Part One, Post 13 >>
Two weeks later, she sat with Milo and Zink at a table in the commons, still feeling that fine edge of tension that hadn't split yet. The masque was in less than ten hours, and she felt like they were all living examples of Murphy's Law: whatever could go wrong had gone wrong. The req program she'd rigged for the masks and costumes hadn't been sending the completed outfits to the right people, so the common space of the dorm was filled with splashes of glitter and color as people dropped off masks and dresses and cummerbunds that didn't belong to them and milled around in the hopes that theirs would show up. Zink's team was busy trying to get campus maintenance into the party room to replace a section of the stronglite floor that had gone out—Layme, who had been under the impression that the floor would be black anyway, was told by Zink in an annoyed tone that it was a surprise, and she should go do something outside of the room until they got it fixed—and Rye and Ell were up in Ell's room, trying to fix a batch of Deception that had gone wrong. Instead of casting a shadow around the edges of their vision, the bit they had tested only triggered mini-migraines. With muttered curses and musings about what the problem could possibly be, the two of them had withdrawn with a pack of aceta-slips and pH tests to figure out how much of the batch was worthless and if they needed to try and make more. She found herself being extremely thankful that they had scheduled the pulse for Saturday night and not Friday. At least they didn't have classes to deal with.
The only person things seemed to be going right for was Layme herself. Her dress and mask had been in her compartment in the req room. Milo's were in his too; she popped in to check, just to be sure, trying her best not to look at his mask and spoil the surprise. Shylo had informed her that the voice filter program was integrated into the room and should be working fine, and she had opted out of drink-testing, so there were no headaches promised in her future—except, that was, the one she was getting from all the last-minute stress. She found herself rubbing small circles into her temples with more force than usual as Milo and Zink argued across the table.
“I still don't see why we should push the start back to ten-thirty instead of nine-thirty!” Milo was saying for what might have been the seventh time.
“Because,” Zink explained again, the first threads of frustration finally seeming to show through his normal indifferent calm. “Rye and Ell said they need to cook up another batch of Deception, and probably another Red Death, just to be sure—they aren't testing that one, for obvious reasons—and maintenance hasn't fixed our floor yet. The guy I talked to said there's flooding in the staff block because of the rain last week and they have to fix that first. He said they'd be over here at six at the earliest.”
“That gives us plenty of time!” Milo argued. “That's almost four hours—”
“Three and a half, at most. To set up all the tables, chairs, and drinks, and our element.” Keeping to tradition, or so they said, Zink's team had added a flair to the decorations that they kept a secret from everyone else involved. They referred to it as “the element” and wouldn't talk about it beyond that in front of anyone else. “That's going to be cutting it close, Milo. Plus,” he added, raising his voice to cut across Milo's next objection. “Morpho's average time is running about forty-five minutes longer than we expected at this point, even with the buffer space we added into the math.” He tapped a finger on the touchpad on the table for emphasis; presumably it was showing something to do with the Morphological unit and how long it was taking each person with an appointment to go through.
“How did you get that?” Layme asked Zink, sidetracked. “That's not common access. Did you—?”
“It's not important,” Zink said—almost snapped, really. Layme bit her lip and let him talk. “The point here is that, with the way things are going, the last Morpho shift, the one that includes Layme, won't be done until nine thirty. Do you want your girlfriend to be late to her own party?”
“Ten-thirty only gives us an hour and a half before unmasking, though,” Milo pointed out, ignoring Zink's question. The timing was designed around the idea that the party-goers would stay masked for the part of the pulse that fell on Layme's birthday, and, at midnight, would unmask for Milo's half, as the pulse dissolved into an ongoing and much more informal sort of gathering.
Zink said nothing for a minute, only studied the touchpad he'd tapped earlier, apparently trying to figure out a compromise. “If we can get in touch with a couple people and get them to move their Morpho stints up to an earlier time, we can cover some of these blank spots. Layme, if you move yours up to five, it'll pretty much guarantee you're out of there by eight-thirty, right?” Layme nodded her agreement. “Would you be okay with that, then? If we move this all up as much as possible, we can start at ten instead of ten-thirty. That's two hours of masks. Does that sound okay?”
Layme only nodded again. She was thinking she wouldn't have minded a ten-thirty start—it was obvious that the idea of starting earlier than that was stressing Zink out, and if anyone would know the timing well enough to know what would work and what wouldn't, it was Zink—but one glace at the treacherous look on Milo's face told her it was probably best not to say so.
“Fine, I guess,” Milo grumbled grudgingly.
“Finally,” Zink said, only half-bothering to keep the word under his breath. “I have to go back in there—” He jerked his thumb over his shoulder at the door to the party room. “—to make sure the element is going up right. I might have to revamp it if we can't fix the floor, so I need to figure that out. Can you guys survive without me?” His question dripped sarcasm, and his rolled eyes gave no doubt to the fact that he wasn't really asking for their opinions, but Layme nodded anyway.
“We'll be fine, Zink,” she said quietly. “Thank you for figuring this out. I owe you one.”
He turned to look at her as she spoke, and for a second she was sure he was going to snap at her, but his expression softened just a little bit, and she thought she saw the corners of his mouth twitch into an attempt at a smile. “Good. I can't take care of you traggers all day; I have things to do.”
“Do you want me to move up the Morpho appointments, or...?” she asked, wanting to take one of his problems without stepping on anyone's toes. She thought his microscopic smile might have widened a little bit.
“Sure. Yeah, actually, that'd be great. Thanks Layme.” He flashed an honest grin for a split second, then tossed her the touch, which she caught with some difficulty. “Gotta work on those reflexes, Ray,” he said, and he slipped back into the big room without opening the door widely enough to let her or Milo see anything inside.
“Bastard,” Milo muttered. Layme ignored him. She had concluded that ignoring Milo's litany of names for Zink and Zink's obvious superiority complex over Milo was the only effective way to be sure that neither of them would kill the other. It seemed to her that as long as each one thought she agreed with them, the two boys were content to coexist. It was a fragile truce, but it would last until the party was over, at least, and that was the important part.
“Milo, honey,” she said, interrupting a grumble of insults from under his breath.
“Mm?”
“Go see if Rye and Ell need help. I bet they do, especially if they're cooking up.”
“Nah, they don't need me, they've got it under control,” he said. “I was hoping we could—”
“Milo!” Layme interrupted him, smiling. “This is my nice way of telling you to go away so I can go be a girl and get ready.”
“Get ready?” he repeated incredulously. “It's only twelve-thirty! You've got until three for your Morpho stint, and you sure as hell can't do makeup before that, they're micro-scrubbing you the whole time.”
“I have to take care of this first,” she reminded him, flashing the touchpad that Zink had given her. “And I was banking on having until four-thirty to finish my Morph sheet, which is now cut down to before three. And it's not just me getting ready. I'm sure they really would appreciate your help.”
“They can survive without me for one day,” Milo joked, wrapping an arm around Layme's waist and pulling her in towards him. “I was hoping I'd get to spend time with you today.”
“You will get to spend time with me today,” she pointed out, standing on her toes to kiss him briefly. “We're going to be at the masque all night.”
“Yeah, but—”
“No buts!” she declared, dancing away from him.
“Hey!” he protested.
“Nope! No arguing. It's my birthday. I get my way all day. You have to wait until tomorrow.” Milo put on a mock-sulk, but Layme just laughed again.
“Fine,” he relented. “I'll go help Ell.” He tried to make his voice sound grudging, but there was no hiding the gleam of excitement in it. Mixing really was what he loved to do.
“Go,” Layme agreed, laughing. “Say hi for me, and tell Rye I said her dress better not be prettier than mine!” Milo waved over his shoulder and took the stairs two at a time, and Layme turned her attention back to the Morpho appointments on the touch from Zink.
Wondering in the back of her mind where he'd gotten the information in the first place, she started to get in touch with the people with the latest appointments and tried to move them up. Two people couldn't—they were sitting tests for a class, or so the bounce-back said when she tried to blip them. Three other people wouldn't, claiming all manner of excuses. Layme hung up with all of them frustrated. It was evident, to her at least, that they were already drunk, and the only reason they didn't want to go earlier was so that they didn't have to sober up sooner than expected. Finally, after an hour and a half of re-arranging and getting in touch with various people, she managed to get the last Morpho shift out at eight-thirty. She sank back on the couch with a sigh of relief. One less thing to worry about. Her eyes still shut, she opened a new audio blip and set it to send to Zink and Milo.
“Hey guys, I got the Morpho trag-jag figured out. I'm gonna hover down here in the commons unless either of you need me. My Morpho's at three, so if I don't see you guys before then, I'll catch you at the pulse. Ice out.”
She sent the blip out without opening her eyes, but she found that she couldn't sit still. Her fingers tapped an impatient rhythm on her thigh, and her thoughts wandered. She found herself coming back to Zink, and how he had managed to copy the schedule for the Morpho shifts. The Morphological Studies department was completely separate from the dorm and from the regular campus, and their information ran on a different local system. She would have said there was no way for Zink to gain access, but evidently she would have been wrong, so there must be a way. As to what it was, though, she had no clue.
“Well, there's a good way to waste an hour,” she said to herself. It was true; she had an empty hour or so with nothing to do. A small smile forming on her lips, she opened her eyes and pulled up her drive on her vis feed. Maybe she could figure out part of Zink's secret and use it to bother him later. She edited the access to the touchpad's programming and called up its raw code on her conscreens, reading through it and trying to find the source of the stream of information. From what she had been able to tell by using it to reschedule things, it was mirroring the information in the Morpho building, and vice-versa—whatever was changed on one was changed on the other. It wasn't a complicated thing to do in itself; what made her really curious was how Zink had gotten around the security traps. Morpho, like all the other separate departments on campus, was secretive and tried to keep its information to itself. Departments were fiercely competitive with each other and with their counterparts on other campuses, not unlike the Dragons and test-outs in other sectors.
After a few minutes of scanning, Layme thought she knew where the information was coming from. Zink had set up a fake call number somewhere and was tricking Morpho's system into thinking that the fake call had access to information. She let out a low whistle through her teeth. She had known Zink was good, but she had known it mostly by his speed. She hadn't known he was into anything this complicated. Of course, there was no way to be sure he'd been the one to set up the hack. It could have been another member of his team, or even a Tech-spec with nothing better to do... but something told her that wasn't the case. The ingenuity of it, the way the program seemed to be able to cut corners—it all pointed to Zink and his way of thinking about things. There was something else familiar about it to, something that nagged at the back of her mind, like deja vu, but she couldn't quite place it. After meditating on it for a little, she decided she was only recognizing Zink's style from working with him on masque stuff and went back to focusing on the info-stream program. If she could get access to the fake call's raw information, she thought she might be able to find the real call number that was broadcasting the fake frequency.
A few minutes into manipulating codes and trying to direct a flow of information into her own feed, a write-window popped up on her vis feed. Grinning, she pulled it forward, expecting the fake call's information to start filling the little square. Instead, a familiar line of X's marched across instead.
It was Spelter.
XXXX YOU'RE NOT DOING IT RIGHT, YOU KNOW XXXX he said, and Layme swore. He'd been watching her. She wasn't angry at first, only mildly annoyed—she had come to see him more as a nuisance than a threat—until she realized that it had been Zink's programming that had been on her vis feed when he must have been watching. Shit, she thought. Oh shit. Zink Is going to kill me.
Pull the fuck out, Spelter, she sent to him. She could feel herself shaking in anger.
WHY SHOULD I?
Because you're a father-tragger who has no sense of honor, she shot back almost immediately.
OUCH, RAYME, he responded. PLAY NICE. She could almost hear him laughing.
Who the fuck are you anyway, you tweak?
YOU NEED TO EXPAND YOUR REPEROIRE, RAYME. THAT ONE'S GETTING A LITTLE OLD.
Like hell it is. It's one thing to fuck with me, but if you start fucking with my friend's I
Before she could finish typing, he had sent a reply. That was bad; it meant he had a live connection to her vis feed. Once again, it seemed Spelter was holding the advantage.
DON'T WORRY, I HAVE NO INTENTION OF BOTHERING YOUR FRIEND. THOUGH HE CAN SPIN QUITE AN IMPRESSIVE PROGRAM, FROM WHAT I SAW.
Fuck you, she sent back, furious. She was seeing red around the edges of her vision.
SO VULGAR. DON'T YOU KNOW THAT UNBECOMING FOR A LADY?
Bite me. Who do you think you are?
YOU'LL SEE, he said, and she clenched her teeth. He had said that same thing before pulling out the last time. Maybe he had a plan that involved more than just popping up in her drive every so often.
What do you want from me, Spelter? she asked again. She wasn't expecting an answer, but the word surrender wasn't part of Layme's vocabulary when she was angry.
YOU KEEP ASKING THE SAME QUESTIONS, RAY. BROADEN YOUR HORIZONS A LITTLE. BESIDES, I THOUGHT YOU LIKED A BIT OF ANONIMITY.
What do you mean by
WHY ELSE WOULD YOU THROW A MASQUERADE FOR YOUR PULSE? HAPPY BIRTHDAY, BY THE WAY.
A chill slid down her spine. It wasn't the knowledge of her birthday that scared her—he had access to her call and therefore to her date of birth—but the knowledge of the masquerade. No one outside of the Dorm knew, not even Tessa. It was standard operating procedure for big-time pulses to be kept secret, a factor of cross-sector Dorm rivalry, as well as staying under the radar of campus staff and Govlies whenever possible. The only way Spelter could know about the masque was if he had been rotting through the archive files of her drive. Archives were temporary files that were stored in an electronic cache in the Campus, city, and sector systems, as well as the Federal System, as electronic backup for twenty-four hours after information was deleted from a soft-drive. If Spelter had access to arcs, he might be more dangerous than she had thought.
How did you get into my
NO MORE QUESTIONS, LAYME. TSK TSK. YOU HAVE BETTER THINGS TO DO ON YOUR BIRTHDAY.
Don't fucking try to
I DON'T HAVE TO *TRY* FOR ANYTHING, he interrupted. IF YOU WERE SAYING WHAT I THINK YOU WERE, I *DEFINITELY* DON'T HAVE TO TRY AND ANGER YOU. YOU PLAY RIGHT INTO MY HANDS.
You tweak. You're a tragging COWARD.
MAYBE, he answered, and she felt that deja vu again, almost as if she could hear the tone of his voice. But that was just nerves. She had no idea who Spelter was, let alone how his voice sounded.
HAVE A GOOD BIRTHDAY, LAYME. AND BEWARE. THE RED DEATH HOLDS SWAY OVER ALL.
The write-window wiped itself blank, like it always did after her encounters with Spelter, and Layme was left in the usual tangle of confusion, frustration, and anger that followed her conversations with the programmer. She was so keyed up that when her audio feed beeped to tell her she had a notification, she almost screamed. She caught herself just in time, biting down on her lip hard enough to leave the metallic taste of blood on her tongue, and then checked the note. It was Morpho's system, telling her that the appointment before her was almost done and she should be on deck. They must have finished her predecessor early. Still shaking, she closed her vis feed and collapsed the touch, slipping it into her pocket.
Her mind ran wild as she made her way across campus to the Morpho building. She had no way of knowing if she could trust Spelter or not; her first instinct was not, and that was a frightening concept. He had some sort of connection to her drive that she couldn't find, and, because of that, couldn't sever. He had her proggie handle, which enabled him to positively ID any program of hers that he managed to get his electronic hands on. He had seen Zink's program in write-raw form, which might mean nothing—or might put Zink at risk, depending upon when he had started watching her work her way through the code. He knew her plans for the night, and that was the worst part. It meant he had access into information in places other than her drive that were connected to her. It meant he was better than any proggie she had ever seen, or even heard of. If he had access to arc files, he was better than she had ever suspected was possible for anyone outside trained Govlies.
You don't know that he's a civ, Layme. He might have said that he's not, but he can say whatever he wants. It doesn't make any of it true. He might be baiting you, or even using information he gets from you to snag Zink or someone else on his team. He might have forced you to be his own personal real-life worm for him, Lay. You need to figure out who the fuck he is. Hack him back, or find a way to keep him out. Ask Zink if you have to, just get him out of your drive.
She found herself nodding in agreement with the line of thought. Yes, maybe if she talked to Zink, the two of them would be able to find a way to block Spelter. If Edda or Shy got involved, they might even be able to back-hack him and at least find out whether or not he was Gov. She made a mental note to talk to Zink about it after the masque was finally over with.
By the time she got to Morpho, she had calmed down. She didn't have to deal with Spelter alone, and he hadn't done anything to her so far. He was nothing she had to worry about today. Today was all about her. It was her birthday, and her friends were throwing her the party of her dreams. When she got to Morpho to give her design a final check, she was smiling, and by the time she stepped into the op-pod, she had forgotten all about Spelter.
Part One, Post 13 >>
