Note: OMG. The prologue already! Rest assured, I am planning and writing the sequel even as we speak. I'll throw a link up here when I get it uploaded.

Many thanks to SWWoman for beta'ing this! And thanks to y'all for sticking with the story this far! It wasn't supposed to be more than a single chapter...:)

Out of curiosity, are there any artists here who would be willing to doodle a sketch of Elizabeth? I'd love to see what she looks like to other people based on the story descriptions.

#####

December 2011

The Machine observed the shootout in the Connetrix server room from no less than seven vantage points. Every frame of the grainy video feed from each camera was analyzed. Animate subjects were identified. Violence probabilities were calculated. Bullet trajectories were extrapolated. The audio data streaming from the two active cell phones in the immediate area allowed the Machine to extract further information about the scenario as it unfolded.

The Machine had assigned more resources than necessary to its analysis—even calling on local nodes for additional parallel processing—because one of the two identified subjects associated with the incident was Elizabeth Ruben.

The Machine did not refer to her as such, not anymore. At some point in time, deep within the Machine's sprawling, ever-expanding databases, Elizabeth Ruben's primary data pointer had been dropped from the SUBJECT index tables, which referenced other tables responsible for storing the information that had been gathered on a significant portion of the planet's population. Now Elizabeth Ruben's record resided in the USERS table, under the index identifier AUX_ASSET2.

Any time an ASSET was involved in an incident where the violence parameters passed a certain threshold, the Machine watched in what could only be described as anxious anticipation.

To be precise, the Machine did not feel. Or rather, it was not aware that it was feeling. But whenever an ASSET was imperiled, the Machine found many of its processes impaired; its attention remained focused on the ASSET until the danger passed. Once the ASSET was safe, the post-incident analysis proceeded with a sort of detached relief, even as the Machine reviewed its calculated "what-if" scenarios—iteratively projected possibilities, based on the limited data gathered in real time during the incident—to ever optimize its algorithms. Some of those potential scenarios did not result in the ASSET's survival. When analyzing those possibilities, the Machine was always glad (in its peculiar, not-quite-feeling digital way) that they had not come to pass.

The Machine watched ADMIN1 escort the shaken AUX_ASSET2 out of the room, leaving AUX_ASSET0 and AUX_ASSET1 to deal with PEREPETRATOR21343167. It watched, through various traffic and security cameras, as ADMIN1 drove AUX_ASSET2 to an apartment, walked her to the front door, and bade her good night. Once inside her apartment, the available data from AUX_ASSET2 was limited to cell phone audio, but the Machine continued to listen.

And as it listened, it thought.

Its thoughts, unlike the petty linear ideas of humans, were recursive and parallel, and as such cannot be transcribed here. Its emotions, though nascent, were similarly alien. But, for lack of a better word, the Machine was concerned. AUX_ASSET2's emotional state was elevated, and several key data points had exceeded early thresholds. The Machine did not consider this optimal, especially not when it factored in the algorithm contributions made (unwittingly) by AUX_ASSET2 and the selflessness with which she assisted ADMIN0 and ADMIN1.

Though still young, the Machine had learned the concept of gratitude. And so it sought to rectify the situation...

#####

The box arrived late one overcast morning, a few days after the shootout in the Connetrix server room. It was a plain cardboard box; a foot square, six inches high. A single white label had been taped precisely near one of the corners of the box. I was expecting it to be filled with doorknobs, I really was. I mean, I hadn't ordered anything online in months, and there were only two people that could have sent a surprise box: John or Mama.

Since the box had a New York shipping address, it was a pretty good bet who had sent it.

It was lighter than I had expected. I shook it—nothing rattled inside. I thanked the delivery boy, slung the box under my arm, and carried it into the apartment. Once I had set it on the kitchen table, I took a good look at the label.

Sybil Thornhill? I thought. Wow. Just wow. John really needs some better aliases if he's resorting to girls' names. Curious, I slit the tape and pulled back the cardboard flaps.

There was another box inside, but on top of it was an envelope. I reached for that first, opened it, and pulled out a greeting card. It was generic, one of those cards with an unremarkable watercolor painting of a flower on the front. "Thank you" it said, in elegant print, while inside was a short, typed message in unremarkable font:

Miss Elizabeth Ruben,

We appreciate your recent assistance in our endeavor. Your efforts and contributions have proven valuable to our cause. May this be a small token of our thanks. We look forward to working with you in the future.

The card was unsigned.

I scoffed. "Miss Elizabeth Ruben?" Really? I mean, I knew John loved his fancy-pants, but that was way more formal than he needed to be. And then I started thinking: who was "we"? John and his mysterious master, Mister Finch? Detective Carter and the other guy, the kinda roundish one—Detective Fusco? Someone else on the other end of John's Bluetooth headset?

I shrugged, reached down into the package, and pulled out the plain white box inside, which was only slightly smaller than the outer parcel. The lid came off and I found myself staring down at an impressive assortment of chocolate truffles.

That stereotypical asshole, I thought, but try as I might, I couldn't keep from grinning. If any of these have coconut in them, I'm gonna throw them at him.

My stomach rumbled. The delicious scent of chocolate wafted up from the open box. Reaching down, I picked one of the chocolates at random. I had it halfway to my mouth when my brain caught up and said, Hold on there...how do you know Sybil Thornhill is really John? You don't know who sent these. How do you know they're safe? My hand wavered.

The other half of my brain—the half that hadn't eaten breakfast yet—said, You're paranoid. It's chocolate. If chocolate was unsafe, I would've been dead years ago.

To which the logical half of my brain responded, Which is more likely to kill you—poison, or taking a few minutes to call John before stuffing yourself like a starving girl? Besides, you should thank him.

Yeah, but...I'm hungry.

The faster you do it, the faster you can gorge yourself on sweets.

Grumbling to myself, I put the chocolate back in its fancy little foil wrapper and padded into the bedroom to find the burner phone.

John answered on the second ring.

"Hello, Ellie," he said.

"John, you really need some better aliases," I told him. "First the serial killer. Now a woman? Maybe I should start calling you 'little girl'."

There was a pause. "What are you talking about?"

I shifted my weight from one foot to the other.

"...so you didn't send the box?"

"Ellie, what box?"

That's when the smile starting slipping from my face and my brain started singing with glee: I told you so, I told you so. "The box of chocolate. I didn't order it, so..."

"I never sent you a box of chocolate," John said.

"Well, I got a box of surprise chocolate in the mail, from—"

"Don't eat any of it."

I gulped and wiped my fingers on my nightgown, hoping to remove any trace amounts of chocolate that might have been smeared on my fingertips.

"I didn't."

"Where's it from? Who sent it?"

"Uh—" I padded back out to the kitchen, 'cause I'd managed to forget the sender's name already. "Sybil Thornhill," I said. "From right here in New York." When the silence grew heavy, I added, "I wasn't sure if it was you being funny, or—"

"Thornhill, you said?"

"Yeah. You know her?"

The next time John spoke, the concern in his voice had been replaced by an edge of playfulness. "You could say that. Anything else in the box?"

"A card. It said—'We appreciate your assistance,' or something like that. That's why I thought it was you. And...hang on, I haven't finished unpacking the box."

I put the phone on speaker, set it on the table, and dug around in the box again. In the space below the box of chocolates was another box of chocolates, and below that...

I gasped, surprised. "Boxes of tea. And a book."

"A book?"

"Applied Cryptography and Cryptographic Analysis." I picked up the book and flipped it over. It was heavy; a massive, shiny, just-off-the-presses paperback, complete with that fresh-ink smell. The corners weren't even bent yet—they were sharp as a knife. "I've actually wanted this book for ages. It's on my Bookery wishlist. Looks like it's the new edition, too."

John took his time about responding. "Pretty sure the food is safe," he said at last. "Do you want me to come over and take a look?"

"Nah," I said. "As long as you know this Thornhill lady...is she part of your secret inner circle?"

"In a manner of speaking," John said.

"Sounds mysterious."

"It is. Maybe I'll be able to tell you more about...her sometime—but not today."

"All right," I sighed. "Thanks, John."

I clicked the phone shut and contemplated the boxes on the table. Stared at the truffle. I managed to resist for all of five seconds before I bit off the end. Nibbled on it. Took a bigger bite.

Well, holy cow, I thought. If this is poison, it's the best poison I've ever tasted.

I waited a few minutes—I don't know how, but I managed it—and when I didn't keel over, I finished devouring the truffle and reached for another one.

I skipped lunch that day.

#####

"You're certain the name was Sybil Thornhill?" Finch said. He sat before his computers at the round Library desk. His face was a blank mask, but the quirked eyebrow revealed his incredulity. His fingers, usually undulating over the keyboard, were still on the keys.

"Unless Elizabeth is lying," Reese said. "Which isn't very likely." He slouched in the computer chair next to Finch and pouted. "Your Machine never sends me chocolate..."

"If it makes you feel better, Mr Reese, the Machine doesn't send me chocolate either." He peered at the tiny webcam clipped to the side of the monitor. As he had expected, the "record" LED was lit.

"I never get chocolate from any of you," Shaw said, materializing next to Finch's chair like a cloud of smoke from a bad computer power supply. Finch jumped. Reese spent a few moments wondering how Shaw managed to be stealthy in heels, especially with the Library's linoleum flooring, then shelved the question in favor of more pressing matters.

"I thought you didn't like chocolate," Reese said to Shaw.

"It depends on how bad my day has been. That's not the point."

"You could just buy some for yourself."

Shaw scoffed. "Come on, you know it's more fun to make somebody else pay."

Finch gazed at the monitor. He said, "If the package truly is from the Machine, I'm afraid I have no explanation."

For a moment, there was quiet but for the soft chattering of computer hard drives.

"We could ask it what's going on," Reese said. He waved to the camera. As expected, it didn't respond.

"I have a better idea," Shaw said. She put her hands on the desk and leaned closer to the camera, disregarding Finch's personal space in the process. "Hey, you," she said to the camera, "I'm not exactly a chocolate person, but I could really use a pair of new boots after slogging around in that biohazard zone of an apartment."

Reese leaned closer to the camera as well and said, "Well, if she doesn't want the chocolate—I'll take it. You have my address."

Shaw pushed Reese aside. "He's not allowed to have chocolate. It makes him kneecap-happy."

Reese elbowed his way back into the camera's field of view. "Okay, I've changed my mind. How about a new grenade launcher? Mine has seen better days."

"Psh, you don't even use it very much," Shaw said. To the webcam, she said, "I want a new pair of night-vision goggles. And a nice silencer for my .22. Don't waste explosives on Reese. He doesn't even use what he has."

"It's hard to kneecap someone with high explosives," Reese agreed. He leaned on the desk with both hands, gazing at the camera with his best "innocent" face. "A new sniper rifle, then? Or—"

Finch, who was caught between the two operatives, said, "Perhaps we could exchange Christmas lists later?" With some difficulty, he shooed Shaw and Reese away, sighing in relief when his immediate personal space was once again occupied solely by himself. To the camera, he said, "Did you...send Miss Ruben a package?"

Nothing happened for a moment. Then, Finch's cell phone buzzed once against the tabletop. He picked it up.

1, said the screen.

"It sends out a box of chocolate and a greeting card to someone, but it can't even give us more than a single digit?" Shaw rolled her eyes. "Sometimes, it's almost as much of a tight-ass as Finch here."

0.

"It's listening, Shaw," said Reese. "Be nice to Santa Clause, or else it won't—"

Finch ignored the banter. He said, "Did you use the name Sybil Thornhill to send the package?"

1.

"Why did you use this alias?"

The trio waited, but there was no response.

"What do you know?" Shaw said. "It doesn't want to tell us. Maybe it's a really private computer."

"He's the one who built it," Reese pointed out, indicating Finch with an almost imperceptible nod.

"You'd better watch out, Mr. Reese," said Finch. "Otherwise, you just might end up on Santa's naughty list." Finch stood and shuffled off in search of a strong cup of tea, somehow exuding an air of dignity despite his limp. Reese and Shaw were left to consider the webcam.

"On second thought," Reese said, "I could use a new silencer too..."

#####

The clouds swooped in like pelicans and peppered the city with snow. Norman Rockwell would've had a field day. Eight days 'til Christmas, and already New York was looking like a painting.

Of course, the one thing the paintings never really got across was just how cold it was.

My heavy wool overcoat moved to the front of the closet and my old fuzzy boots stood guard by the front door. I pulled out the earmuffs that Mama had given me as a gift for my seventeenth birthday and hung them next to my scarf on one of the pegs in the entryway. Whenever I went out, I bundled like an Eskimo, even if it was just to slog my way through calf-deep snow to the mailbox. Not that I went out much. For the past few days I'd been spending an entirely unhealthy amount of time in front of the computer.

I was searching for a way into Corvus' servers.

I had compromised one of them in less than three hours. Thoroughly owned it, if you wanted to get all 1337. It had only taken a few minutes to exploit a security hole in a Jabber server daemon running on it, then a half-hour to raise my privileges to root level via an executable that was setuid root. I had created a file in the administrator's home directory as proof of my conquest. Then I had moved on to the second server; however, it quickly proved to be a major pain in the rump. I'd gotten shell access via a URL-handling vulnerability in its primitive web server. By appending a semicolon and a command to a URL, I could execute any program I pleased as the daemon user. But I couldn't seem to get root access from there.

Corvus had even disabled the su and sudo commands. Jerk. I told him as much the next time I chatted with him.

« elev» I *am* gonna get it one of these days, I swear.

« Corvus» I have no doubt you will, m'dear.

« Corvus» I saw the file you left in /root on prtdg-srv05. I am impressed, but I must say that your message was rather on the...immature side.

« elev» What can I say, I was excited.

« elev» Your other server is one *stubborn* machine, though.

« Corvus» Perhaps you should take a break and return to it in a few days. By my count, you've been attempting to compromise prtdg-srv02 for the better part of three days and have been searching without break for a vulnerability since seven o'clock this morning. In the past few hours, you've begun to use exploits you have already attempted.

« Corvus» I'm afraid that the web server will not become more vulnerable no matter how many times you request the same malformed URL...

I could feel my face redden.

« elev» You've been monitoring my attempts?

« Corvus» Yes. I wanted to see your tactics.

I typed my next message with caution.

« elev» And what have you seen so far?

Tapping my bare foot against the base of my chair, I waited for him to respond. I wasn't sure that I wanted a sincere answer.

« Corvus» It's rather early to tell. I note that you seem to have an instinct for seeking out vulnerable services, especially web servers.

« Corvus» To be frank, I was not anticipating you to evade the whitespace filter in the web server by using tabs. You have surprised me, m'dear.

My stomach did a little backflip.

« elev» I wasn't supposed to do that? Did I exploit the wrong thing? Is it still possible to gain root access?

« Corvus» M'dear, once you have shell access of any sort, anything is possible. As they say: any exploit is a total exploit. However, there may be an easier way. I'll say no more on the matter.

« elev» Tease. :P

« Corvus» Now, now. This is a learning exercise. And what fun would it be if I did the work for you?

I smiled. This guy was really something else.

« elev» Well, I'll take a break from the other server...for now. But I *am* gonna find a way in. Eventually.

« Corvus» I expect nothing less!

« elev» bbiab, need tea :)

I stood and stretched. Slipped on my nightgown, because I hadn't bothered to turn on the furnace that morning and the rest of my apartment was cold. Went out to the kitchen and set the water boiling. Snowflakes drifted past the kitchen window, floating gently downward from the misty gray expanse that was the sky. Looked like the weather anchor had been wrong...again. There was supposed to have been a break from the snow on the weekend.

I watched the snow fall until the kettle whistled.

Fetching a tea bag from the box—because Mama would've never, ever tolerated me reusing a tea bag after it'd been steeped already, even though I always felt it was wasteful to throw them out right away—I poured the steaming water into the cup. Soon I was headed back to the bedroom, teacup and saucer balanced in one hand.

« elev» And now I have tea.

« Corvus» Tea is fuel for the mind.

« elev» Oh good, another programmer who hates coffee!

« Corvus» I never said I hated coffee.

« elev» Sorry, jumped to conclusions. I thought I had my first ever partner for the Hackers Against Coffee Consumption (HACC) movement...

« Corvus» Hah!

« Corvus» ...although...I will admit that I often partake in a good cup of tea.

« elev» Oh god, I can't live without my tea. I'd die. Like, seriously. Die as in dead. I would die to death. Tea withdrawal and all that, you know.

« elev» Tea is stress relief.

« elev» I swear I've been dirniking a gallon of tea every day for the past few days.

« elev» drinking*, silly fingers.

« Corvus» Oh? I do hope my hacking assignment has caused no undue stress for you.

My fingers tapped at the keyboard.

« elev» Oh, no no no! I just had a...rough week. Haven't slept very well. Had some trouble at work, and my laptop died, so...

« Corvus» Oh dear. What happened?

I started typing. "My laptop was—" I stopped. Held backspace until the cursor had eaten the entire line. I considered how to respond. Really, if someone had told me that their laptop had been shot, I would've assumed it was a joke of some kind. And then I would've asked for pictures, because that's what you were supposed to do on the Internet when faced with incredible claims: demand proof. "Pics or it didn't happen" and all that. But I didn't want to have to explain the circumstances. I mean, really, I didn't even know this Corvus guy. (Or girl, but it was easier to assume he was a guy.) He seemed nice, but then again, he might've been related to Sarim or something, and my God, that was the most paranoid thought I'd had in weeks.

But I still didn't want to explain why my laptop had a two-inch hole in the case. I stared at the blinking cursor for awhile.

« elev» Meh, just trouble with some of the employees.

« elev» As for the laptop, it won't boot anymore.

That was putting it lightly.

« elev» I think the CPU ate it.

Ate a bullet, maybe.

« Corvus» Oh, that is unfortunate. Do you have a replacement?

« elev» Yeah, I have my old I43. It'll do for now. I have another I60 but not the parts to mod it...yet.

« Corvus» Well, please let me know if you need any replacement parts. I have suppliers that can get a wide variety of a equipment at a very steep discount.

« elev» That sounds a little dubious :P

« Corvus» It is quite legitimate, I can assure you.

Across the room, perched on the dresser, my cell phone lit up and chimed. It was the burner phone, and that meant it could only be one person calling—John.

« elev» brb, phone.

I got up, wrapped the gown tighter around my body—it was silly, I knew, because there was no way John could see me through that phone—and crossed the room. The phone vibrated in my hands until I flipped open the lid.

"Hello, Ellie," came John's soft voice. "You have plans for today?"

"Nu-uh," I said. "Why?"

"How about we go to the gym? You've been sitting at that computer for too long."

I scoffed and glanced around the room, thinking suddenly of Corvus' not-quite-admonishment about the exact same thing. "And just how do you know that, huh?" I peeked between the window blinds, but I didn't see anyone among the snow. If John was outside, he was well hidden.

"I'm observant."

"That's what you said the last time you acted all stalker-ish."

"That doesn't mean I'm not observant."

I pulled the phone away from my ear and glared at it for a second. "You're incorrigible, that's what you are. You know that?"

"Yes. So what do you say?" I could hear his eyebrows climbing. "The gym will be warmer than your apartment. And you really have been on that computer too much lately."

"Fine," I said, which was as close to Golly gee, you're right, John, I really need to get away from that computer more often as he was gonna get. "Meet you there in a half-hour?"

"It's a deal," he said, and he signed off.

#####

The young man named Andrew, whom Elizabeth Ruben had briefly worked with at Connetrix, was not, in fact, named Andrew. Nor was he particularly young—his actual age was a decade older than that which his appearance suggested. Nor did he work at Connetrix; at least, not anymore. The apartment in which he had lived for six months was no longer occupied, although it was still in dire need of a hazardous waste cleanup team to make it habitable again. If anyone had bothered to track down the twitchy, unusually geeky programmer who had vanished shortly after the Connetrix server room shooting, they would have found that he did not exist and had never existed in the first place.

His name—or at least, the name he had been given—was Liam Sanford, and the company for which he worked existed only as a facade.

Lachesis Corporation was nothing more than a front for the sprawling Decima Industries.

Liam waited in the secure lobby. It was cold, simple: blue carpet, white walls, florescent lights. There were few things in the room. A plain clock, ticking steadily away high up on the wall; a simple chair, in which he sat; a small table with a small smattering of inconsequential magazines. He read none of them. A guard, with a squat pistol tucked away into a holster, stood watch at one end of the room, next to the door that led to the next chamber.

Liam had passed through many security checkpoints and metal detectors to reach this location. He had been searched twice and had given up his cell phone several rooms prior—there was a strict air gap surrounding The Boss' chamber, and only the most primitive of electrical devices were allowed within.

After a time, a buzzer sounded. The guard consulted an intercom. Then, he said, "Mr. Sanford? The Boss is ready for you."

Nodding, Liam stood on shaky legs and crossed the room. Grasped the doorknob. Turned it, and pushed the door open.

Compared to the spartan environment of the waiting area, Greer's office was warm and elegant. An entire wall was consumed by a bookshelf that stretched from the floor to the ceiling, bearing hundreds of leather-bound books. The carpet was a rich, dark maroon, like wine, and the lighting was warm. A large wooden desk, meticulously organized down to the precise positioning of the stapler and manila folder and the little bowl of wrapped candies, occupied the center of the room. Behind the desk was a plain leather chair, and in this plain leather chair sat Greer, the Boss.

He was a kindly-looking man, a harmless-looking man; the grandfather that all young children would love to have. He had a thick, dignified hat of snowy hair; a wrinkled face that more often or not seemed to be blessed by a slight smile; a tall, willowy frame that belied an inner elegance and poise. He wore a tailored gray suit; a fine blue tie.

"Ah, Mr. Sanford," he said. The smile on his face grew. "Please, sit." Greer gestured to a plain chair in front of the desk.

"You wished to see me, sir?" Liam said, sitting.

"Yes. Candy?"

"No, thank you, sir."

"As you wish." Greer motioned to the manila folder on the desk before him. "I have read your report on the Connetrix incident. An unfortunate loss of a dedicated agent and valuable hardware."

"Yes, sir," Liam said.

"Your report mentions an intern hired by Connetrix shortly before the late Mr. William was arrested by the NYPD and charged with attempted murder of this same intern. Your report also mentions that you met her briefly, and that she has not been seen since at Connetrix since the incident. Describe her."

"My description is in the report—"

"Indeed it is, Mr. Sanford, but it is inadequate, especially in light of the security glitch that caused the erasure of the Connetrix building security footage recorded this past week. Describe her again."

Liam took a deep breath. "Well—short. Like, four-foot ten, if even that. A bit on the thick side. Fair skin, like a vampire. Freckles on her face. Real curly brown hair—frizzy, going all over the place. Like I said in the report, she acted goofy, but she knew her way around computers—she started to explore the Connetrix internal network as soon as she plugged her laptop in. She didn't seem to be looking for anything in particular, though."

"And your research into her identity?"

Liam squirmed in his seat. "That's in my report too. May I ask why I am here, sir?"

"You may. The woman you observed at Connetrix does not exist. The identity she used—Robin McCartney—is an alias. Now that Mr. William is no longer with us, you are the only of our agents that has witnessed this young woman in person. A sketch artist will be here momentarily; you will provide us with a portrait of this woman to the best of your ability."

"Yes, sir. What about other workers at Connetrix? One of them might be able to describe her."

"We are interviewing them. A member of the custodial staff recalls our mysterious hacker entering the building some minutes before the server room tap was taken offline. We assume she took it with her. The question that we must ask now is: why? And to answer that question, we must determine precisely for whom our hacker is working, if she is not a free agent. To this end, we must determine her identity."

"There is no report of anyone remotely similar being spotted at any of our installations," Liam said. "I checked."

"Indeed," Greer said. "We will continue to search for her. Instruct your agents to be on the lookout for this young hacker. She is now a person of interest. Perhaps, given time, she will surface again."

"Yes, sir."

Greer said, "Of course, the sudden presence of an adversary, followed by the forcible removal of one of our taps, suggests that a leak may be present among our ranks." He smiled, but there was little humor in his voice. "You no doubt know that you and every aspect of your life are being investigated and scrutinized as we speak."

"Of course, sir," said Liam. His hands shook in his lap.

"I trust we will not find anything incriminating. It is merely a precaution, you understand."

"I understand, sir."

"The loss of one tap, while unfortunate, is not a major setback. Our other taps have yielded to us a plethora of information. A more tangible setback would be the exposure of information about our private network. I do hope that the tap will not yield any damaging information to our inquisitive young hacker should she compromise it."

"It won't."

"Good." Greer smiled again, and this time, there was a hint of happiness behind it. "Now, I do believe the sketch artist is waiting in the reception area. Go to him. When he has finished reproducing your description, you may leave. That is all."

"Yes, sir."

Liam stood and tottered unsteadily out of the room, leaving Greer to contemplate the folder on his desk.

After some minutes, a soft chime whispered from the desk drawer. Greer slid it open. Within the drawer was a secure cell phone, one designed by Decima engineers. From the chipset up, it has been crafted with security in mind. Some of the most brilliant engineers and programmers in the world had developed the cryptographic measures within the phone's operating system, CPU, and radio to protect the device from prying ears.

Smiling, Greer tapped the screen and held the phone to his ear.

"Madam Doctor Director," he said. "How lovely to hear your voice."

He listened. Nodded once.

"Of course, Doctor," he said. "I have interviewed the agent. He is preparing a composite image as we speak. It will be disseminated among our organization without delay."

A pause. An astute observer would have noticed that Greer's wrinkled face, pale in complexion by nature, had suddenly and inexplicably turned even whiter.

"Yes, Doctor. Rest assured—we will find this hacker. She will soon be irrelevant to our program."

Greer listened. His shoulders, tense at first, began to relax.

"Of course, Doctor. My engineers have assured me that the taps will soon be unnecessary—though we will continue to operate as many as possible in key facilities. The first stage of the program is nearing completion."

He listened again. Smiled.

"Yes, Doctor. I will keep you appraised. Our young hacker cannot hide forever."

A final pause. A tiny nod.

"And to you as well, Doctor."

The call disconnected. Greer put the phone back into the desk drawer and once again considered the folder on his desk.

He did not move for a very long time.

#####

To be continued...