Damian collapsed the door network in a way so typical of him. Sticking to the established routes and destinations angered him. He wanted freedom from constraint. On his whim, if he wanted Fry Jacks in Belize, he had a right to walk through a door to the Paradiso Cafe and order them, “If I can’t teleport to Errolyn’s for Fry Jacks, the Hive is basically Gestapo.” Result? The door network crashed.
Inger swiped her key card on the door frame to open a door to the Paradise Casino so she could go to work. Two beeps and a red light on the card reader. What? WTF? She swiped again, same response. She spoke to the listening walls, “Why can’t I go to work?” Her Mikako replied, “The door network crashed. Someone unlocked it and too many people tried to use it.”
Joy, “Who crashed it?”
“The account belongs to Damian Holdt.”
“The same account freezing my screens with DM’s?”
“Yes, Mam.”
“Asshole. When is it going to be up again?”
“For you? About a half-hour. I called in for you to let them know you will be late. You’ll miss prep.”
“I can’t. Say what you want. Tell them I’m sick.”
“Message sent.”
“Thanks”
Not Today
Inger went for a thirty-minute walk to the back side of the mountain where the remains of several mine shafts stood. She sat Zazen close enough to a shaft entrance to feel the cool air flowing out. She sat with her back straight, hands folded, breath deep and even. The cool air from the mine shaft drifted across her skin. She let it pass through her like wind through corn. Then walked back to her cabin and called Neesha, “Hey. I’m coming over.”
“‘k, See you soon.” It’s 2500 miles from Paradise Valley, NV to Richmond, VA. An easy walk through a door when the network was up. About six hours by plane and 37 hours with no stops by car. She tried her key card again. One long beep and the screen beside the door showed a prompt, “Destination?” with her Stuart Street address as the default. The second choice was the barn on the farm. She tapped “Goochland Farm” and the screen changed to “Configuring, 30 seconds.” That’s new. Usually it was sub-second before the door clicked open.
“Ready. Please enter” Inger opened the door. Through it she could see the interior of the barn. She walked through to the smell of old hay. The door blinked and through the window she could see the yard between the barn and the house. The corn was taller than her. Harvest is still a couple months away.
Farmhouse Chat
Neesha got the notification that Inger was here. She stood in the doorway, “hey.”
“Hey.”
“You good?”
“Nope”
(beat)
“Come on in”
Neesha stepped out of the doorway so Inger could enter. She pulls a chair out from the table and gestures for Inger to sit, “You ate?”
“I’m good”
“You sure? I got salad and sweet tea.”
“It’s ok.”
“Well, I’m fixin a plate anyway.”
Neesha set a place setting with three-bean salad, a plate of biscuits and a pitcher of sweet tea. She added a ramekin of softened honey butter. Inger picked up a warm biscuit and buttered it. Made a bite out of the biscuit and a little of the three-bean salad then ate it, “I miss this so much. Nothing beats homemade and from a garden.”
Three Beans
Neesha left the bean salad jar, the biscuits on the table with the tea, “You said you weren’t good. What’s up?”
“This guy. Some rando named Damian. I don’t know him. He’s stalking me. Like, full-on. Thinks chasing me is romantic or something. It’s not. It’s giving creep vibes. Like—bruh, please log off.
“He’s blowing up your phone?”
“Worse—he’s got some hack that hijacks my screens. His DMs pop up and I can’t even click out. Like, full lock. It’s giving stalker malware vibes. Looping DMs. Hive alerts. Like he thinks obsession is a love language. It’s not. It’s just mad cringe.”
“You blocked him?”
“Tried. He crashed the network. Like, who does that? That’s not love. That’s a walking red flag with a router.”
Neesha, “you ain’t gotta explain it to me. Charlie was like that. ‘No’ is a glitch for him.”
“Exactly. Like I’m a Mikako he can reimage. I said no. He said, ‘try again.’ I said stop. Then he said, ‘stop lying.’ It’s exhausting.”
Cast Iron Biscuits
Next to the door leading to the dining room was double-barreled break action shotgun. Shells for it were on a credenza next to the door. Great for birds and not bad for creeps who don’t knock first. “What a weirdo,” said Neesha.
“No cap”
“Are you going to do anything?”
“There isn’t anything I can do. I don’t know who he is or how to find him.” Inger’s voice cracked once, then steadied. She was the kind of tired that sits in your bones and makes you question whether the door network crashing was the doom everyone feared or just a glitch.
“Heard.”
Inger eyed the shotgun. Neesha noticed the side eye, “you into guns?”
“No. I hate guns. But that creep scares me.”
“You are good. It’s for hunting birds but it’ll put leaks in people too.”
“‘k.”
Field Service Call
The network door on the barn alerted. Someone came through. “Are you expecting someone,” asked Neesha.
“No. If that guy found me . . . motherfucker!”
“He won’t be a problem, Inger.”
Someone knocked on the back door of the house. He was dressed in a dark blue coverall and had a lanyard with credentials on it. Neesha answered the door, “Can I help you?”
The service rep bowed to Neesha, “Good afternoon. I am here for Inger. Request from Kanbukai.”
“Who?”
Inger stood up. She knew the name, “Neesha. That’s from my boss. He’s legit.” Neesha turned and went into the dining room. “Are you here to fix my access?”
“May I speak Japanese?”
“いいよ。”
“お詫びに参りました。そして、ドアネットワークのアカウントは修復済みです。追加のセキュリティも施しましたので、今後のご心配は不要です。”
“お越しいただき、ありがとうございました。問題が解決して安心しました。”
“こちらこそ、ありがとうございました。どうぞ、良い一日をお過ごしください。” the Service Rep bows and leaves.
Post Mortem
Support Services filed the resolution. The incident was tagged “closed,” in the Kanbukai ledger. Inger’s access was restored. Her Mikako confirmed the patch: new credentials, hardened endpoints, behavioral flags set to alert on anomalies.
Inger sat on the porch of the Goochland farmhouse, watching the corn sway in the late summer wind. The shotgun was still inside, shells still on the credenza. Neesha went to feed the hens. She sipped her Oolong Tea with a restless heart. This was bigger than a harmless prank gone viral. The United Nations convened the Security Council.
The door network was back online after announced patches and updates. Credentials for high tier accounts were hardened. But the feeling of dread floated in the dust, lingering in the corners of the room, in the silence between porch light pulses, in the way Inger didn’t unpack her bag. The Paradise Casino was open. The Stuart Street address was reachable. But Inger didn’t walk through. Not yet. She needed more than an email notifying her that the incident closed.
More Regular Rhythm
Months rolled by. She heard nothing from that hacker who shoved his way into her DM’s. The rhythms comforted her. Inger’s Oak Grove cottage got a remodel on the inside. 降雪 (Kōsetsu) home security got upgrades, motion detection, cameras, doorbells and smoke detectors.
Inger’s router sent a notification to Tomoe of a low-grade anomaly—barely a blip from a legacy subnet. Odd that it would kick a notification for this, “Tomoe, why did you notify me about this?”
“It’s a possible security risk.”
“You got it?”
“Stand by. Stay inside.”
Inger walked to the kitchen and poured another cup of tea. She opened a pineapple cake and took a bite, “Is it that hacker?”
“Seems so. The biometric markers are similar.”
“Where is he?”
“Walking up Ingram Avenue away from your house.”
“Ok. Let me know if I should be concerned.”
The Hive is Faster
On a dreary fall evening Damian walked up Ingram Avenue after dropping a gift in Inger’s mailbox. Mrs. Callow stood up from her rocking chair and touched the side arm she had holstered on her hip. Damian quickened his pace. In front of him a robotaxi sat idle at the curb. Several autonomous security robots were following him at a distance; their cloaking coatings set to minimal visibility. He heard their footsteps and broke into a run. Damian made it to 21st street before running into a platoon of security robots. He wheeled around looking for an escape path. No way out.
Too fast the Tavro robots surrounded him, “On your knees! Hands behind your back!” Damian complied. One of the Tavros pushed him flat on his belly into the cold and damp sidewalk. Woo. He was searched, handcuffed and stuffed into an RPD SUV. His escapade ended and a return to the work camp begun.
He had a payable debt before tonight. Now? Not so much. The night returned to calm; the only sound cicadas serenading to possible mates. “I got close tonight. Next time I’ll get even closer,” thought Damian from the back seat of the SUV.