404

By Brandon C Laraby

It's been two years since the Christmas Eve cyber attack that crippled the nation. Two years since the American government threw the Switch, disabling the internet for the entire country and disconnecting the United States from the rest of the world. Overnight, hundreds of millions were thrust into a neo-Dark Age as they awoke to find themselves jobless and penniless, with nowhere to turn, and almost no way to communicate.

Marco Temura, a recovering net-addict and cub TV journalist, has finally started to pull his life back together. He's adapted to life after 'The Switch', he's in a program, he's losing weight. Things are looking good. When he's sent to interview visiting Senator Michael Vanusen, he thinks he's hit upon the story of a lifetime.

It's a short-lived rush, however, as he's handed a list of 'approved' questions and told to stick to the script. What he doesn't know is that he's being sent into the lion's den; that there is a plot afoot and that one single action, one simple movement will change his life forever.

• Language: English
• Publisher: Brandon C Laraby
• Release date: Dec 23, 2010
• ISBN: 9781458162526

Brandon C Laraby

A Toronto-based writer, adventurer and rabblerouser.

Book preview

CHAPTER ONE

Angry chants fill the newsroom around him, blaring through the speakers as fists pump into the air, as hungry, dirty faces scowl from the hanging 3D plasma screens. It’s the second riot this month, of the countless riots since, and yet the once-thrumming news floor has stalled, every gaze transfixed skyward, watching the enormity of this latest action; as waves of homeless crash against protective barriers and shields, crying out for help or food or work.

Marco Temura sits within the gray confines of his cubicle, surrounded by the sounds of chaos yet oblivious to it all, the entirety of his attention focused elsewhere; shoulders hunched over the small netbook before him, staring. Waiting.

The hourglass spins on the screen, over and over again as it has so many times before, languid, almost as if pleading to be set free from this pointless task. Marco waits just the same, lips moving in a silent pean, as if somehow this one time will be that time; that the right amount of sheer willpower might bring about his desired response.

After a long moment the browser kicks back to that same, tired old message: Connection not found.

Man, you don’t give up, do you?

The teasing woman’s voice hovers from above -- a tangle of wind-tossed, dirty blonde hair peeking over her cubicle wall, smirking at the young man and his tiny laptop.

Screw off, Jess. Marco slams his netbook closed, patches of red-hot shame burning on his tanned cheeks. He pushes a hand through his dark brown hair, shaking his head, feeling like a fool under her gaze.

Aw, c’mon newbie! It’s kind of cute… did you get any email? She laughs.

Just stop.

Why don’t you check your Facebook while you’re at it?

With a frustrated sigh Marco shoves the plastic clamshell into his side bag, sending his morning coffee ration tumbling -- scalding him up the arm as he scrambles to save it. No dice.

He jumps up, clutching his arm, cursing under his breath as he glares down at a bemused Jessica Palmer. What the hell’s your problem?

Jess steps back, wincing at the sight of his forearm, aware of the damage she’s caused. She sucks a sudden rush of air between her teeth. Aw, shit kid, sorry about all that. I was just messin’ with ya -- gotta do something ‘til my next segment’s ready.

With one last withering look, he cradles his throbbing arm and turns away. For some of us, it’s not funny.

Marco stalks out into a sheet-plastic covered hall, far from the cluster of cubicles and video cameras and news anchors. Off in the distance, just beyond the corner -- or perhaps on the floor above -- the sounds of a ‘maintenance’ crew at work. Maintenance, sure. 'Cause if you called them 'Construction' you'd have to pay them. Or feed them. He stands there amongst the echoes, shaking his head at the thought as hammers bang and power saws screech; imagining the tired, famished men as they struggle to repair this once-proud news building.

The pulsing knot of guilt in his stomach breaks his reverie, reminding him of his purpose. Marco turns his attention to the tiny smartphone in his hand and, after thumbing through to the contact list, he selects the only number.

We’re sorry. Due to network congestion your call cannot be completed at this time. Please try again later.

He sighs, tapping the phone on his forehead, needing it to work. Please…

He dials the number again, loosing a sigh of relief as the call rings through.

This is Thomas Givens, you know what to do.

Marco turns himself toward the corner, trying to silence the chatter of a crowd of passing interns. So many freaking interns.

Tom, it’s Marco. Listen, I… I did it again. I’m trying not to, trying to stay on the path, follow the steps but… dammit. I’m having a bad day. Please call me soon. He hangs up the phone, collecting his thoughts as he wanders back through the hall, stopping to stare at the pock-marked wall beside him. He sneaks his hand through the protective veil of plastic, running his fingers across the half-repaired remnants of bullet holes and scorch marks. Ahh yes, the scorch marks.

The company had made it their personal mission to soak the place in industrial strength air freshener and yet that smell, a harsh mix of fresh lime and sulfur, nothing seemed able to conquer it.

Marco! Get your ass in here!

He spins as the voice booms across the bustling newsroom, as silence falls like an axe and every eye finds its way to Marco’s slim, now-nervous frame. A bleach-blonde receptionist -- Chantelle -- giggles with a touch of schadenfreude.

Now!

A sudden rush of heat overtakes him and he withdraws his hand, the armpits of his striped v-neck already drowning from the internal deluge as he slinks past the onlookers toward the massive office.

Sir? The words creak from a dry mouth as his body tries to blend into the door jamb; gaze darting from one framed award to another before landing on the sinewy, gray-haired legend.

The man turns a shiny, new name plate in his hands, scowling at the MSFoxNET logo before tossing it aside, letting it skitter across his desk. Have a seat.

With tentative steps Marco crosses the gold-and-crimson Berber carpet, breathing in the deep sandalwood cologne, a touch lightheaded from the musk and fear. He slides into the proffered chair, sweaty hands forming miniature patches of condensation on the cold, plastic armrests.

Where were you when they threw the Switch? The tough old man leans in on his elbows, staring across the oak and marble desk -- his piercing blue eyes scanning the young, half-cowering journalist.

I-I… uh… I was at home, with family. Online, like most, you know -- not long after trimming the tree… sir. Marco’s knees quiver just below the man’s line of sight, shaking with nervous energy as he fights to steady his voice. I used to run a tech blog and I’m a bit of a gamer so I was prob--

We’re doing a piece on the second anniversary, nothing hard -- these fuckers wouldn’t know a real story if it bit’em on the ass -- just some pre-approved government bullshit. Can’t spare my big names so you’re up -- here’s your clearance and your list of questions. He slides the file folder across his desk with disgust. The Senator’ll be there, waiting. 1:30 at the Regency, we go live to air at 1:40. Better get your ass in gear.

Senator? Mr. Richardson, thank you! I wo--

Door’s over there.

Marco stands, dazed, his mind swirling as he crosses back to his desk -- an euphoric rush overtaking him as he runs his thumb across the plastic clearance pass. For a moment, a brief moment, he allows himself to bask in the sensation. His reverie is short-lived however as Jess rounds the corner to meet him, hair now pulled back in a hasty ponytail and a massive dual-lens video camera hanging from her shoulder.

So, what’d he say?

He said you better go get the van, I’ve gotta be at the Regency in -- shit! Twenty minutes! Marco holds up the clearance pass, a grin on his face as Jess’s eyes narrow. I’ll be down in a sec.

She disappears into an elevator as Marco yanks open the bottom drawer of his filing cabinet, pulling out a brand-new white dress shirt and tearing it free of the plastic wrap. He strips off his now-soaked v-neck, revealing the soft, stretch-marked middle of a man once thrice his size.

Sliding the shirt on over his head, he fiddles with the buttons for only a moment before rushing toward the stairwell -- price tag sailing behind him.

The MSFoxNET news van skids into view as Marco bursts past the security checkpoint and out into the dull gray light of a San Francisco afternoon. He dives into the van and it peels off into the bustling traffic of cars and carts.

What the hell’s at The Regency? Jess moves to snatch the file folder from Marco, but he deflects her hand – just in time too, as she swerves to avoid a stumbling homeless man.

Eyes on the road! Thanks. He chokes down the acid in his throat as she skids her way around another corner. We’re interviewing Senator Vanusen, a second anniversary piece about when they threw the Switch.

Jess tosses her head back in a solid belly laugh. You got me all excited over that? Jesus, man, this’s as dead-end as you get. She shakes her head.

Hey! It could still be good…

Are you fucking crazy? Every decent journalist in the country’s been trying to get an honest word out of the government since it happened. You think some kid from, what, Hoboken -- talking to yet another monkey -- is gonna crack this thing wide?

What’s wrong with Hoboken?

Marco grips the side of the door, feeling his gut yawn wide as Jess screams down a massive hill. He smiles, uneven, trying to hide the growing need to void his stomach, focusing on the task at hand. Flipping open the file folder, looking for any useful information, Marco finds a single double-spaced page of questions.

What the…?

He turns the folder over in his hands before chucking it onto the dash in frustration. They gave me nothing on this guy! Who the hell is he? I don’t know! I’m interviewing him in ten minutes and I'm flying blind! Marco clenches his fist. God damn, what I wouldn’t give for a search engine.

Why do you care? Kid, you’re not interviewing him -- you’re there to read the questions, smile and let him blather on about how they’re ‘still working on a solution’.

Yeah… sure...

In the distance, the chants and angry cries echo and Marco tenses as he realizes that the riot’s still in full swing. He stares out the passenger window toward the waterfront and the pier, watching as swarms of homeless march out from the massive, and illegal, Tent City. A stubble-faced young man, maybe 30, sits by the roadside in a stained and tattered blue dress shirt, his sign scrawled in permanent marker: Sys admin, wife and 2 kids. Please help, God bless.

Hey, we’re here.

He turns at the sound of Jess’s voice, watching as the crowds part around the van, as people pound on the windows, begging to be heard. Jess leans on the horn and a piercing shriek drives them back. One by one they cover their ears and move out of the way, each waiting until the last possible moment before making their escape to the sidelines. Marco keeps his eyes fixed on the road, unable to look people in the eye as the van rolls past.

A rock bounces off the bulletproof glass of their windshield, then another. From the crowd a young man in dark green camo emerges, whipping chunks of brick at them. Jess slams the gas, speeding toward him, stopping just inches from running him down. She flips him the bird as he grins and saunters off, unfazed.

Get a job, asshole! she yells. You see these pricks? Actin’ like the whole fucking world’s come to an end.

The makeshift gates around the hotel close behind them, the whirring of the machinery almost drowning out the drone of the automated warning:

Please step back from the gate. These gates are hydraulically operated and will not stop. Please step back from the gate. Thank you.

Marco exits the van, hopping out onto the cracked tarmac as Jess cuts the engine. Swinging her legs out onto the running board of the van, she slings the massive video camera over her shoulder then steps down to the ground.

Well pretty boy, you ready to roll?

CHAPTER TWO

The lavish boardroom hums with energy as aides bustle and collide in their efforts to put their finishing touches on the scene; lights are dimmed, plants are arranged and snide comments are uttered as each well-dressed, well-fed peon fulfills their respective duty.

Jess and Marco sit in plush red leather chairs, boggled by the drama unfolding before them -- some inane crossbreed of Kabuki and Vaudeville. Jesus! And I thought we were all flash and no bang, she whispers, an impressed frown seated in her brow.

Shh! I think I see him. Marco cranes his neck, peering across the room, as a tall man in a navy blue suit strides into view and each little player in this charade dives to his side.

The Senator stands amongst the crowd, a man apart and yet beaming with false humility. One by one he shakes their hands and nods with a smile that never quivers, standing resplendent in the recognition of his stature.

An aide – a squat, almost square Asian man in a black suit – waddles across to them, clipboard in hand, doing his best to look official. Mr. Marco Temura? I’m Alex Wong.

Marco stands and shakes Alex’s hand, wincing at the man’s vice-like grip.

We’ve made a few changes to the questions you’ll be asking… here’s the new sheet. Also, please refrain from mentioning anything about his family life or the recent scandal.

Scandal?

Exactly. Please follow me.

Together, Alex, Marco and Jess push themselves forward into the crowd; Alex beams with purpose as he guides his charges through the bustling morass. Within moments they find themselves standing before the Senator. At just over six and a half feet tall, he looms over them yet turns to face them with that same unwavering smile. His blue eyes twinkle, belying the stiffness of his eyebrows. Mr. Temura, I presume? I’m Michael Vanusen, but you can call me Senator.

He laughs in a short, rehearsed way that, in this place, surrounded by this theatre, seems somehow endearing. There’s a natural, earthy charm about the man, an ease that shines through the layers of toxin pumped into his face. Even Jess seems overwhelmed by his presence, unable to meet his gaze as he makes his way to each of them, shaking their hands and telling them how grateful he is to meet them.

Alex turns, hand outstretched toward the mahogany stage. Are we about ready then? He leads them all to a comfortable space on the dais, where soft brown leather chairs -- selected to help the senator’s eyes ‘pop’ better on camera, no doubt -- are surrounded by a veritable rainforest of plants and American flags. The Senator waves to the crowd and takes his seat, American flag cufflinks shimmering in the limelight. Marco follows suit, putting in his earpiece as Jess runs up behind him with a pair of scissors. A quick snip and she disappears back into the crowd, stuffing a price tag into her pocket as she readies the camera.

Over Marco’s earpiece he hears the prep for the live feed and fidgets in his chair.

Okay folks, we’re going live in five, four, three…

The red light on the camera blinks to life and all eyes turn to Marco.

Who gulps.

Hi… Todd, thanks for that great introduction. I’m here with Senator Vanusen today to discuss a matter that I’m sure is on everyone’s mind. Marco turns to face the Senator, trying to ignore the sudden dampness in his palms.

Senator, it’s been two years now since our government threw the Switch that disabled the internet for the entire country. Why haven’t we been able to get ourselves back online?

The Senator smiles and nods, a re-affirming tone already present in his voice.

Well, Mr. Temura, we haven’t been resting on our laurels, I assure you.

He turns to face the camera.

We have had the best systems engineers in the country working to repair the damage caused by that massive cyber attack on Christmas Eve, two years ago. Restoring our stock market in itself has been a daunting task let alone ensuring the safety of our country’s nuclear reactors. That we got our banks back up as much as we have -- well, that’s just a testament to American ingenuity. Trust me, we’ve been hard at work, scanning millions of lines of code within our own infrastructure, looking for anything that might harbor a second attack. It was a hard decision to throw the Switch, but in the end we did what we had to do.

Sir, you didn’t answer --

The Senator scowls and Marco purses his lips as he glances at the sheet before him.

Have we discovered who attacked us yet?

Unfortunately, no - not yet. We have our data forensics experts scouring whatever logs were created during the attack, but whoever did it covered their tracks well. We do know this, though: they were well-organized and had an incredible amount of skill and computing power behind them.

When will we have our systems back online?

Again, unfortunately, I can’t give a solid timeline. Simply put: we have a long road ahead of us and full recovery will take time.

But, isn’t it as simple as just turning off the Switch?

Laughter erupts from the crowd -- as if on cue.

Oh, Mr. Temura, where do you get these silly questions? Of course it’s not that simple! Do you think we, your government, would dare to harm our economy -- one that had only just recovered from the housing crash -- and put millions more Americans out of work if we didn’t absolutely HAVE to?

The Senator settles back in his chair, relaxed, with a contemptuous smirk on his face.

Marco’s face reddens as his hands crinkle the sheet in his lap, a mixture of anger and embarrassment boiling just beneath the surface.

The Switch was designed as an emergency measure. A one-time-use poison pill. We never expected that we'd actually have to use it, but now that we have, it will take some time to recover.

But don’t you have any --

His hands clench as he fights to keep his composure, now all too aware of the heat of the stage lights as they beam down upon him. Shifting in his seat he notices a blur of movement in the crowd -- he spins to see it but it’s already gone. Remembering