comStar Firewall alert - PhaseThrough

6
. . . Matrix overview . . .
“Hello! Would you like to try our New! Iced! Mocha! with Genuine! Chocolate! flavoring?” The
AR waitstaff popped up as soon as I sat down in the mall café’s chair, like the RFID tag in the plastic
seat was just waiting for my ass to connect with the cushion. I sent my order to the café: Soy-kaf,
black. My bank account dropped by two nuyen, bringing it perilously close to zero. Shit.
A couple of tables down, my mark settled in. The way his brown eyes were flicking around like
ping-pong balls on crack, I could tell he was multi-tasking on his ‘link. He had something in his
hand—another goddamned commlink. When’d he pick that up? Damn him for being smart enough
to have a second ‘link, not to mention picking this busy mall to make his call. I’d hacked his normal
‘link earlier and found nothing. Now I knew why.
I bit my lip, trying to decide—hack or scan? Must be two hundred ‘links nearby. If I didn’t have
some proof of his suspected infidelity by tonight, I’d lose this job. Rent was due on the first. The room
wasn’t much, but miss a payment and the damn door would be locked, the appliances shut off, all my
settings—like that Virtual Window I’d splurged on—remotely destroyed by the software that ran the
building. The software I could handle. It was my big-ass ork landlord I didn’t want to short change.
A human waitress slammed my coffee on the table, moving off towards customers who looked
like better tip prospects—like my mark, with his 4,000 nuyen suit and fancy haircut. I sighed and
began sorting through the wireless chatter.
“Oh my God, did you see—”
“No, I’m so not—”
“Mooooommmm—”
“Those shoes—”
“Hot chick, ten o’clock—”
Damn. The guy’s eyes had stopped their frantic motion. He was smiling into space. Got to go faster.
I flicked through the babble, desperate to catch his call before he finished. Ah, here’s one.
Encrypted. Not your teeny-bopper mallrats. I unleashed my decryption prog, counting the seconds as
I took a sip of the overpriced soy-kaf. Watched as his handsome face—which cost more than I made
in a year, no doubt—smirked. My program beeped as it broke the encryption. I began recording.
“Honey, you know I can’t. The witch is watching me 24-7. I think she’s hired someone … . Baby, just one
more month and the prenup is over … ” His voice was smooth, cultured, dripping with sex appeal—the best
modern technology could provide. “I promise, baby. The very second. ‘Til then, let’s just keep it virtual … .”
I had to admit he was slick. I’d spent a week watching him with no sign of a honey, not a single moment
when I couldn’t account for his whereabouts. Now I knew why. Lucky for my client, divorce courts had
ruled a couple years ago on online affairs. Looked like the bastard wouldn’t be making his prenup after all.
Unwired
Simon Wentworth (order #1132857) 9