Day One

Nothing for a moment, and then: Never mind. Authorities after everyone. Big pressure on this, I’m in crosshairs.

Just tell them you’re not involved—they’ll trace everything soon enough and see.

Not that simple. I’m being set up.

Hawke shook his head: Why?

Don’t know. Something’s happening. Find out who Doe is.

You know I can’t do that.

Damn well can. You’re the best at this. When you want to be.

As he was about to type a reply, the screen flickered and went blank. Hawke paused, fingers over the keys, still not entirely sure what he wanted to write. They had another minute before the session would automatically terminate, and this wasn’t the way it would happen anyway. This was like hardware failure.

He was about to try to crash the system and restart when the screen came back up as if nothing had happened. His chat session with Rick was gone, but everything else was intact.

Except it wasn’t, not exactly.

Hawke stared at the message board, trying to make sense of what he saw. At first glance, the board looked the same, the same members posting in the same order, at least as he remembered it. But the contents of the posts were entirely different. Board members had gone from expressing confusion and anger over Operation Global Blackout to taking responsibility for it. A member named crow17 claimed he had been one of many hundreds of thousands who had aimed a low-orbit ion cannon at the DOJ servers last night, taking them down. Another poster talked about being a part of this morning’s call to action through Twitter. Someone else talked about going after the New York Stock Exchange next, then creating an emoticon message that would self-populate through chains of brokerage accounts and wipe out all transactions for the users.

Hawke remembered seeing both threads when he first logged on, and they were entirely different. And there were more like that. It was as if someone had erased the text of each message and rewritten them, one by one.

It was one thing to crash a site but quite another to erase and then generate entirely new content on the fly.

Who could possibly have done something like that?

In spite of his concerns about getting involved with Rick, Hawke went off sniffing like a bloodhound. He left the corrupted board and logged on to Twitter, scrolling through the hash tags on Anonymous, Admiral Doe, DOJ and Operation Global Blackout. Anonymous had been busy. There were hundreds of tweets in the last few hours by those claiming to be associated with the hacker collective: the DOJ takedown, an attack on the servers of French government, the leaking of private FBI transcripts, service interruptions and messages posted on dozens of police Web sites across the country, a theft of private data from Goldman Sachs accounts, calls to action in protests around the world for various causes like censorship, corruption, injustice and religion, in Austria, Belgium, Britain, Bulgaria, the Czech Republic, France, Germany, Hungary, Luxembourg, Malta, the Netherlands, Poland, Portugal, Romania, Scotland, Sweden, Switzerland, the United States….

The activity was staggering, and through it all Hawke sensed some kind of common thread that he couldn’t quite grasp but scared the hell out of him. The whole point of Anonymous was that it didn’t govern itself, had no permanent set of goals or leaders; it existed simply as a movement for change and a way of pushing back against authority and censorship in any form. It had begun with a small group of mischief-makers and had always kept that playful edge, and it was fluid, constantly evolving, an online, shared consciousness driven by the whims of the group. Hawke had always imagined it as a gigantic flock of geese, moving in unison in a seemingly random pattern.

This was different. There was purpose here, and it was deadly serious.

Hawke focused his search on New York, and found dozens of tweets referring to gatherings across the city. One in Bowling Green Park, protesting Wall Street greed; another near Downtown Hospital to protest unaffordable health care; a third in Seward Park to protest immigration laws; a fourth and fifth in SoHo and the Theater District to protest censorship; a sixth outside of Rockefeller University to protest lack of affordability in higher education. There were protests on wealth inequality in J. Hood Wright, Inwood Hill, Highbridge and Marcus Garvey parks.

Each call to action had been tweeted by Admiral Doe.

Hawke thought of the man with the duffel bag, and the others on the train, all going in different directions. He pulled up a map, plotted the protest locations. He sensed some kind of pattern, but no matter how hard he stared at the screen, it wouldn’t emerge.

Another cup of coffee might help him focus. He got up, took off his suit jacket and draped it over his chair and began to make his way toward a tiny back room where a pot was usually brewing.

The first thing Hawke noticed when he opened the door was the heat; it puffed out at him. The room’s lights blinked on automatically. The room was little more than a windowless supply closet, lined with open shelves stacked with reams of paper and office supplies on the right side and a long worktable on the left with a small refrigerator underneath it. Someone had brought a container of donut holes, and powdered sugar and cinnamon dotted the table next to the paper cups and containers of sugar packets and creamer, along with the monstrous coffee machine.

The room had to be twenty degrees hotter than the office, and the smell of coffee was strong. Probably scalded. It figured; the machine was brand-new, with all the bells and whistles, one of those complicated stations that people with too much money paid through the nose for in order to create barista-style drinks in their pajamas, and yet it couldn’t even brew a decent cup. Bradbury had acted like a proud father when he’d shown it off on Hawke’s first day in the office. It did pretty much everything from grinding beans and foaming milk to making flavored drinks. It even had an app for remote scheduling, which Bradbury had insisted on demonstrating. The entire outfit practically screamed, Look at me; I’m sophisticated!

Hawke glanced at the sheet of printed instructions for lattes and cappuccinos lying on the table and sighed. He didn’t need a specialty drink. Luckily, the beast had a separate glass carafe for regular coffee, and someone had used it this morning. There were a couple of cups still left. Even if the remains were burned, it would be better than nothing.

As Hawke reached for the carafe, he could feel the heat radiating from the gleaming machine and heard a faint hiss of escaping pressure as his fingers touched the handle. Incredibly, the smooth steel was cool to the touch, another marvel of modern engineering. But the smell of the coffee was bitter and hot.

When he pulled the glass carafe free it exploded in his hand. The sound was like a gunshot in the small room. Scalding coffee sprayed across the table and front of the shiny machine; glass shards bounced off the walls and floor.

Hawke dropped the remains of the carafe like he’d been bitten and felt warmth across the back of his wrist, warmth that quickly changed to a sharp pain. More warmth spread through his chest. Jesus Christ. He looked down in shock; luckily, most of the coffee and the glass had sprayed away from him, but his shirt was spotted with coffee stains and his wrist was already turning red.

The machine let out another hiss. Steam rose from somewhere inside it. Hawke yanked the plug from the outlet, then stepped back, eyeing the coffeemaker warily. He grabbed a roll of paper towels from a shelf and blotted the coffee from the table, his shock and fear quickly turning to embarrassment. Even though he hadn’t done anything to cause the mess, he felt guilty. An exploding coffeemaker. It was a silly prank, absolutely fucking slapstick comedy. Let’s get the new guy. He almost wanted to look around for the hidden camera, and he might have laughed it off except for the burn on his wrist that had already begun to throb. Not so funny after all. When he thought about it, he knew it was no prank. Just a malfunctioning piece of equipment, and he was in the wrong place at the wrong time.

Hawke swept the larger shards of glass up with a nearby dustpan and brush and deposited them in the trash. He was considering the smears of coffee on the wall when the sound of someone clearing his throat made him glance up.

“Never liked that thing,” Weller said. He was standing in the open doorway, arms crossed, leaning against the jamb. “I guess I wasn’t the only one. When you’re done cleaning up, join me in my office. We need to