The Takedown(64)

If I’d had my Doc, I’d have txted Creepy to Mac. Instead I tried to convey the emotion with my eyes and mouth. Mac raised an eyebrow, like, huh? Behind us, the front doors slid open. A kid in a slate-colored hoodie, not much taller than Audra, wandered in and waited for an elevator. Did they have day care here, too?

“Oh, it’s not one post, it’s like hundreds of thousands, but the thing I need help with is—”

“I understand. If you go to your account and click Flag Links, ConnectBook security will investigate the complaint. But what I am hearing you say, ma’am, is that there are many links you’d like removed, and I should remind you that as a ConnectBook user, you have signed a terms-of-service agreement that allows all ConnectBook information to be public. You can find this information right online under your My Account Info.”

My eyes flicked to Mac, and under my breath I said, “Txt Mac: Bot?”

Mac’s mouth was slightly agape, his eyes glued to the receptionist. “Not sure.”

I glanced longingly at the bank of elevators behind us. I imagined grabbing that kid—who’d put his hood up and was clearly eavesdropping—as a hostage, making a mad dash for any upwards locale and cornering the first tech person we saw.

“But we’re here and I don’t want to wait for”—I didn’t mean to mimic a robot when I said it, but I did—“ConnectBook security to launch an investigation. I don’t want you guys to remove any links. I was hoping to speak with someone about accessing closed user accounts so I could remove the links myself.”

The smile didn’t leave the receptionist’s lips, but it tightened. Thank goodness. He was human.

“Yeah,” Mac said.

“Please,” I added, to make up for using the robot voice.

The female receptionist tapped a tiny square piece of metal next to her eye, then spoke directly to me. Mac and I jumped.

“What I am hearing you say is that you would like to access another user’s private account information. At ConnectBook we take the privacy of our users very seriously. Account tampering is a serious offense. May I have your username, please?”

“But he just said all ConnectBook information was public—”

“Posts are public and protected by freedom of speech. Identities are private and protected by CB. May I have your username, please?”

The smile now genuinely widened on the male receptionist’s boyish features.

“No. Why do you need my username? I’m not trying to account tamper. I’m not even online right now. But I’m pretty sure someone has accessed ConnectBook Woofer footage of me and other girls my age and then turned that footage into fake and highly damaging videos of us doing stuff with our teachers. If a user is allowed to do that within CB’s guidelines, I should be able to find out who that user is.”

The female receptionist tapped the metal square again and resumed staring at her retina screen. “Hello, ConnectBook,” she said. “How may I connect you? One moment.”

I didn’t want to sound like Mom or anything, but cutting-edge tech was getting weird. The kid in the slate hoodie now stood a few feet behind us. He was even leaning in to hear us better.

“This is garbage,” Mac said.

“If you have a complaint about the service you received today”—this now from the smiling male receptionist—“you can put it in writing and mail it to our customer service division. You can find the address online under our contact information. Is there anything else I can help you with?”

“But you haven’t helped me. You’re telling me—ConnectBook is telling me—to write a letter?”

“That’s correct. Thank you for contacting ConnectBook. Have a connected New Year.”

It wasn’t supposed to go this way. I wasn’t supposed to be stopped at the gates by a tooth-model clone with an unhelpful script. Next to me I could feel Mac tense, like he was ready to coil up and spring on the guy. Grabbing the crook of his arm, I pulled him toward the exit. The doors didn’t automatically slide apart. I jammed my finger against the manual door-open button. When that didn’t work, Mac pressed the button again and again.

“I think those are supposed to work on a push-once basis.”

The kid in the hoodie was hovering behind us, except he wasn’t a kid. He was just short. And extremely pale. He looked like he’d been kept in a closet his whole life.

“Doors used to work that way too,” Mac said.

The glass panels parted and let us out. Sunlight. Air. I took a deep breath and glanced back. The building didn’t look like an oasis now; it looked like a madhouse. And it didn’t help that the shrimpy guy in the sweatshirt was following annoyingly close on our heels.

I whispered. “Txt Mac: We’ve got company.”

“Txt Kyla: I know,” Mac said. “Also, I’m right here.”

Mac abruptly stopped walking. The little guy plowed into him.

“Dude,” Mac said. “What is your deal?”

“I’m Rory, senior ConnectBook programmer.”

“And?” I asked.

“And? I’m the guy who’s gonna help you get your life back.” He grinned and pumped a fist in the air. “Man, I’ve always wanted to say something like that.”