The Zero Day Proposal [03of10]
What will be Daniqua's answer to The Zero Day Proposal?
[#2.0.00 #INTROS]
"Everything that irritates us about others
can lead us to an understanding of ourselves."--CG Jung
#2.1//NINETEEN_THIRTY_SATURDAY
Daniqua took an hour to familiarize herself with the dossier bullet-points. Entire lives; chrono-logged, multi-dimed, and cross-reffed. She absorbed all she could, was put in handcuffs, then two guards escorted her to the ADMIN building's sub-basement. Ripened by economic incentive and plumpened by infomatic gavage; she imagined herself a tasty morsel being swallowed whole. They boarded a freight elevator and esophageally descended six more floors.
Exiting on the lowest floor, one of the guards proceeded to walk her down a long hallway. The barely audible hiss of the ventilation and heat exchange system could be heard beneath the yellow hum of the caged, wall mounted, incandescent lights. The ceiling was lined with pipes and ducts; arteries and veins; architectural viscera of the beast ingesting her. The floor was on just enough of a decline to feel gravity gently pulling her deeper into the belly of the dragon.
At the end of the hallway, the guard entered a code on a scramble pad to the right of a large steel door. There was a click followed by a mechanical whir. The door clunked and swung inward revealing a bright furnished space.
Muted echoes of interrupted conversation burbled off thick concrete walls.
Daniqua entered the cavernous room.
Her guard removed the handcuffs and then left. The heavy door ka-chunked closed behind her. Electronic locking mechanism whirred then engaged with a tiny finalizing click.
Rubbing her newly freed wrists, she looked around taking in her new surroundings.
A Cold War-era command and control bunker. Almost a hundred feet below the surface. No natural light. Stale air. Area about the same as a basketball court, but the low ceiling of the open space made it feel claustrophobic like a parking garage. Concrete dome designed to survive surface blasts. Seven foot high corners, curving up toward a nine foot center. No dividing walls, but quadrants; serving different functions, roughly delineated by furniture and appliance placement; the organs of the space.
The steel bulkhead entrance was at her back. To Daniqua's left was meeting area with a conference table. To her right, a carpeted area like a hotel lobby; furniture in pristine condition but 50 years out of style. On the wall hung a row of analog clocks labeled: Washington, London, Moscow, Beijing, and Honolulu. To the right of the lounge were doors labeled 'Utility' and 'Washroom'.
The the far end of the room was similarly divided in two. The left side served as a sleeping area, containing about 20 cotts; the right, a dining area with kitchenette and a banquet table bordering the lounge.
Most of the occupants of the room were seated in the lounge quadrant. Nine other people were in the room; two to follow.
The thought occurred that a list of names selected at random might be a diversionary tactic. A massive attention sink, having to consider everyone a suspect. Success seemed a very remote possibility. She hadn't been given enough and doubted the viability of the mission; however, she was confident in her abilities. She was the best Perspector she knew of. More than enough lenses reflex-loaded that could be refractored on-the-fly to identify consequential connections. If they existed.
Daniqua hoped a win might come on another unknown front. Maybe a James Bond secret-agent-type, hunting down the organization responsible at a high-roller casino in some eastern European city using bleeding-edge gadgetry while sharply dressed in designer clothing. It sickened her to think the fate of millions might depend on her, broke, in Alabama, gadget-less, wearing sweatpants.
The details from the dossier had already begun to fade. The fluid knowledge would crystallize with the social contextualization accompanying face-to-face introductions. A well-groomed bleached-blonde man with overly white veneers was the first to introduce himself. Among the people on the list, he had the widest social reach. Daniqua recognized him.
Manny Stromboulopolous; a gay, white, Jewish, conservative, emigrated from the UK to the USA almost a decade prior. He branded himself 'LaMango' and quickly rose to celebrity as a Livestreamer. He cultivated an audience of subs and haters alike by being a shamelessly narcissistic cultural commentator, political pundit, and provocateur. His mere existence equally absorbed the attention of all who admonished or adored him. After adding a certificate in Business Administration to his existing B.A. in Communications, LaMango leveraged his popularity and was elected Mayor of Miami on a center-right platform.
Approaching Daniqua, he limply offered his hand “I, am LaMango, and you?”
She shook his hand. “Daniqua Lee Massey”.
LaMango clicked his tongue, pre-punctuating his lispy reply, “Odd number of names. I like it. Historically more likely to be a monster.”
“Uh, thanks.”
In an evidently faux-posh Londoner accent he inquired, “Now darling, they didn't happen to bother mentioning when they're letting us out of here, did they?”
“No. Didn't tell me anything,” she answered, adding, “-repeatedly asked me about some missing Satellite, though.”
“This is some total bull-shit!” shouted a tiny frustrated Chinese woman with long black hair, wearing a pretty fly looking purple pantsuit. She was identified in the dossier as Economist Muriel Lau.
Patience reserves among the prisoners would no doubt be dwindling or depleted. It was Saturday, and they had been in custody since late Thursday. Not knowing why was insult to the injury of being a prisoner in the first place. Daniqua mentally updated the Trauma Graph Inversion Factors of her primary lens while nodding a silent hello to her fellow captives.
The group was released from solitary confinement a couple hours prior. Based on that fact, she grokked an aberration in the group body language. This was not the behavior of people trying to figure out what was going on. Aside from the extroverted LaMango, energetically strolling around like a caged animal, everyone appeared subdued. They should be discussing why they were there. Statistically, they should be curious.
She would need to get them to open up and start exchanging information. With an appeal to a universally relatable standpoint she broadcast, “I'm very hungry.” Expressing mundane sentiments about their shared situation would gain her rapport with them. And, not having eaten breakfast, she was legitimately hungry.
The most convincing facades employed truths.
She headed toward the banquet table bordering the dining quadrant.
An over-weight grey-bearded white male in his late 50's stood over an appetizer spread. He wore a tan blazer with Brown Houndstooth Corduroy elbow patches. His pose almost robotic: left hand holding an empty paper plate at head level; right hand darting back and forth, transferring slices of meat and cheese from various platters directly into his mouth. This man was identified in the dossier as Professor Slavoj Markov. A preeminent academic author and lecturer on Computer Science and Philosophy. The right half of his face was palsied; grokking him would be harder, but still well within her capabilities.
The girthy Professor shuffled sideways making space as Daniqua came up to the banquet table. Mouth full, he offered a closed-lip half-smile in lieu of a verbal greeting, then deposited a handful of cheese cubes to his plate and retreated to a seat in the lounge.
She eyed the selection of cheeses. Thoughts conspired with impulses to propose the idea that it would be okay to partake. Extenuating circumstances. She was not herself. She was playing a role; a character with her name. She dismissed the thought;nice try brain, always with the cheese.
She added some broccoli and carrot sticks to a paper plate then sat down in a chair alone at the end of the conference table overlooking the lounge. Crunching into her carrot sticks, she surveyed the prisoners in greater detail.
Two men were in the dining area engaged in a hushed conversation.
A family of redheads sat beside each other on a couch in the lounge. The dossier identified them as The Brickners; Harry, Linda, and their son Wesley. Mr. Brickner was a burly and bearded orangutan of a man. He was enjoying his involvement in a game of Scrabble.
Mrs. Brickner was significantly smaller than her husband but just as orange. She was disinterested in the game.
Their almost-albino son sat between them, listlessly sedate; bored close to comatose.
Opposite Mr. Brickner; on the other side of the coffee table hosting the game board, a short bald man sat cross-legged on the floor pondering the gamestate.
The Professor and Mrs. Lau sat in club chairs nearby and LaMango continued to agitatedly parade around the lounge perimeter.
According to Ajaarg, the final 2 of 11 suspects would soon be joining them.
Snacking completed, Daniqua walked to the invisible border between the lounge and dining quadrants. She consciously expanded her attentive range and resolution; reaching with her mind, pushed her focus outward, and asked, “So, anyone know, what's the dillio?”
Neutral reactions to her vernacular selection. Comprehension, yet silence as though nobody had any ideas. One of the men in the dining area spoke up, “Maybe the Deep State is gathering us in one place so they can kill us all at the same time.”
“I suppose that's not impossible,” replied the other man sitting at the table.
Picking up on his conversation partner's sardonic tone, the paranoid one persisted, “No, I mean, think about it. We were arrested by military police. The fucking military! Not read our rights. Not given a phone call. Not told where we are. Interrogated about our entire lives. So long, I lost track of time! And then! We're released into a bomb shelter for a catered lunch!? The facts of the situation aren't any less ridiculous than my theory that we've been targeted for political murder by the Shadow Government.”
“Again, I'm not saying you're wrong.” The other man turned toward Daniqua rolling his eyes. “Hi. I'm Tom Hashtag-Rando. This delightful paranoiac is Aleksandr Forbin.”
“Daniqua Lee Massey, hi.” Names connected to faces connected to data; passively absorbed diffuse dossier details aligned in her mind.
#Rando's original family name was Schmidt. He was third generation wealthy. Tech-savvy. Intelligent enough to hold on to his inherited fortune, but also a grown-ass man who changed his legal name to 'Hashtag Rando'. LaMango or #Rando -which was a worse choice of name? Unable to decide, Daniqua directed her attention to #Rando's imaginative conversation partner.
Aleksandr Forbin. Eastern Bloc hacker. Security expert known by many aliases. The type of guy who trusts computers but is paranoid of people. Obtained political asylum in the USA, expedited by a very public price tag put on his head by Russian oligarchs. As part of the deal, received immunity for past computer crimes. Most recent handle, 'Cyntaxus'. Famous in certain circles for his whitehat exploits. Currently known to be working as low level contractor for a domestic InfoSec firm.
In a less complicated time, Forbin would have been known as 'a defector'.
“Why do we deserve our wiggidy-whackadoo government rounding us up? And what's that got to do with a missing satellite?” prompted Daniqua, looking around to open up the question.
The still irritated Mrs. Lau provided an answer, “They not kill us. We computer crime suspect.”
“Why ya think computer crime?” Daniqua asked.
Mrs. Lau poked herself in the chest. “Muriel Lau. CFO Tech Development for ChainBank. I do work with computer. We all work with computer.”
She pointed her finger to #Rando and Forbin. “These two guy are computer hacker.”
Motioning to her left, saying, “Fat one here is computer scientist.” Mouth again full of cheese, Professor Markov nodded his head in the affirmative, unphased by Lau's blunt descriptor.
“And these two guy playing game are programmer, already they know each other. Big red one have whole family here!” She stopped her explanation, either at a loss for words or suppressing a more expressive rant. “Welcome to the club,” she finished.
“I see. Thanks,” said Daniqua, further introducing herself,“I'm Daniqua Lee Massey. Not really into computers. I'm a researcher, and a teacher, and well, currently unemployed I guess. Nice to meet y'all.”
The Professor finished chewing. “Hello. I'm Professor Slavoj Markov.” He shifted in his chair, then stroked his gray beard. “Am I right in presuming that like most teachers, you are not currently,” he searched for a euphemism, “-financially well off?”
“No, not particularly,” she answered.
Professor Markov gave a cheesy self satisfied grin.
Daniqua grokked for implicit bias: detected none. He was merely delighted by his correct assumption.
“Well, that makes you, on two levels of analysis for our group, an anomaly. In addition to quite a few of us working extensively with computers, we also tend to be, if not fabulously rich like Mrs. Lau, then at least what one could describe as being -of substantial wealth.”
LaMango momentarily stopped slithering around the lounge and seemed to contemplate saying something. Instead he straightened his expensive looking suit, adjusted his hair, then resumed his erratic perambulation.
Mr. Brickner smiled at Daniqua. “Actually Professor, Earl here is not rich.” He gestured toward his bald friend, who was shuffling letter tiles. “Years ago he gave everything he made to NGOs and financed desalination projects for African coastal cities.”
Earl Kine rotated his bald head toward Markov. “I'm not rich any longer. But I also don't have to worry about money.” He turned back toward Mr. Brickner, and said, “Still your turn Harry.”
Brickner shook his head with uncertainty and futility, then reluctantly laid down a single tile on the scrabble board.
Daniqua leaned over to see his play, transforming, THEISM into ATHEISM.
Kine asked, “…is that all Harry?”
Brickner grimaced slightly and nodded.
“10 points” said Kine, writing the tally on a notepad beside him.
He dropped his pencil, then put down the letter N, below Harry's A, and G in front of the existing word RAFTING.
He proceeded to meticulously place his remaining 5 tiles in line “G-U-A-R-D-I-A-N.”
Vocally accounting, “Guardian. 11 points. Triple word score. 33 points. G-rafting, 13 points. Total for turn, 46 points. Your turn Harry. Go.”
Brickner's momentarily sour face quickly evolved into a grin as he nodded his head in acceptance of his impending defeat. Smiling, he said, “Looks like this game is yours Earl. I concede.”
Earl raised his fist into the air and pulled it inward, pantomiming the clinching of his victory. He extended his hand over the game board inviting a conciliatory shake. “Good game Harry. Want to play another?”
Shaking his friend's hand, Harry answered, “No thanks. I'm a bit tired.”
Earl got up and turned around. Attention no longer on the game, he took full notice of Daniqua, not quite making eye contact. Looking in her general direction, he said “Hello, I'm Earl Kine, K-I-N-E.”
“Daniqua. D-A-N-I-Q-U-A,” she smiled, adding, “Nice to meet you Earl.”
Earl continued looking toward the floor. “Daniqua. 17 points,” he said, snorting while awkwardly waving hello.
He started walking in one direction, then as if he changed his mind mid-stride, reversed his course deciding to take a seat in a chair beside Professor Markov, who had resumed nibbling cheese.
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