Virtual Vandals

“They’ve certainly got a warped sense of humor. It took us a little longer to identify this face.” Winters pointed to a set of mustached features with a receding chin. “That’s Dr. Crippen. Executed in 1910 for a sensational murder in Britain.”

He gestured toward the remaining faces. “These two aren’t even criminals at all.”

Matt stared at the laughing, lean features of a dark-haired man and the smiling, heart-shaped young woman’s face. “Who are they?”

“Actors. Warren Beatty and Faye Dunaway, circa 1967—the year they did a gangster flatfilm called Bonnie and Clyde.”

Matt couldn’t help himself. He chuckled.

“Sure,” Winters said angrily. “They’re just kids, kidding around. But they’ve hurt a lot of people. And these pranks of theirs keep escalating.”

The smile disappeared from Matt’s face. “Have you got any sort of line on them?”

The captain shook his head. “We’ve had our best on-line decoys out on the Net — and so far, we’ve gotten zilch.”

Matt examined the four false faces in front of him. “Even the best adult operator can’t impersonate a teenager perfectly,” he said. “To catch these kids, you’re going to need a kid.”

He tapped his chest. “And I think I’m that kid.”

The next morning was a Monday, the beginning of the school week. Usually Matt had to drag himself out of bed. But today he was up, showered, dressed, and finished with breakfast in lots of time for a slow walk to the bus stop. He was still turning over plans in his mind. Matt went to Bradford Academy, one of the most prestigious high schools in the Washington area. He’d gotten into the academy on a scholarship — but most of the students were bright, rich kids. If the Virtual Vandals didn’t actually go to Bradford, Matt was willing to bet that somebody on campus probably knew them.

Matt flagged down the approaching autobus, climbed aboard, and swiped his Universal Credit Card past the computer system that ran the vehicle.

“Destination, please?” the operating computer asked.

Matt gave the nearest cross streets to Bradford Academy, sat down, and continued to worry at the problem he’d set for himself.

He’d have to find a way into the elite social clique at school — the Leets, Big Men (and Women) on Campus, the ones who always got elected to the student government and ran the dances. Matt knew some of these kids — the smarter ones — from classes. He ran down that list. Could any of those kids have hidden behind the gun-toting proxies he’d seen yesterday? It seemed hard to believe.

But there were lots of other rich kids at Bradford, kids with enough money to afford the absolute best in computer equipment — and who were bored enough to go looking for a few sick thrills.

The bus pulled up at Matt’s stop, announcing the streets. Matt got off and walked the couple of blocks to the Bradford campus. The parking lot was already filling with flashy, expensive car — another set of toys that the rich kids who went there could afford.

Andy Moore leaned against the wall at the side entrance, trying to catch the feeble rays of sunshine. The weather had changed overnight, and the morning was downright chilly. Matt grinned when he saw how red his friend’s face was. Andy had gotten a sunburn yesterday.

“I don’t know why we’re here,” Andy grumpily greeted Matt as he came up.

“Compulsory Education Act of 2009,” Matt replied, remembering his Civics homework. “We’ve got to stay in school until we’re at least eighteen.”

“It’s a plot,” Andy said darkly. “They could just as easily broadcast classes through the Net. I could be sitting up in bed now in my underwear, eating kelp-tarts and just preparing for the day—”

“If this is a two-way connection, that would probably be against the Cruelty to Teachers Act of 2010.”

Andy shrugged. “Maybe.” Then he gave Matt a suspicious look. “Hey! I don’t remember any Cruelty to Teachers Act.”

“So I made it up,” Matt replied. “You’re probably right that sending us off to school is probably a giant baby- sitting scheme, so the folks who go to work will know their kids are being supervised—”

“And the ones who work at home will have the kids out of their hair,” Andy finished.

“I think we learn something besides Math, English, and Social Studies,” Matt said. “School throws us in with different people, and we have to learn to get along with them. Otherwise, all we’d be good for is veeyars and interfacing with the computers in autobuses.”

Andy laughed. “Hey, at least someday I hope to be able to afford an autocar.”

The school doors opened, and Matt, Andy, and the other kids who’d been gathering hurried down the halls to the classrooms they used for Prep period. Matt logged on to one of the desk computers, giving his student ID number, automatically signifying his attendance and calling up the day’s schedule.

Good, he thought. No surprise lecturers. As a respected school in the Washington area, Bradford attracted visitors from around the world — scholars who knew the academic staff, educators examining the workings of the school, even famous alumni. But today looked pretty straightforward — except for the request to meet with his History teacher after classes.

Matt wasn’t worried about that. He liked Dr. Fairlie and got along well in his class. Besides, he had other concerns right now.

Powering down his desk unit, he turned to the kids sitting around him. Andy was already talking up the incident in Baltimore.

“Hey, I was there!” Andy was telling his audience. “It was pretty bugged up! You know Leif Anderson? He was there in virtual and got hit by one of those idiots!”

“I heard it was just a bunch of kids fooling around on the Net,” Matt said.

“If that’s the way they fool around, I’d hate to see them get serious,” Lois Kearny said.

“Yeah,” Manuel Oliva added. “This isn’t like programming all the toilets in the school to flush together.” The year before they’d started at Bradford, some unknown genius had managed that trick, and moved into legend. The school authorities had never found the culprit — officially. But a huge anonymous donation had been made, probably by the kid’s parents, to pay for flood damage and plumbing repairs.

“Anybody hear about anyone messing around on the Net?” Matt asked casually.

The answers were disappointing, all little stuff — like the person trying to send a love note mistakenly e- mailing it to everyone in the school.

“I hear somebody hacked a way into the commercial entertainment sims,” Mannie Oliva said.

“Pay-per-adventure,” Lois sneered, not very impressed.

“These are the special—adult—ones,” Mannie went on.

“Sounds like some computer geek in search of a life,” Andy hooted.

“And looking in all the wrong places,” Matt agreed.

The mysteries of schoolwork took over for the rest of the day. But Matt’s investigation got an unexpected boost from Dr. Fairlie. When Matt arrived at his History teacher’s last-period classroom, he found a classmate waiting at the door. Sandy Braxton was one of the “Leets,” short for “elite,” Bradford’s top social clique.

Dr. Fairlie beckoned them in after his students came bursting out of the door. “You know that an important part of your American History grade comes from the research project. I’m assigning the pair of you to work as a team. You both have the same topic — the Battle of Gettysburg.”

“I’ve been doing some research about Pickett’s Charge,” Sandy said anxiously. “The Confederate general who broke the Union line was attacking troops led by his former best friend.”

“An interesting start, Mr. Braxton,” Dr. Fairlie said. “Unfortunately, your reports are more known for their flashy computer special effects than for their clear content.”

The teacher glanced at Matt. “Mr. Braxton is not a writer. Amazingly, he has reached his third year here at Bradford without being able to organize his thoughts into a coherent narrative.”

Matt knew why. Sandy Braxton probably felt he didn’t need to organize his thoughts. When he got out of school, he could hire any organizational experts he needed to help run the family business — which, as far as Matt could see, involved owning about half of Virginia.

The teacher went on. “Your reports, Mr. Hunter, are models of clarity. Perhaps you can give Mr. Braxton some useful pointers.”