The Cynthia Pryce Hack

  The Cynthia Pryce Hack

  A brainchild story

  By Isaac Byrne

  Copyright © 2017 by Isaac Byrne

  All rights reserved. This book or any portion thereof may not be reproduced or used in any manner whatsoever without the express written permission of the publisher except for the use of brief quotations in a book review.

  First Edition, 2017

  There was a time when I hated waking up in the morning. Get up, put on uncomfortable clothes. Go to an office that’s always either too hot or too cold. Eat lunch surrounded by fellow drones, each more defeated than the last – except the ones who aren’t, who are miles worse. Watch the clock until it’s time to punch out, fight traffic to get home. Feed my ungrateful cat, watch some HoloV that’s more insipid by the year. Choke down some frozen food and wash it down with cold beer – the first and final happy moment of my day. Then it’s back to bed, all to wake up again tomorrow.

  Then some clever bastard invented the interbellum, and now? Now I can’t wait to get out of bed. See, I’m a brainchild.

  I suppose I ought to explain – after all, a lot of people actually don’t know people like me exist. They’re happier being ignorant, no doubt. After all, the interbellum – IB, as it’s more commonly known – initially flourished with the promise that it was tamper-proof, strictly one way, under the sole control of the person whose brain it’s attached to. It was the only way. After all, who would surgically implant a microcomputer in their skull if they thought somebody could hack their cortex? They just wanted to sit back and browse neuroporn, install a tweak or two with personality augments, and download the obvious mental health software upgrades.

  It was only a matter of time until somebody found a way to crack those first editions. I made an effort myself, at least enough to see where the cracks in the system were. Since the IBs are driven by neural and not computer activity, it didn’t do much good just to hack the CPU. You might be able to piss somebody off by breaking their toy, but since none of the data was actually stored in the IB itself, it was otherwise useless. There was no way to get anything interesting until someone was able to record and transmit brain wave.

  Unsurprisingly, now that a real incentive existed… someone did. Nobody’s sure who (unless you buy the official story about that poor biotech “terrorist” who “confessed” under “enhanced interrogation” bullshit). But whoever managed it changed the world. It started a wave of hackers who began introducing brain wave patterns directly into the IB – what my fellow brainchildren and I call wavelinks. They were just more data to be transmitted as far as the IB was concerned, but the poor defenseless brains couldn’t distinguish between their own waves and these new false ones stimulated by the IB.

  It got ugly for a while there – the kinds of things you’d think would happen when some guy with access to the right files can put virtually any thought into virtually anybody’s head. Some people in my line of work were at the forefront of it, the worst of the worst. I’ve actually met the guy who wrote the infamous N00de$t wavelink (which, if you’ve been living underground, does exactly what you’d think it does).

  Right quick, recognizing the existential threat the wavelinks represented, world governments did what they do when there’s a problem they can’t handle – throw money at anyone offering to help. Sure enough, somebody found a work-around. I say “work-around” and not “solution” because the Authentication upgrade doesn’t actually stop people from uploading wavelinks. What it does do, however, is run brain activity past a list of recognized malicious wavelinks and disable anything it’s not sure is legit.

  For example, say some brainchild’s face-rec augment spots some real money across the restaurant from them. Our guy blasts the poor tycoon with a wavelink that includes thoughts and behaviors to hand over access to their bank accounts. Before Authentication, he’d have been in for a bumpy ride through his bank’s reclamation department. After Authentication, the IB recognizes the thought as flagged and shuts it down.

  If that sounds like a solution, let me explain why it’s not.

  Another example: A pretty girl is out on a date with her new boyfriend. She’s super into him, and thinks tonight may just be the night. Then when he gets up to use the head, some other creep hits her with a wavelink to get her to hide under his table cloth and suck his cock. Her Authentication kicks in, says no way Jose, and she’s a free woman. Only then, her special fella comes back. Wild child that she is, she’s considered what a lark it’d be to crawl down under the table to give him a thrill. Her own idea, no tampering – kinky girl. Only Authentication doesn’t know the difference, so it squelches that brain wave pattern, too, and her new beau goes home hard and dry.

  It’s still pretty new tech, and it’s evolving. The basics are covered, and it’s actually gotten pretty rare to hear of an IB being hacked for sex, money, revenge, etc. (People still like to blame their IB for bad judgment, though – interbellum corporations have liability insurance like you wouldn’t believe.) Of course, like any protection developed, predators up their game in turn. These days, most wavelink hacks target individuals directly rather than the old broad strokes approach. A wavelink that tells someone to transfer their savings to your credstrip is doomed to fail, but you might write one that tells a veteran of the Venezuelan War that you’re an old army buddy who just needs some money to clone a new kidney – then watch how fast that account opens to you.

  It’s nice to see ingenuity being rewarded.

  More and more these days, people are retrograding to pre-IB living. I can see how one could be paranoid, even if to the average person there’s minimal risk. (It can costs hundreds of thousands of credits to develop a single wavelink hack; it’s not really worth it to fleece Dave Higgins of Rock Springs, Wyoming out of his decade-old pickup hovertruck.) But for the rich, the famous, or the just plain paranoid, they’re willing to shell out top dollar to Authentication research companies like mine to keep their minds impregnable.

  That’s where I come in.

  The term “brainchild” was popularized by the media when IB hacking first started to describe anybody who was working with wavelinks. At the time, they were criminals, lowlifes who used their fellow man as toys for their gain and amusement. Fast forward a few years, and I’m now a highly paid operative of one of the biggest IB tech companies in the world. See, I’m the guy who finds the gaps in your brain’s defenses, keeping you good and safe. As safe as it can be, at least.

  How do I do it? Well like they say, it’s always better to show than tell.

  [/IB-streamfeeding.cynthiapryce.ibs]

  [t2trender=1]

  [narrationenabled=1]

  [tds: 14:24:58.08:19:2054]

  [/play]

  “Yeah, and just so you know, my daddy is Emrys Pryce. As in Pryce clothing outlets? Yeah. My family owns this chain, and when he hears about how long you made me wait and how filthy that dressing room was, you’re going to be out of a job, Little Miss Teri-with-an-i. So, enjoy your final hours here.”

  I gave her a parting sneer and stormed out of the store, my family name emblazoned in blue-white holo above the door. I felt a little bad for Teri. She was a nobody, for one, and so merited pity by default. Worse, it wasn’t really her fault. I’d actually seen her entering the store just ahead of me, so she wasn’t actually responsible for the mess. (Which had really just been some tags and hangers lying around.) And the wait was just because the bitch in front of me had bought almost as much as I had.

  Still. I was Cynthia fucking Pryce. If there was one thing I hated, it was not being recognized at my own family’s stores. After Teri got the hatchet, the rest of them would learn. Or if they didn’t, well, Teri could let them cut in the bread line.


  I should note that I didn’t target Cynthia for my hack because she was such an unbelievable bitch. I just find the mall is a good place to scan for people who match the profile I’m looking for, and she happened to be the first one who did. It definitely gave me a little smile after, given what went down.

  A full morning of shopping had worn me out, especially having to lug around my parcels myself given Daddy’s stupid prohibition of using our androids in public, what with the AI-rights controversy. (I didn’t personally give two figs if my android could think of its status as chattel slavery; it was all 1’s and 0’s to me, and I didn’t feel any worse for it than I did for my autoaster.) So I treated myself to a single origin red eye caffè latte au lait (with a naughty little spritzing of pumpkin spice just pre-season) and settled into one of those hideous faux leather couches in the thoroughfares.

  I queued my book in my IB, sipping my coffee and trying not to attract attention. It wasn’t easy. I tried to project an air of elegance, patterning after one of my heroes, the classic beauty Ivanka Trump. One for the ages, she was. Mother had splurged on some top-shelf gene sequencing for me, and it showed. (And not in the way it “showed” in my cousin. Bucktooth Billy is the nickname he picked up at school, and trust me, it’s nicer than the one we use in the family.)

  Right about here is where I spotted her. Our girl Cindy isn’t joking about her looks – I’d have given her a second glance even if my IB hadn’t recognized her as a Pryce. 5’10”, probably 130 lbs. soaking wet, with plenty of it in those spectacular tits she was not quite failing to conceal. (EverRise brand DNA, if I don’t miss my guess.) The kind of girl who’d look like a porn star if she wasn’t flouting an outfit that probably cost more than some people’s homes and a hairstyle to make sure you didn’t miss that fact. And I am partial to blondes. Needless to say, I started my wavelink string post haste.

  Sure enough, I didn’t make it halfway through my chapter before some pleb tried to sit down next to me. I made short work of him, but I didn’t make it to chapter’s end before his dude-bro lackey came over to try to give me the third degree for the way I supposedly mistreated his friend. It was funny – I’d been just about to hold up a finger for the old, “hold on, somebody’s calling via my IB” routine, followed by a prolonged silent phone conversation that (thanks to my sunglasses) he’d have no way of guessing when I was done. Only right then, someone actually called.

  The excuse was no fun if it was legitimate. Ah, well.

  Sadder still, my IB identified the call as Daddy. It was a little weird, since I had him saved under the name as Emrys Pryce, but this stupid IB is always trying to find smarter ways to identify my contacts. I held up a finger to the dude-bro as my IB transmitted the call, the MindLink software automatically translating the incoming thoughts into my father’s voice, audible only in my own mind, and no doubt doing the same for him with my replies.

  “Hi, Daddy.” (No wonder the IB updated his contact info.)

  “Good afternoon, Cynthia.” (Uh, oh. I was never Cynthia unless he was cross with me.) “I don’t have a lot of time, but I wanted to touch base with you about your little project. We’ve decided to scrap it. It’s just not working out.”

  “What?! But Devotion hasn’t even hit shelves yet – Daddy, you promised! You can’t!” I rose to my feet in outrage, brushing aside the still-nagging peasant as I stormed across the thoroughfare. He followed, but if I was disregarding him before, I was flat-out oblivious to him now. Devotion was my signature scent – I’d even gotten Daddy to let me star in the commercials! All of that work, all that potential publicity, squandered! What about my brand!

  “Don’t take that tone with me,” he said mildly. “The decision has been made, and it’s final. Understand?”

  “It’s not fair!” I said aloud, stamping my foot in frustration. My voice went from my mouth to my ear to my brain to my IB and right out to Daddy. Impressive tech, even though it would hurt the sound quality a bit.

  “Not fair? Bitch, after what you just said to my friend…” the guy rambled on.

  “Are you alone, dear? I thought I heard a man’s voice.”

  I resumed internal speech, rolling my eyes at the dude-bro’s whiny boyfriend and shouldering past him again as I resumed pacing. “It was just some nobody, Daddy. I’m not ‘with’ anyone.”

  “Good. You have terrible taste in men. I’ve been thinking I might need to start vetting your potential suitors.”

  “Again?! First you take away my dream, and now you want to lock me up like Rapunzel in her tower!”

  I couldn’t help but laugh there. My wavelink – what she thought was her father but was actually just a simple AI my IB was broadcasting to her – was only set to look for segues to her love life and try to assert control over it. A simple Turing2 conversation grade, but as was so often the case, it was proving to be enough. Amazing how often my guesses about what will work against a profile’s subconscious wind up being spot on. The AI was masterful at being vague, letting Cindy make her own assumptions to fill in the blanks.

  It was about here I decided to start making my move in person.

  “I only mean to say that you’re too impulsive, and it leads you to make bad decisions. I know what’s best for you, Cynthia. Plus, I have an image to maintain. Now tell me you understand, and that you won’t jump into bed with anyone without my approval. ”

  I was fuming, perfectly sculpted nostrils flaring. Still, I knew better than to come after Daddy directly, especially when I was angry. He’d just invalidate my concerns and tell me I was being too emotional. For now, just agree – then get back at him later. “I understand, Daddy,” I grumbled in my mind.

  “Good. I’ve got to let you go now. Try not to do anything too wild or stupid, all right?”

  “I–” But the connection went dead before I could even express my outrage.

  “Think I’m wild and stupid, do you?” I grumbled to myself.

  “No, I said you’re bein’ a bitch, now fuckin’ apologize to my friend,” the man insisted. I turned to look at this imbecile who was still trying to cajole an apology out of me. How had he not given up yet?

  Before I could issue a scathing rejoinder the likes of which I’d dealt his idiot friend, a third man showed up. Thankfully, this one didn’t seem to be in league with the first two, as he interposed himself between us with his back to me. “The lady doesn’t seem to want to talk to you, friend, so why don’t you let it drop, all right?”

  “You ain’t no friend of mine. And this bitch owes my buddy an apology.”

  “She doesn’t owe you anything. Now back off. Last warning.”

  “Warning? Who the fuck do you think–”

  And with that, the newcomer clocked him straight across the face. The jerk went down in a heap, toppling backwards over the couches and onto the floor. His friend, the one who’d done such a poor job of hitting on me earlier, rushed over to check on him, but was plainly afraid to tangle with this fellow. Now that I gave him a once over, I could see why. He was young, fit and well-muscled, and exuded a confidence that would make any man flinch. Honestly, he was rather handsome, albeit not in the more refined way I usually preferred. He looked like he’d be more at home in a bar than a board room.

  Ordinarily I would never risk legal trouble by getting in a fight to secure a test subject – and Cynthia Pryce was no exception. Those two boys had cost me an even five hundred cash to let me play hero with them, and I’d apologized in advance for not pulling my punch. I’m no choreographer, so I had to make it look real.

  “Are you all right, Miss?” he said, turning to me, shaking out the hand he’d used for that impressive punch.

  “Fine, thank you. You really didn’t need to intervene.” I walked past the semi-conscious man bleeding through his nose on the floor and his friend, retrieving my packages so I could get away from them before their courage returned.

  Only then my savior rushed over to assist me. “Here, let me give you a hand with tho
se.”

  He didn’t strike me as the thieving type, but still. “I assure you, I don’t need–”

  “No, I know – but a girl as pretty as you shouldn’t have to do her own lifting.”

  Used to be I could take cheesy compliments like those and send a little arousal spike along with them to help move things along, but sadly some of my fellow brainchildren helped iron out that kink a long time ago. As wonderful as IB tech was, I did miss living in a world where some flattery might be all it took to seal the deal. Still, like the lady said, I take good care of myself, and even a princess like Cynthia Pryce isn’t immune to a compliment from a handsome stranger. Not every tool in my arsenal is cybertrickery.

  “Oh. Well thank you then. I’m Cynthia, by the way, Mr…”

  “You can call Brendan.” He smiled at me. Good teeth. Good breeding in general, it would seem.

  “So are you on your way out, or did I just unwittingly volunteer myself to be your vassal for the day?” he quipped, sounding like he might not mind if he did. As someone who was flirted with all too frequently, I could concede he had some skill at it, but that didn’t mean I was going to fall for it. I could tell just by the clothes he was wearing that he was well beneath my station.

  “I don’t know that I’m done shopping yet, but we can drop those at my car. Then I will officially release you from my service.” He smiled at my riff on his vassal joke.

  “Sounds good. Not that I’m in a rush or anything. My pa always told me never hurry an act of chivalry or you subvert the gesture. Or something like that. Always full of good advice, he was.”

  It made me think of my conversation with my own father.

  Obviously. My wavelink kept on doing its work.

  “We’ve decided to scrap Devotion,” he’d said. The audacity! “I have an image to maintain. You have terrible taste in men. You’re wild and stupid.” His words echoed around my brain like rolling thunder, making me angrier and angrier with him by the second.