18
Evening had fallen on the crowds in Times Square, but the streets were bathed in electric hues from multiple monitors displaying ads and streaming video from numerous locations. Horns blared as cars piled along curbs waiting for an opportunity to turn into adjacent streets through the flood of pedestrians. Some walked in groups. Many seemed tuned out and into their digital devices. All were dressed in jackets to ward off the late October chill.
One by one, those walking the streets began to slow down, staring at their phones or tablets. Others began to crane their necks upward, interrupting their conversations, staring puzzled at the glowing behemoths of dancing images around them. Within a minute, nearly all the motion in the square had come to a halt, and the blaring of horns increased ten-fold as roadways were completely blocked.
Like dominoes, all the monitors in the square flipped jerkily to the same static image: a circle with a globe depicted in grid lines, leaves of a plant along the sides, the figure of a headless man in a black and white suit with a question mark over him.
Out of a window a taxi driver stuck his head and gazed up at the bizarre tiling of images across the buildings around him. He tugged on a baseball cap.
“What the hell?”
“John, you’d better come with me.”
Cohen stood in his doorway, a sharp glint in her eyes. Savas prepared for the worst. “Another attack?”
She shook her head. “Something different. But I think related. Media across the country, maybe world-wide, is being hijacked. It’s cable, network, online streaming sites like YouTube and Hulu. It’s systematic.”
“Systematic? The worm?”
“Don’t know. But this sure sounds like something it could be up to.”
Savas sprang from his chair and followed her into the floor’s common room. Normally a place for coffee and a break from work, the small space was packed as agents and staff stared up at a flat-panel screen. A strange black-and-white image of a headless man in a suit took the place of all programming on nearly all stations. Savas and Cohen stood outside the door looking in.
A man’s voice came up over the din of buzzing conversation. “That's Anonymous!”
Cohen turned to Savas. “He’s right! I knew I had seen it before.”
“Anonymous? Those kids who do social justice hacking?”
The voice of Lightfoote startled them from behind. “Kids, maybe. No one really knows who they are, how they organize, where they are. A few caught were high schoolers. Others older. Some established, even corporate. They’re everyone and no one. The name really does mean something. Unknown, distributed anarchy. Probably why they never achieved anything really big.”
“Until now, maybe,” said Savas as he started at the disconcerting image.
“Uh oh, there it goes,” said Lightfoote.
The screen pixelated horribly, and then locked onto another video feed. The crowds at FBI, in Times Square, and in millions of homes across the nation stared at two rows of chairs in a dark room. Harsh lighting fell directly on those seated in the chairs, the space behind them and to their sides too dark for any details to be made out. The men and women were tied to the seats, their arms and legs lashed with rope, gags in their mouths, and terrified expressions on their faces as their eyes darted.
“Oh, my God,” whispered Cohen. “The abductions.”
Savas felt his stomach drop as he began to recognize faces. The CEO of GE. Congressmen. The Chair of the Federal Reserve. Luminaries in business, finance, and politics. What the hell was happening?
Lightfoote spoke. “I’m going to the basement. They’ve compromised major digital distribution hubs. I bet it’s the worm. We might be able to catch it in action and see what it looks like!” She darted from the crowd and headed toward the stairway.
A mask appeared in front of the screen. Black-and-white, smirking, a thin goatee etched across the upper lip and chin. Savas had seen it before. It was a symbol of underground resistance to established powers — the mask of Guy Fawkes.
“Greetings sheeple of America, Europe, and beyond,” came a digitally distorted voice. “We are Anonymous and today is a day of judgment.”
The masked speaker stepped back from the camera. The figure was of indeterminate frame and size, dressed in a black suit and tie. It walked confidently toward the double row of hostages. Their eyes looked hopeless and panicked.
“Already we have targeted some of the worst criminals in our malignant society. Robber barons, plutocrats who pull the strings of the drugged masses. The architects of a feudal world increasingly of a few elements of royalty standing on the backs of millions of slaves.”
“Jesus,” said Savas. He picked up his mobile phone and dialed. “Yeah, Angel. You got anything on this? Location?” He grimaced. “I know there hasn’t been time! But what I’m seeing — it’s not good. I think these people are in danger.”
The masked man continued. “Today, as a taste of things to come, we again pass judgment on a group of criminals whose status in society is the only thing separating them from the mafia. Because in their greed they have killed like common thugs.”
He slapped the face of a man next to him. Savas recognized the captive as CEO O'Kelly.
The masked man continued. “They have poisoned our world, our rivers, our air, our very bodies as they profit. They have drilled and dug and burned and buried. They have denied health and home and peace to billions so they could luxuriate in ten thousand times more than they could ever require.”
Several shapes in dark clothing moved into the view frame of the camera. They wore Guy Fawkes masks. They carried automatic weapons.
“Oh, Christ,” whispered Savas. Murmurs ran through the crowd at FBI.
Several of the hostages in the chairs let loose gagged screams, twisting and wrenching their arms and legs in attempts to free themselves. Other seemed resigned, staring forward blankly.
“Today, we reject the weakness of fools. Of the failed Occupy Movement. Of the false Anonymous. Of corrupt nation-states who claim to serve the people but serve only their masters. Today we reject the foul words of the pundits, the professors, the activists, and the politicians who spout lies about change as they bathe in the status quo. Today, a real change comes. Today, we begin to put down a sick and broken system.”
There was a pause, and then he nodded toward the gunman. “Remember. Remember the fifth of November. This time there will be no providence of God.”
The men raised their weapons. Shouts came from some of the FBI onlookers.
Cohen turned to Savas. “John, Tell me he isn’t—”
Bursts of light erupted from the muzzles of the automatic weapons, blurs of static from the flatscreen. Puffs of fabric and blood exploded outward from the clothes of the hostages, their forms shaking from the projectile impacts and reflex action, muffled screams bursting from their gagged lips.
Then silence.
The murderers with guns were gone. Only the bodies of the dead stared back into the camera with vacant eyes or tortured final expressions. The grinning plastic of the man with the Guy Fawkes mask approached the camera, until the mocking face filled the entire screen.
“We are the real Anonymous. We are indeed Legion. We do not forgive. We do not forget. Expect us.”
The video feed switched to a set of multiple views arranged in an array across the screen. In each case, the camera floated above the ground at what seemed to be disparate locations, darkness punctured by the lights of cars and buildings in the cities below.
The viewpoints descended. With increasing speed the ground dashed upward toward the viewer as the land sped by underneath, buildings whipping past. A disorienting collection of sub-screens careened wildly together.