Chapter 2

Two

Ira Gilliam

T here have been eyes on me around the clock, waking and sleeping, for so long now I can’t recall what privacy feels like. Dramatic? Absolutely. Accurate though. The past four months have been hectic and exhausting. An entire team has been responsible for guarding me during that time, ensuring my safety and watching over me twenty-four hours a day.

And for what? Code I’ve offered for free use to benefit everyone. Apparently, that’s the problem in a nutshell. The code I came up with, after months of working til my eyes crossed and I lost sleep, is too good at what it does. The powers that be in the world don’t want sites to have the ability to whistle blow and shut down bot attacks.

Or at least, they don’t want everyone to be able to prevent them. Of course, they want the ability to stop bot attacks and misinformation from harming their bottom lines. But making that safeguard available across the board? Yeah, that landed me on a whole lot of hitlists, especially with deep-pocketed billionaires who aren’t pleased with anything standing between them and under-the-table political power.

The university where I teach a digital ethics course panicked when the code I’d developed during a leave of absence was released for free download online. Fortunately for me, I crafted the program during an involuntary leave of absence the administration imposed after my father passed away. The school had no rights over it the way they would have if I’d developed it while actively employed by them. Not that it stopped the dean and the university’s legal department from requiring I go into hiding and allow them to provide security to ensure my safety. The dark net had exploded with contract hits on my life, and the Dean insists on taking each one seriously.

They weren’t persuaded that the student body wouldn’t be at risk as long as I was notably away from the college. Ergo, here we are, four months in, the team of security muscle following my every move. And I do mean every move. Sleeping? One of them is stationed in the room with me. Showering? It’s a good thing this safe house has transparent glass enclosures, or I have no doubt it would be showers for two. Even things as mundane as rubbing one out are either a spectator activity while under the team’s protection or a nonstarter entirely.

About the only true privacy I’ve had in months is when the guys give me their backs so I can take a leak or shit in peace. Still, the risk is worth it if it prevents the sort of issue tampering and fear mongering that results in the will of the people being subverted. I hope. Not that I want to be killed for it, hence my willingness to put up with being protected and hidden away in a safe house. This apartment in the heart of Seattle is a world away from my little two-bedroom house in Mariposa, Nebraska.

Nonstop surveillance and no privacy aside, I like it here in Seattle.

Still, I can’t wait for this to be over, so I can get home and return to my regular life.

“What’s the problem?” Ridge Brandeis, the scarred-up mountain who provides most of the direct overnight surveillance for me demands. I assume the same scars that arc down the left side of his face and throat are the cause for the way his words rasp out like chewed rocks.

“Nothing,” I sigh. There’s no use whining about the situation, but I’ve learned Ridge won’t relent until he has an answer.

“Come away from the window. You know it’s unsafe,” he says.

I’ve heard the warning a hundred times, and the argument that we’re on the twenty-second floor in The Centennial, a mixed-use skyscraper in downtown Seattle, carries no weight. The chance anyone in a neighboring building can even see me through the privacy glass installed on the residential floors of the building is nearly impossible. Even a top-tier marksman wouldn’t be likely to get off a viable shot on me here.

This location, for all its luxury and proximity to the city center, is a veritable fortress. Ridge and his brother, Gable, own the protection firm the university hired to protect me, and this condo slash safe house is one of theirs. As luxurious as it is, even a palace becomes a prison when circumstances prohibit leaving.

“It’s dark out. It’s dark in. There’s privacy glass. I think I’m safe,” I argue.

“What you think won’t keep you from a bullet to the brain if you’re wrong. Will it?” Gable, always on his brother’s side, adds. I hadn’t heard him come into the room, but it’s never a surprise to see him when Ridge is around.

“Trust the professionals, Ira. It’s our job to keep you alive,” Ridge says.

And maybe, that’s part of the problem I’m struggling with. This feeling of disquiet that’s been pulling at me more and more lately. I miss spending time with people who choose to be around me. People who like me.

Not that I’ve ever been the popular sort with boatloads of friends, but come on, I can’t even email my online gaming friends until all of this is resolved. I’m lonely. There. I admit it. I’m fucking lonely.

“I’ll stay away from the window. You can go back to whatever you were doing.” Even I can hear how petulant I sound.

I’m not a small guy, and it’s been years since I thought of myself as a pouty weakling. As a teenager getting picked on for being a geek, I let misery lead me to snacking my way through the bullying years. A freshman in college, I found myself horrified to be matched with a jock roommate, Tishon Greves, who was determined neither of us would gain the freshman fifteen. He forced me to exercise with him daily, until the habit became so ingrained I work out here at the safehouse even now.

Luckily for me, the looks-obsessed gym rat I’d expected Tishon to be wasn’t anything like the secret gaming nerd slash track star he turned out to be. Now, he works for the same gaming company that creates the multiplayer online games we love to play and he runs marathons for fun not scholarship. We’re still super close, and I think I miss our workout sessions together most of all.

Too bad being around me right now is too dangerous for any of my friends. There have been several unexplainable incidents where my house, office, and even my car have been tampered with. It’s safer for him and all the rest of my friends to be away from me right now.

“I was scheduling details for some other clients and making sure we have them covered. I’m done now. What’s wrong with you? You’re in a mood.”

Gable’s using his client whisperer tone of voice. I feel my hackles rising at the way he’s managing me. I’m so sick of being handled as an asset who exists as a duty to everyone around them.

“Nothing’s wrong. Fuck. Am I not allowed to be frustrated that this shit is dragging on with no end in sight?” Fury simmers inside me, turning my guts to acid. Logically, I know the university anticipates once the code I released into the world establishes itself as open access the danger will ease up.

Big money originally wanted to take me out to prevent the release of the program because it will stop them from unfairly influencing public opinion with misinformation. However, once the code was released for open use, the threat morphed into a risk of abduction to force me to alter the programming so certain election tampering and social media mistruths could filter through and appear to be accurate information.

Thing is, even a program as good as mine can’t undo years of voter influencing and the spread of misinformation. Everyone’s so hopeful that for future elections, my program will at least keep a lid on it so voters aren’t constantly bombarded with lies.

Maybe, it will. Maybe, it won’t. Maybe, the damage is already too much to overcome. None of that is in my wheelhouse to figure out. Sure, it’s selfish of me, but I feel as if I’ve done my part. Now, I just want the chance to get back to my regular life where I can spend my time with people who aren’t being paid to care about me. Is that so much to ask?