Friday, March 27, 2015

Halker/Stacker, 1

1My alarm sounded, and the first thing I checked was that my little girls had made it to school just fine. The alert showed clear on my phone just like it had every day, and I settled back on my pillow with a sigh of relief. The new code was working dependably, good news for all that I paid for it. As long as nobody spotted the little trojan--and nobody should--everything was going to be alright.

I climbed out of bed and woke up my computers before grabbing some breakfast, started my simulations running before I hopped into the shower, and finished, dried, and dressed before settling down in the one place that I spent more time in than my bed: my computer chair.

I leaned back, holding my mug of orange-and-lime juice, and watched the feed visualizations cycle through. When everything came up clear, I pulled up my inbox and started working my way through the flood of correspondence that always awaited me.

"Antenor and Associates" was the name all these people were so keen to talk to, Antenor himself, if they could, but I hadn't the patience to tell the lot that he died three thousand years ago, if he ever lived at all. Instead, I spoke for him, never letting on that most of my "Associates" were darknet contractors who lived more hidden lives than I.

My phone beeped again, and the alert popped that my girls were slipping out the gymnasium doors for a smoke instead of second period. I tapped a few keys and switched on the cameras on their phones, concerned, but it was just weed. For me, that was small fry, not worth making a fuss over, and this semester, second period was health class. As seniors, that meant sex-ed, and my little girls didn't need any more education on that subject.

Unfortunately, I wasn't one of those parents who could just write a note, claiming religious reasons or some such other excusable bullshit. I probably could have hired one of my Associates to dig into the school system and skate them out of the class; no, that would have drawn too much attention to myself, because I was no caring parent.

My little girls weren't exactly mine, persay, not in the blood sense, at least. It was more of the grooming sort of way, if you get my drift.

What draws me and my Associates together is our tastes. We're not the same, exactly, but talking about it outside our circles leaves a bitter taste in our audience's mouths and, if we're lucky, shirts with extra long sleeves. Pedo is a dirty, four letter word, to these folks, when Fuck gets a clean bill of health. I wasn't into kids myself, but that alone wasn't enough to keep me from being worried about a padded cell or metal bracelets.

Hey, you do what you got to do, and some people get seriously irritable when they can't get their rocks off frequently enough.

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