It hadn’t turned out the way they’d hoped. Back in Iran, Watt’s dad had attended the top mechanical engineering school, and his mom had been studying as a doctor. But Rashid now worked repairing industrial coolant and sewage systems. Shirin had been forced to get a job as a caregiver at a nursing home, just so they could keep their apartment. They never complained, but Watt knew it wasn’t easy on them, working long days hammering machinery and dealing with crotchety old people, then coming downstairs to take care of the family. And no matter how hard they tried, money always seemed to be tight. Especially now that the twins were getting older.
Which was why Watt had started saving for college. Well, for MIT. Their microsystems engineering program was the best in the world—and Watt’s best shot at someday working on one of the few legal quants left, the ones owned by the UN and NASA. He wasn’t applying to any safety schools. His parents worried that his insistence was stubborn and overconfident, but Watt didn’t care; he knew he would get in. The real question was how he would pay for it. He’d been applying to scholarships, and had won a few small grants here and there, but nowhere near enough to pay for four years at an expensive private university.
So Watt had started making money a different way: by venturing to the darker part of the i-Net, and answering ads for what were euphemistically called “information services.” In other words, hacking. Together he and Nadia falsified employment records, changed students’ grades at various school systems, even broke into flicker accounts for people who thought their significant others were cheating. Only once did they try hacking a bank’s security system, and that ended almost immediately, when Nadia detected a virus hurtling toward them and shut herself off.
After that, Watt tried to steer clear of anything too illegal, except of course for the fact of Nadia’s existence. But he took on jobs whenever he could, depositing most of the proceeds in a savings account and giving the rest to his parents. They knew he was good with technology; when he told them the money came from tech support jobs online, they didn’t question it.
He scrolled idly through the H@cker Haus requests, stifling a yawn. As usual, most were too absurd or too illegal for him to take on, but he flagged a few for later review. One in particular caught his eye, asking for information on a missing person. Those were usually easy jobs if the person was still in the country; Nadia had long ago hacked the national security-cam link, and could use facial recognition to find people in a matter of minutes. Curious, Watt read further, an eyebrow raised. It certainly was an unusual request.
The author of the post wanted information on someone who had been missing this past year, but who had since returned. I need to know where he’s been this whole time, and why he came home, the person requested. Sounded easy enough.
Watt immediately composed a reply, introducing himself as Nadia—the name he used for all his hacking jobs, because, well, why not?—and saying that he’d love to help. He leaned back, drumming his fingers on the armrests.
I might be interested, the person who’d written the post replied. But I need proof you can actually do what you say you can do.
Well, well. A newbie. Everyone who repeatedly posted on these forums knew enough about Watt to know he was a professional. He wondered who this person was. “Nadia, can you—”
“Yes,” Nadia answered, knowing his question before he even finished speaking, and hacking into the sender’s security to find the hardware address. “Got her. Here she is.”
On the screen appeared the girl’s feed profile. She was Watt’s age, and lived right here in the Tower, up on the 962nd floor.
What did you have in mind? he answered, a little intrigued.
His name is Atlas Fuller. Tell me something I don’t know about him, and the job is yours.
Nadia found Atlas instantly. He was at home—on the thousandth floor. Watt was stunned. This guy actually lived on the thousandth floor? Not that Watt had given the Tower’s penthouse much thought, but if pressed, he wouldn’t have guessed a teenager lived there. What an idiot, Watt thought, running away when that was your life.
“Can we hack their home comp?” Watt asked Nadia, thinking maybe he could get a snap of Atlas in his bedroom.
But Nadia wasn’t having any luck. “It’s an incredibly sophisticated system,” she told Watt, which he knew meant that it could take weeks. Better to get something now. This job was too good to lose.
His messages, then. That would be easier to hack. Sure enough, Nadia immediately pulled up Atlas’s most recent messages. A few had been sent to guys named Ty and Maxton, and the rest to someone named Avery. None were that exciting. Watt sent them all over anyway.
Moments later the girl’s reply came in.
Congratulations, you’re hired. Now I need you to find as much as you can about what Atlas has been doing the past year.
As you wish, Watt couldn’t help replying.
In addition, the girl went on, ignoring the sarcastic turn of phrase, I’m offering a weekly payment in exchange for constant updates on him—what he’s doing, where he’s going, any information you can provide. This is all for his own safety, she concluded, in an incredibly unconvincing afterthought.
His safety, sure, Watt thought with a laugh. He knew a spurned-lover post when he saw one. This had to be either Atlas’s ex-girlfriend trying to win him back, or a current girlfriend worried about him cheating on her. Either way, the job was a freaking gold mine. Watt had never even seen a request for a hacker on retainer before; most H@cker Haus posts were one-time gigs, because most hacks were, by nature, one-and-dones. This girl wanted to send him weekly payments, just to track her crush’s movements? It was easy money, and he had no intention of messing it up.
“Leda Cole,” Watt said aloud as he pushed SEND, “it’s going to be a real pleasure doing business with you.”
LEDA
“GOOD AFTERNOON, MISS Cole,” said Jeffrey, the doorman at Altitude Club, as Leda walked up to the elevator bank the next day. Altitude had biosecurity too, of course: Leda knew her retina had been scanned the moment she stepped into the entrance hall. But Jeffrey was the kind of personalized and old-fashioned touch that made Altitude membership so expensive. He was a constant fixture of the club, practically an institution himself by now—always at the elevator wearing white gloves and a green jacket and a warm, crinkly smile.
Jeffrey moved aside, and Leda walked into the enormous brass members-only elevator. The doors closed behind her with a satisfying click as she was whisked up from the 930th floor entrance hall, past the tennis courts and spa treatment rooms to the club’s main floor.
The Altitude lobby was lined with imposing dark mahogany and portraits of dead members. Afternoon sunlight streamed through the floor-to-ceiling windows that lined the north and west walls. Leda glanced at the various groups gathered near empty fireplaces and clusters of couches, trying to seem nonchalant as she searched for Atlas. If this so-called “Nadia” person was right, his squash game should be ending right about now.
She still couldn’t believe she’d posted on that sketchy website. It had been nerve-racking—and yet a little thrilling too, doing something so clearly illegal, and dangerous.
She’d tried to upgrade her security first, but Leda still couldn’t help wondering if Nadia knew more than he or she was letting on: about who Leda was, and why she was curious about Atlas. Oh well, she thought, none of it really mattered. “Nadia” probably didn’t live in the Tower—probably wasn’t even a girl. And Leda had no intentions of dealing with her, or him, ever again once she’d gotten what she wanted.
A moment later she saw Atlas walking out of the locker room. He had on a soft blue polo that brought out the caramel-colored strands of his hair, still wet from the shower. Nice work, Nadia. “Atlas,” she said, with what she hoped was the right amount of surprise. “What are you up to?”
“Just finished a squash match with David York.” He flashed her a smile.