The antibacterial green glow of the terminal screen casted an odd shadow on Siras' frown and made it seem more ghastly than usual. A faint creak startled him and he whipped around in his comandeered Aeron chair, eyes wide. There was nothing and nobody in the building, of course--he hadn't spent those five years in the hills of the Himalayas harvesting and synthesizing the milk of the limberio tree into the world's most untraceable neurotoxin just to haphazardly leave a security guard alive on his way in. He stared at the door back to the hallway from the mainframe for another twenty seconds to put his mind at ease. The leg of the last guard was still sticking lifeless into the mainframe room. He had put up quite a fight, but Siras hadn't spent a whole decade on a Tibetan mountain training to be a triple black-belt in Karate to be bested by some rent-a-cop with a holstered can of mace.
He turned back towards the mainframe terminal. The cursor at the shell prompt winked at him.
mainframe $> |
mainframe $>
mainframe $> |
He knew exactly what he had to do now.
mainframe $> login |
mainframe $> login
Please enter username: |
mainframe $> login
Please enter username: jk.brown |
mainframe $> login
Please enter username: jk.brown
Please enter password: |
Siras hadn't spent fifteen years tailing John Kimmel Brown, reading every news article about him, rifling through his cans every garbage day (Tuesday mornings at 6:15 AM from 2000-2010, then Recology decided they'd switch to Wednesday mornings starting in 2011. For the first half of 2011 Siras would still check on Tuesday mornings, as he knew that J.K. Brown was a creature of habit) just to be foiled this far into this job, his calling, the whole reason he was put on this planet.
mainframe $> login
Please enter username: jk.brown
Please enter password: iliketurtles12 |
Turtles: J.K. Brown's favorite animal. Twelve, the number of turtles he'd owned in his lifetime, including one tortoise. A bead of sweat formed at Siras' brow. He hit enter. The bead fell precipitously onto the knuckle of his right ring finger.
mainframe $> login
Please enter username: jk.brown
Please enter password: ***************
Access granted. Welcome, John.
root@mainframe $> |
He was in. His heart skipped a beat, and for a second he felt that same faint, spinning feeling that he experienced after he won the grand championship prize at the World Series of Poker. He had spent twenty-two years studying Texas hold-'em poker and behavioral psychology so he could win that tournament and finance this job. He knew he couldn't rest on his laurels, but he decided to allow himself one victorious fist-pump before he continued on to the coup de grace. He hadn't spent thirty years at the Royal Oxford Academy of Fist Pumping and Other Dramatic Gestures just to make it this far and not be able to prematurely celebrate correctly.
Just as he was winding up for the most royally dramatic gesture of his lifetime, he noticed that bead of sweat was still on the knuckle of his right ring finger. His face drained itself of all its color, and he felt a sinking feeling--the same kind that he felt during his first submarine driving lesson. He had spent thirty-six years studying submarining so that he could arrive surreptitiously in San Francisco by way of the Bay for this job.
It was too late to stop the fist pump now--his professors at the Royal Academy had done an excellent job teaching him. He finished the extension of his fist in a textbook Serpentine twist, and the little bead of sweat launched from his knuckle towards the ceiling. He watched in slow-motion as the little droplet zeroed in on its target: a small silver disc embedded in the pristine white ceiling tile. It met its destiny, and Siras sat in silence staring above for what felt like eons. When enough time had passed, he realized he hadn't tripped the moisture sensor. He let out a sigh of relief.
"AUDIO ALARM ACTIVATED! RED ALERT, CODE 52A!"
That was his death knell. He hadn't spent forty years studying corporate security routines and klaxons to not know that a Code 52A meant that a heavily-armed SWAT team was on their way to his location. They'd be there in minutes.
Siras didn't expect to die on this job, but he knew that what he was doing was bigger than himself. After fifty-seven years of preparation, he felt at peace. He had just enough time to complete his task.
root@mainframe $> vim |
He could hear the stomp of tactical boots echoing from the staircase--probably down in the lobby--all the way up into the hall.
root@mainframe $> vim /www/site/index.css |
The frantic steps got louder. He hit enter. The file took up the entirety of the terminal, and he mashed the keyboard until he arrived where he needed to be.
.submit-button {
margin: 10px;
padding-top: 10px;
padding-bottom: 9px; |
}
His muscle memory kicked in. He hadn't spent sixty years studying the VIM text editor to make it this far and not know how to change one number to another number. He heard the unmistakable sound of a handgun being cocked. The SWAT team was at the end of the hall. He made the change.
.submit-button {
margin: 10px;
padding-top: 10px;
padding-bottom: 10px;
}
He frantically hit save, just as he heard the team kick open the door.
"Step away from the terminal now!"
He couldn't comply, he had to make sure he had accomplished his goal.
"I'll give you until the count of three! One.."
Siras opened up a web browser.
"Two!"
He typed http://google.com/ in the address bar.
"Three!"
He pressed enter as the report from the officer's gun rang out in his ears, and there was a splatter of blood on the terminal screen. He felt cold, but as the Google homepage loaded he could see that the text of the "Search" button was finally centered vertically. He could die happy. He had prepared sixty-seven years for the end.