Hacker or tracker, they're two sides of the same coin, Toby mused and chewed on a couple of cold chips he picked out of the greasy take-away container.  The lift arrived, and peering down his bi-focals, he found a steel slot and inserted his coded key card into it. Inside, he inserted it again for his level--a red-eyed security camera overhead following his every movement.

 

Life was unfair. Each had the same skills; it's just that one side got money for the amount of spam they could send through the barriers, while people like himself got paid pittances by comparison.  The big software companies only paid him a couple hundred quid for reporting the holes he found in their gates. He sucked a mouthful of flat coke into his mouth to wash down the rest of the chip fragments.

 

Scam and spam, they were on the same side of the coin, like the image and caption. Sure, some hackers enjoyed the kick of breaking into government computer centres, while others sifted money from financial institutions through simulated identities.

 

He was the good guy, a freelancer who lived chiefly on the $200 or $300 he received every time he turned up a security hole in a corporate client's blanket. The real sharks were the computer security outfits like this one.  They charged their giant corporate clients huge retainers, while he had to spend 10-12 hours a day peering at a monitor, probing the various gates and ports of client computer servers, to see if he could find weak spots or exploit a digital entryway in a firewall.

 

The lift stopped at his designated level - three - the sliding door opening, then the infrared light closing the door after him.  On the way down the tiled hallway to his temp office, he dumped his takeaway containers, passing by a number of cubicles, some with other freelancers.  Freelancers came and went.  Those who couldn't take the pressure, the gaff, the hours or did their own hacking were soon removed. Usually the regulars greeted one another with geek names, but for some reason, maybe a new project, not today.  He turned toward his cubicle.

 

His name was gone from the nameplate.  He peered into the entryway with a sense of foreboding and saw his keyboard and monitor were missing.  His specially padded swivel leather chair was also missing. 'Gawd,' he moaned half out loud, 'now it's my turn.'  It was his absent chair that most disturbed him.  He had bought one of those special massage chairs so that his back and neck muscles wouldn't knot from those long, frozen hours staring at his monitor and working the keyboard.

 

He recognized the footsteps and knew the sound to be the security guards who usually came by every few hours.  From behind, one said in a low voice. 'Come with us, Tobias,'

 

And he felt a hand on his arm.  They were in the lift and the senior guard said, 'Give us your key card, Tobias.'  He wordlessly handed it over.

 

What in hell had he done? He thought he had filled all his reports in properly, those sites he couldn't break into, those he could and how he did it.  He had work damned hard this past year.  Maybe there was a test site, a vulnerable site that he slipped up on.  Or maybe it was one of the salacious emails that his fellow nerds sent one another when they were killing time. The lift stopped, the door opened, and his speculation ended.

 

But it wasn't the lobby. The floors were carpeted. There were offices instead of cubicles. All were closed and had key card slots. 'Stop here,' said the lead guard. He took a card from his pocket, inserted it and swung the door open. Toby readied himself for a dressing down by some creepy corporate executive.  Instead, he saw a computer work table with a pc tower, a custom keyboard, a huge monitor and next to a mahogany desk on the carpeted floor sat his special chair. As he tried to take in the scene, he felt the card being slid into his hand.

 

His thoughts jolted him. 'I've been kicked upstairs.'