Buzzworm (A Technology Thriller): Computer virus or serial killer? Read Online Free Page A
Author: Theo Cage
missed a deadline. "That can wait. This is a government job we're talking about. Federal ."
She said it the way some women might whisper unmentionable acts in your ear after their sixth margarita. Strange smiled into the phone. "So - who did you have to sleep with to get this one?"
"At least I’m sleeping with members of the opposite sex. Or have you forgotten how that works."
Burhack was a pain in the ass, but she fed him a lot of consulting work. She had a sharp wit too. Just enough to keep Strange on his toes. She also put up with his odd working hours and the inconveniences of his present living arrangements.
"Low blow, Sharon. But I appreciate your sympathy.” He whistled softly. “My buddies, the Feds. What makes you think they'll let me do it?" He took his eyes off his computer screen for the first time and reached for his coffee cup. "So far I hear they're still paying their bills."
He heard the sounds of paper being moved around on her desk. "This is big. And they asked specifically for you. I really built you up the last time we made those changes to their in-house security program. Which still works, as far as they can tell. We'll both make a lot of money on this if you can just keep your mouth . . ."
He jumped in. "Are we talking firewall work?" Firewalls were software programs that protected sensitive computer systems from hackers.
"You're going to be eternally grateful to me."
"Sharon, you own a software consulting firm. Now if you were sitting on the parole board . . . "
She was shuffling through papers again. She was clever, but he imagined her office looked like the aftermath of a SWAT TEAM attack. "They're painfully aware that you know every computer virus on a first name basis."
Roger stopped drinking coffee. He was finally starting to pay attention.
"They've got one?"
"Big time. And this one isn't on anyone's list. I checked."
"Somehow I doubt that. Has it got a name?"
"They're calling it Buzzworm ."
Roger stopped staring off into space and peered up at the wall chart just above his work area. It was a list supplied by one of the bigger companies that produced anti-viral software. The list had over 4,000 names of viruses. Buzzworm wasn't there. Nothing unusual though. At last count, there were 8,500 cataloged viruses in existence. "Haven't heard of that one, but so what. Could just be another one of those endless variations on SatanBug, Tremor or that Jurassic virus from Spain they've been chattering about lately."
"This is definitely not a derivative. It's new. And it's as slick as baby poop on linoleum. All they can tell me is it’s poly, and it’s infected all of their critical systems." Poly meant polymorphic - a virus that changed shape constantly to avoid detection. Very hard to find. Even harder to write. Who could launch such an aggressive attack on the American government? "They need you PDQ."
"So I'll call 'em. Give me the number." That was a joke because Rogers’s phone only received calls. He had no way of calling out of his cell.
"No need for a call. They need you there. Now."
"There?" Roger had just filled his mouth with the vile stuff he brewed everyday they had the nerve to call coffee, his whole body resisting the urge to spray it all over his tiny cell. Home was Overton, a minimum-security prison in southern Ontario. He had fifteen months to go, if his behavior met the parole board’s standards next time they met, a meeting he wasn't looking forward to. The boards always made him feel like a six-year-old kid about to fill his pants - but even worse, in the back of his mind, was always the threat that they could send him to a real prison. If he didn't toe the line. Or they didn’t like his answers. Real prison was a place without computers - a place with lots of guys with shaved heads and shivs, lurking around the showers, looking for a drive-by romance. A place where his ex-partner still languished, at least four years left on his sentence, and a lot of pent-up
She said it the way some women might whisper unmentionable acts in your ear after their sixth margarita. Strange smiled into the phone. "So - who did you have to sleep with to get this one?"
"At least I’m sleeping with members of the opposite sex. Or have you forgotten how that works."
Burhack was a pain in the ass, but she fed him a lot of consulting work. She had a sharp wit too. Just enough to keep Strange on his toes. She also put up with his odd working hours and the inconveniences of his present living arrangements.
"Low blow, Sharon. But I appreciate your sympathy.” He whistled softly. “My buddies, the Feds. What makes you think they'll let me do it?" He took his eyes off his computer screen for the first time and reached for his coffee cup. "So far I hear they're still paying their bills."
He heard the sounds of paper being moved around on her desk. "This is big. And they asked specifically for you. I really built you up the last time we made those changes to their in-house security program. Which still works, as far as they can tell. We'll both make a lot of money on this if you can just keep your mouth . . ."
He jumped in. "Are we talking firewall work?" Firewalls were software programs that protected sensitive computer systems from hackers.
"You're going to be eternally grateful to me."
"Sharon, you own a software consulting firm. Now if you were sitting on the parole board . . . "
She was shuffling through papers again. She was clever, but he imagined her office looked like the aftermath of a SWAT TEAM attack. "They're painfully aware that you know every computer virus on a first name basis."
Roger stopped drinking coffee. He was finally starting to pay attention.
"They've got one?"
"Big time. And this one isn't on anyone's list. I checked."
"Somehow I doubt that. Has it got a name?"
"They're calling it Buzzworm ."
Roger stopped staring off into space and peered up at the wall chart just above his work area. It was a list supplied by one of the bigger companies that produced anti-viral software. The list had over 4,000 names of viruses. Buzzworm wasn't there. Nothing unusual though. At last count, there were 8,500 cataloged viruses in existence. "Haven't heard of that one, but so what. Could just be another one of those endless variations on SatanBug, Tremor or that Jurassic virus from Spain they've been chattering about lately."
"This is definitely not a derivative. It's new. And it's as slick as baby poop on linoleum. All they can tell me is it’s poly, and it’s infected all of their critical systems." Poly meant polymorphic - a virus that changed shape constantly to avoid detection. Very hard to find. Even harder to write. Who could launch such an aggressive attack on the American government? "They need you PDQ."
"So I'll call 'em. Give me the number." That was a joke because Rogers’s phone only received calls. He had no way of calling out of his cell.
"No need for a call. They need you there. Now."
"There?" Roger had just filled his mouth with the vile stuff he brewed everyday they had the nerve to call coffee, his whole body resisting the urge to spray it all over his tiny cell. Home was Overton, a minimum-security prison in southern Ontario. He had fifteen months to go, if his behavior met the parole board’s standards next time they met, a meeting he wasn't looking forward to. The boards always made him feel like a six-year-old kid about to fill his pants - but even worse, in the back of his mind, was always the threat that they could send him to a real prison. If he didn't toe the line. Or they didn’t like his answers. Real prison was a place without computers - a place with lots of guys with shaved heads and shivs, lurking around the showers, looking for a drive-by romance. A place where his ex-partner still languished, at least four years left on his sentence, and a lot of pent-up
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