He gives me a flat look. “Enough. Hannah’s not exactly forthcoming but I’m in charge of pen-testing.”
Penetration testing. So he’s used to testing systems for weaknesses. Nearly every major cybersecurity companyemploys them as white hat hackers. It makes sense that a bunch of cyberterrorists would have their own.
“I checked out this building before we came here,” says Bud. “I know your people picked this location because of its back door.” He shrugs. “Not a bad plan, but we already secured it.”
A secret back door? I have no idea what he is talking about. But I don’t want him to realize how clueless I am.
“Tell your boss to cooperate,” says Bud, sounding almost earnest. “No one has to get hurt.”
I laugh—but it’s a jagged sound void of amusement. “The security guy might argue with that if he weren’t, well, dead.”
“No oneelsehas to get hurt,” amends Bud.
I look at him. At this twenty-something self-proclaimed computer genius with his university sweatshirt and lanky build. If my life went according to plan, I could have been very much like him.
“Why are you doing this?” I ask. “You and the rest of Radiocastration.”
“Ratiocination,” he corrects me.
“Radioministration,” I say airily. Getting the name right affords them a certain amount of respect—and they don’t deserve it. “If you wanted people to remember the name, you should’ve picked something catchier.”
His jaw flexes, but he doesn’t try again. “This blackout. Did you even stop to ask why it’s happening?”
Of all the answers I expect, this wasn’t on the list.
“Public safety power shutoffs prevent stray sparks fromcausing a fire,” I answer. “And because the dam can’t draw enough power right now with the drought.”
“You would think.” Bud’s face lights up, as though excited by my answer. “But you should know, other neighborhoods still have power. These so-called rolling blackouts only ever affect certain places. Certain people. The poor give up a few hours of power and light so that the rich can still have them. So that certain companies can still have them.”
I blink. I admit, I have never actually looked into the geography of the blackouts; I just assumed they affected the entire city.
“Same goes for Seattle,” says Bud. “For LA. For everywhere on the West Coast. Those who can afford to will move to neighborhoods with power. And those who can’t… well.” He gives a little shrug. “It’s a few hours of darkness. Unless they require medical devices that need power. Or if they can’t turn on the lights, can’t find their inhaler when they need it. Or if the AC goes out and they suffer heatstroke. But those deaths are ignored. After all, it’s just the elderly and the disabled. They would’ve died anyway, right?” Bud’s voice brims with bitterness. “The cost of doing business.”
I gape at him. “You lost someone, didn’t you?”
He gives me a dark look. “We’re all losing someone, sooner or later. Unless you can afford to protect your loved ones. Same thing’s happening in other parts of the country, too. Think about who gets left behind during hurricane and tornado evacuations. The East Coast gets winter storms—who digs people out of their homes? What happens whenthe power goes off in the winter? And the Midwest has toxic algae outbreaks, and guess who normally drinks tap water? Point is, those who can afford to buy safety and fresh water and food will survive. Those who can’t… It’s all a roll of the dice.”
“So that’s what Radioagnation is all about?” I ask. “If you’re concerned about climate change and saving the poor, why didn’t you go to work in politics? Start a nonprofit? Do something that doesn’t involve…” I gesture at the security office. “This.”
Bud lifts his chin, defiance flickering in his eyes. “Because hacking is the only thing I’ve ever been great at. And no corporation is going to pay me what I’m worth for eco-activism. So I found a different employer instead. And we’ve done some good work. We’ve rerouted power, shifted water. Putting resources back where they belong.”
“And the maintenance workers you drowned?” I snap. “They weren’t rich or privileged.”
His mouth tightens. “An accident.”
“The cost of doing business,” I say coolly, reflecting his own words back at him.
To his credit, regret flickers across his face. “I’m not saying we’re perfect. But we’re trying, at least. And that security guard—I’m sorry about him.”
“Is that why you came here?” I ask. “To make the world a safer place for the common people?”
It’s the closest I can come to outright asking Bud,What are you here for?I don’t dare reveal how little I know.
“No,” he admits. “Today’s about Hannah. As long as she’s distracted, we can’t do our jobs.”
What in the world doesthatmean?
“Listen,” says Bud, trying to squirm upright. “You’re not with them by choice. I know that. I’ve learned enough about ISD to know that they give wraiths just enough of a leash to hang themselves.”
