. I see you have all your parts, so you must have come up empty.

Frankie laughed. I got three new customers off that stop. Seems every other pharma rep in the City avoids Little Chiba like the plague. The purchasing managers are a little rougher than usual, missing bits of fingers, and lots of dragon tattoos, but business is business.

You’re selling to the frakking Yakuza-USA? You got a pair on you. What they do? Tell you the secrets of the mystery train.

Not exactly. Took about a month of return trips, a pile of sales that got me a nice bonus, and a Nipponese translation chip, but I finally heard the words, ‘Star-X.’ The conversation was about imports and exports, supply chains, and a Doctor Reona. That was pay dirt. My next swing through Little Chiba, I asked one of the purchasing managers about Doctor Reona over sake. Don’t give me that look. I didn’t start that way. I started by telling him about your condition and how someone had recommended you see Doctor Reona, but you couldn’t find him.

You just guessed that someone called a doctor actually did medicine and hoped this Yakuza-USA member would just tell you what you wanted to know? I asked finishing off the bottle of Tuscany Rosso. The wine pushed the pain in my head into the distance. If only they let me work while toasted.

It’s what you do for a friend, Frankie answered. How long you think you’ll keep your job with these headaches? Your work has to suffer. When’s the last time you got a bonus?

I thought. Last year.

Before the headaches?

Yes, yes, before the headaches.

Sooner or later you’ll be out your cushy position with BTS and you’ll start searching for sofas to surf on. Frankie said as he called for the check.

So this is about keeping me off your sofa?

And out of Mara’s hair. We love you man, but not that much.

So the Yakuza man told you about the doc and how to find him?

Nope. Frankie paid the bill. But his eyes said he knew about the Star-X. His posture said more. This Dr. Reona could help you. My customer just didn’t trust me.

I guess you lost that account.

You grab the tip. Frankie stood up. Nope. Something about their culture, I don’t understand them at all. He gave me five more leads and placed a huge order. At this rate, we’ll have the condo paid off. Get one of those new Toshiba makers with the complete Coach-Vuitton design catalogue. Maybe even have a little one running around as well. One can dream.

One can dream. I stood up. The blood pressure change drove the pain back to the fore. I must have staggered. Frankie’s hand was on my shoulder.

Frankie leaned in close. There is a Star-X. There is a doctor who can fix you. I did the easy part. You gotta do the rest.

We parted in the bright afternoon light. Frankie heading to his next account, me back to my cubicle at British Telecom-Sprint. I put on my Mospa wraparound shades and hobbled down the street.

2

The Mospa wraparound shades I wore blocked ninety percent of the light hitting my eyes. Welder’s goggles gave better protection, if my condition continued to progress, I was sure to need them soon.

At BTS I was known as the Hacker, for my affectation of the Mospas in all but the dimmest environments. Without the Mospas I wouldn’t even be able to get to work, much less do my job.

Even with my monitor turned to near black, the glare was almost unbearable.

I thought about Frankie and the Star-X line as I worked. The data connectors pulled at my implants, causing discomfort. If you look closely at IT workers, you will notice a series of red, inflamed rings around their data plugs. We called them cherries. Most cherries extend only a fraction of an inch from the dataport. Mine were an inch thicker.

I was at my station about an hour when Murray came over. My headache forced me to use my keyboard, even though, I still plugged my interface into my workstation.

I couldn’t unplug, security required us to plugin whenever we were at our stations, but I just couldn’t work ‘in’ the system, if you get my meaning. However, I couldn’t unplug. Don’t plugin, can’t work.

Murray tapped me on the shoulder and motioned for me to follow him. He led me to his office and offered me a chair.

Take off those glasses. Let me get a look at you. Murray closed the door behind me before moving behind his boat of a desk with monitors and family photos dotting it like sails.

I took off the glasses, the glare of the lights made me blink like an owl. I knew where this was going: nowhere good.

How are you feeling? Still getting the headaches? His eyes roamed over me, afraid to lock on me longer than needed, as if my condition was contagious.

Light still hurts, but the headaches are controllable. The Maxalt-Reglan has been helping, I lied. BTS supervisors can smell weakness a mile away. Can’t appear weak before the alpha dogs.

Murray punched something up on his desk screen. I’ve been looking over your production numbers. Your accuracy, bug catching, and project integration are all well above the rest of the team. Outstanding work there.

But, I think, there is a but coming, a big one.

But, that is not what is bothering us today. He’s started speaking in plurals, never a good sign. What has come to our attention is your speed. Your completion rate is down sixty percent over the last calendar year. We know that accuracy, bug catching, and project integration are all important aspects of the type of work we do here at BTS.

I forced a smile. In my head I ranted about the pace demanded, how doing the job right the first time was more important than speed, but I kept my mouth shut.

Murray avoided eye contact. But we have a certain pace as well. And you, my friend, have fallen well below the mark. I hate this as much as you do, but the boys upstairs are breathing down my neck. You need to pick up the pace before they make me replace you.

Classic Murray, he made it personal. It’s not me you see, it’s these bad men and women on the hundred and eleventh floor who only see the world in numbers and stock prices, not me. No, I’m your friend, keeping you alive in a world that doesn’t understand what you bring to the table.

I’ll push harder. My doctor thinks we got this licked, I lied.

Murray stood up and shook my hand like a piston. I know you’ll come through. We’ll show those spreadsheet maggots what we code monkeys can do. Just get well. I need you out there pushing the envelope for me.

I thanked him for his time and return to my cubicle.

The eyes of my co-workers tracked me. I swear I heard someone whisper, Dead man walking. I logged in and struggled through the rest of the afternoon.

3

That evening I called my building super. I told him I got new digs in Willow Point, a large promotion, and a huge need to show off my new stature. If he could find someone to finish out my lease, I’d be much obliged.

Then I called Uniform Storage. I don’t know why I lied to the lady on the phone, but I told her I needed to be out of town a bit,