The Virus Coder's Girl
by MCM
© 2009 1889 Labs Ltd.
Smashwords Edition
This book is Creative Commons licensed (CC-NC-SA)
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1
The first time Greg met Ilana was at the company Christmas party, in his boss' sprawling mansion outside Moscow. She wore a red low-cut dress; he wore a "pwned" t-shirt and a sports jacket done up tight to hide it. He'd snatched the last bottle of Asahi Super Dry in a last-ditch bid to drown his shame, was mid-turn away before he noticed she was reaching across the bar for the same drink.
"Oh," he fumbled, "did you-"
"Yes, thanks," she smiled, slipping the bottle out of his hand, "Good to see chivalry's not dead."
"Actually, I was going to see if you wanted something else."
She laughed, twisted the cap off and downed half the bottle in a smooth rebuke; the charming audacity left him short of breath. She kept her prize close, cautious, watched him with sparkling eyes.
"You're an odd one," she remarked, too friendly to be an insult.
"Thanks," he said, unsure.
"There's not much demand for imported beer around here," she said, "Too many barbarians. Way too many slick suits on the cheap. I bet half the people in this room haven't set foot outside Moscow their whole lives. Probably don't even know there's beer made outside Russia, embargo or no. But you— you don't drink domestic and your clothes are authentically relaxed."
"Yeah," muttered Greg, "I was misled about the dress code. My supervisor said it was casual. Yet there he is, wearing a tux."
She glanced over, nodded appreciatively.
"Yeah, but you see— his tie's undone. Classy casual."
Greg gave her a dead stare.
"You don't look casual," he remarked, and she leaned against the bar, beer carefully held away from him. She had on a slim diamond pendant, the platinum chain twinkling despite the low light; Greg tried hard not to stare.
"Ah, yes," she nodded, "But for women, there's a great gulf between casual and dressy, and it's called 'slutty'."
"I don't think you could ever be slutty."
She smiled at him again.
"That's the worst pick-up line I've ever heard."
Greg shifted uncomfortably, put all his energy into the confidence he sorely lacked.
"That's not my pick-up line," he said with fake ease.
"Oh no?"
"No. When you hear it, you'll know."
She nodded broke into a wide smile. "Intriguing. I can't wait. So what's next? Small talk? Shall we chat about the weather?"
"It's cold."
"It's December."
"There you have it," he shrugged, "I'll pick the next topic."
"Be my guest," she smiled, kept the bottle close to her lips, but didn't drink.
"The beer," he said, "How did you get on the Asahi Super Dry bandwagon? I assume that you have set foot outside Russia."
"Yes indeed," she nodded, "Spent three years in Japan. Not the best years of my life, but probably a better time than I've had anywhere else. Many happy nights were spent with one of these drinks in my hand, so it's kind of like nostalgia in a bottle for me." She took another sip, screwed up her face. "Though I have to say, this one doesn't seem right somehow."
"Probably because it's brewed in the Czech Republic," Greg laughed.
"No!" Ilana gasped, and quickly read the label, mouth twisted open, "That's just wrong!"
"The embargo," he shrugged, "You get stuff how you can, I guess. Anyway, you get used to the taste. Or at least I have."
"You don't know what you're missing," she sighed, handing the bottle over. "You might as well finish it then. I'm too offended to drink."
He took the bottle, but paused before taking a sip.
"What, afraid of catching something?" Ilana asked, "Don't be. I'm a health nut. Haven't had a cold in years, all without the help of vaccines."
He swished the beer around a bit, met her deep, luminous eyes for a second.
"Nah, it's not that. I just read somewhere sharing a drink like this is called an 'indirect kiss'."
Her eyes half-closed, and sly smile spread across her face.
"That was your pick-up line, wasn't it?"
"Did it work?" he asked.
"You'll have to wait and see," she said, then checked over her shoulder for a moment before turning back with a mischievous grin.
"Don't go anywhere," she said, then turned and shamelessly intercepted a bright orange cocktail as it was being passed to another customer. The man, middle-aged with graying hair and a permanent scowl, caught her wrist so suddenly, it made Greg jump just watching it.
"That was mine," the man said sternly.
Greg couldn't see what she did next, but in a moment, the man's face softened slightly, the hard edges losing some definition. He glanced down at the drink, then back to Ilana.
"May I?" she asked the stranger.
He checked the cocktail again, then let his eyes slowly walk up her body towards her face. Through his jealousy, Greg could see the man's anger had burned off, leaving him suddenly docile and unimposing.
"Fine," he muttered, then turned away to the bartender to order another. Greg caught him glancing over his shoulder at her several more times before his wife came and took him away. As he left, he slid a small folded paper over to her, right under her elbow. She flipped it open, smiled at the contents, then crumpled it and tossed it back into the bartender's trash can.
"What was that?" Greg asked her.
"His number."
"Not interested?"
"I've got my hands full already," she smiled, then took a probing sip of the cocktail, glittery lips pursing slightly at the taste. "Mango," she said devilishly. "I hit the jackpot. Good thing he wasn't a hard bargainer, or it might've come to blows."
Greg nearly choked on his beer.
"Not a hard bargainer? Him? That was Vladimir Alexandrov!"
Ilana put on a show of thinking hard.
"Nope, not ringing any bells."
"Owner of, hell, I don't know— half the country by now. Makes weapons systems for the Kremlin. Plays golf with the President and probably gets to win every time because he's actually that rich. They say he's got a private 18-hole golf course that he can use year-round, because God's afraid to snow on it."
Ilana checked over her shoulder, scanning the crowd, then shrugged and turned back.
"So I probably shouldn't have stolen his drink, is what you're saying?"
"Actually, he and my boss hate each other's guts, and our companies have been at war for years now. He only gets invited to our Christmas party so we can show him up. I don't think anyone here will mind you stole his drink. They might buy you an extra round, actually."
That got a broad smile.
"In that case, spread the word!"
They laughed and drank and laughed some more, and when the moment was right, he slid a little bit closer, happy to see she didn't seem to have any problems with it at all.
"I'm Greg, by the way," he said, offering his hand. She shook it with her left, drank gently.
"Ilana," she said, "Nice to meet you. You cold or something?"
Greg noticed he was still involuntarily gripping his jacket, trying to hide the shirt. He let go reluctantly, brushed it flat, attempting nonchalance. He failed.
"Ah, a witty t-shirt," she said, "You must be from I.T. Or mentally challenged."
"Or both."
"I'm too polite to say that."
"Obviously," he said, "What part of the company do you work for?"
She drank half the cocktail in one gulp, let her eyes re-fix on her surroundings, and sidled a bit closer to Greg.
"I don't," she said, "I'm here with a friend. She told me it'd be the best party ever. I've heard nothing else for the last two weeks. So she's either stunningly stupid, or a pathological liar."
"Harsh!" Greg smiled, acting wounded, "I think I have to take that personally, you know."
"Oh please," she said, nudging him with her elbow, "Don't take it one way or another. Awkward verbal foreplay does not a good party make. The sum of the evening can't be judged by the party itself. It's all about what comes after—"
There was a moment where Greg swore all the other sounds in the room stopped, even though people were still talking and dancing and carrying on. All he heard was the sound of Ilana breathing.
"What comes after?" he asked her, voice nearly squeaking.
"It depends," she said, closer still, "If we go to your place, are you going to show me your Star Trek memorabilia? your action figure diorama? make me watch anime?"
Greg lifted an eyebrow.
"Uh. No. I can say with a whole lot of certainty that's— uh— not on the agenda."
She tugged on his jacket, whispered sweet vodka into his face.
"Then let's see what the geek can do."
2
The first time Greg met Yusef was in the midst of a massive hardware failure, deep in the bowels of the server room in an unremarkable part of the city. Yusef wore a plain gray suit with a solid burgundy tie, and Greg wore a hangover so horrid it took all his willpower just to stay awake. His "pwned" shirt still smelled of sweat and perfume.
"You Greg Andreev?" asked Yusef, his accent strong.
Greg was holding a few cables in his teeth and trying to will some sweat off his brow while he re-routed traffic to a back-up box that wasn't nearly ready for the load. His head was pounding from the six extra shots he'd done at home last night, making it hard to focus. He didn't answer fast enough, so Yusef nudged his back with a well-polished shoe, and repeated the question. Finally, Greg spat the cables out on his lap and looked back at the visitor.
"Listen, it won't be much longer. Just give me a few minutes and I'll—"
Just then, Greg noticed a wiry kid standing next to Yusef, eyes darting around the room like he knew what he was doing, but had never done it before. It looked awfully familiar, in an instant Greg's hands fell away from the servers.
"Oh my god. Am I fired?" he gasped.
The wiry kid looked at Yusef too, probably sizing up his career path, and not liking what he saw.
"Promoted," came the answer. Then Yusef turned to the interloper, pushed him towards the racks, and pulled Greg to his feet with casual precision. He got a helpful shove out the door, just in time to hear the wiry kid whimper at the state of his new affairs.
When they were safely outside the server room, Yusef lit a foul-smelling cigarette and leaned against the wall. Greg shifted from foot to foot, not sure what to do or say.
"Time was, I left this part to the end," said Yusef finally, staring at the opposite wall, "But recent experience says it doesn't sink in that way. The importance is lost. Easily ignored. You get what I'm saying?"
"I'm not sure, sir," Greg answered.
"All right. Let's try it anyway," sighed Yusef, "You got a wife? Girlfriend?"
"No," Greg replied. He briefly thought of Ilana, deep under thick blankets in his bed as he left that morning, hair spread out like a halo. He didn't know what to call her, figured "girlfriend" was too presumptuous. "No sir, nothing like that."
"Want one?"
"As opposed to— what?"
"Arrangements can be made."
Greg shook his head, trying to knock some of the denseness out. He must be more hung over than he thought, because this conversation was just not making sense.
"I'm sorry, sir. What's going on exactly?"
"There are certain rules I need you to follow," Yusef said, "And I'm on a bit of a schedule here, so if you could just play along, that would be great. I want you to clear your mind, forget how your life used to be, and just listen for a second. What happened last night at the party, that can never happen again."
Greg's heart stopped beating, he was sure of it. He didn't dare act offended, because he liked his job. He needed his job. He stood there, mouth hanging open, trying to figure out how to react.
"Excuse me?" he asked.
"The girl you left the party with. Ilana. She's off-limits. I can keep a lid on the one time, but that's the end of it. You and freedom are parting ways. To make things simple, we'll just say you can't so much as smile at women unless I say so. No messing around here, got it?"
Greg shook his head slowly.
"What kind of job am I being promoted to exactly?"
"We'll get to that." Yusef said, not making eye contact, "These rules go for everyone. The boss is very particular about not sharing his women-"
"'His women'? Jesus, what is this, the mafia?"
It was a joke, but Yusef was decidedly serious. Greg's smile faded. Every fragment of every rumour he'd ever heard about this place started flooding back, down to the contract clause about not talking to the police. He knew the starting salary for a junior web admin was too good to be true!
"So," said Yusef, "You feel the itch, what do you do?"
"I don't know. Ask you to hook me up? Wait, are you a pimp?"
Yusef bored a hole straight through Greg's soul with his eyes.
"I am not a pimp," he scowled, "I'm your manager, and I'm looking out for you right here. It seems like a lot of to-do over something small, but trust me when I say your predecessor would not agree. This is not a company that cares about workers' rights, and making a fuss about it will not be pleasant in any sense of the word. You are henceforth disallowed from being a free-wheeling bachelor. Especially when it comes to Ilana."
Greg ran his hand through his hair, scratched the back of his neck.
"What's wrong with Ilana?"
"Wrong with her? Nothing. Hell, I'm envious, Andreev. But she's not for you or me. She's one of the boss' favourites, and that makes her beyond our reach."
"Holy crap, are you saying she's a prostitute? She— she was only hitting on me because she's—"
Yusef rolled his eyes, flicked ash onto the floor.
"She was hitting on you very much against orders. When not in the direct service of the boss, she's eye candy only. She disappeared into the crowd, and by the time I saw what was going on between you two, I couldn't interrupt without creating a scene. So I kept quiet and let it go."
"Thanks," Greg said meekly.
"I saved your life, Andreev. Both of you. Ilana's old roommate Natasha could tell you about it, if she could still talk."
Greg nodded with a halting, jerking motion.
"So," said Yusef, straightening up, "I don't care if Ilana comes knocking on your door tonight wearing nothing but a Santa hat and gingerbread panties: she is dead to you. Do you understand me now?"
"Yes, sir," Greg said, a bit tentative, "But—"
Yusef sighed deeply, pushed his left eye with the heel of his hand like he was holding in a massive migraine.
"Okay, 'but' what?" he grumbled, "You really feel for her, right? That one night, it convinced you she's your soul mate? You can't live without her, is that it?"
Greg thought about this for a moment, there in the hallway. In the server room, his old dominion, he heard the sound of metal hitting the ground and something cracking. Swearing, poorly hushed. The tension in the air was suffocating.
"I'm okay," he said finally, "It was only the one night, and I totally understand. Don't worry about me and her. It was fun while it lasted, but I'm serious about my job here."
Yusef shrugged at this, started down the hall.
"Easiest orientation yet," he said, throwing the cigarette onto the floor. Greg crushed it as he passed, keeping lockstep behind his manager as they twisted around a few corners in silence. They ended up at what was labelled as the electrical breaker room. Yusef unlocked the door with half a dozen weathered metal keys and ushered Greg in.
Inside was a bank of monitors, all showing vibrant ocean scenes as their screen savers peacefully passed the time. There was no actual computer there, just a set of thick blue cables twisted back and away, through a hole in the wall, presumably to some other server room he would not have the displeasure of maintaining.
On the main desk were a trio of twenty-inch trackpads, and a chair that Greg remembered seeing on Digg: the most expensive programmer's chair on Earth. It massaged you in places you were otherwise unable to touch, and would build muscle tone after prolonged use. It cost more than he would have made in ten years at his old job. The sight of it made him incredibly uncomfortable.
He looked over to Yusef, and his confusion was apparently obvious.
"This is your new office," Yusef said grimly.
"Wh— what kind of work will I be doing?"
Yusef looked at Greg directly for perhaps the first time. His dark eyes were very, very solid.
"You're making viruses for the company."
"Viruses? Like what, a— a b-botnet or something? Infecting computers to take over and— and—" Greg floundered, unable to come up with any more hackery-type terms in his relatively shallow knowledge of the dark side of the programming street.
"Not exactly," said Yusef, and he shoved Greg into the chair, which took him into a loving embrace immediately. "Those are what I'd term 'general carnage' products, which we don't engage in here. What you're going to write are viruses to hit specific targets only."
"Specific targets," Greg repeated.
"Competitors," Yusef clarified.
Greg drew in a tense breath.
"Oh. Ah. Yeah, that sounds big-league to me," Greg began, carefully, "So, uh, listen— I'm really flattered at the opportunity to move up in the organization and everything, but honestly, I don't know much about virus-writing. I handle the hardware, mostly, and in terms of software, I'm not really as skilled as maybe my C.V. implied. So— uh— maybe there's someone else you would want to hire that would-"
"No," interrupted Yusef firmly, "the boss doesn't hire out for this type of job. He knows you -"
"He knows me? Oh god, am I being punished for sleeping with Ilana?"
"I've already told you, he doesn't know. He trusts you, for better or worse. This isn't a punishment, it's a promotion, so act grateful. And to your other point - the skills part - I think you'l find your predecessor took care of the details for you."
Yusef reached over and nudged one of the trackpads, and a handful of screens came on. A program quickly came to the foreground, its abstract swirly logo twinkling slightly, as if to make up for its ho-hum appearance. Open in the central screen was a window with two panes: the upper area was the "workspace", and below it was the "result". On the side was a toolbar filled with colourful buttons, decked out with word fragments he barely understood. Greg shook his head in disbelief.
"I don't recognize any of this. What's a 'geki'? Or— or a 'tram'? Is this even Russian? Seriously, I don't know if I should really be trying to-"
"Remember the part where I said this company wasn't big on employees that make a fuss?"
Greg nodded haltingly.
"Any other questions, then?" Yusef asked.
"Actually," Greg said, pointing at the blue cables that disappeared into the wall, "Where do those go exactly?"
Yusef made no move to answer at first, then put his hands in his pockets, jingled change.
"Server room," he said.
"Can I get access to that? I mean, just in case something needs rebooting or -"
"We've got people on that," Yusef interrupted.
"It's no trouble, I just thought it might save some time if -"
"That's not your job anymore," Yusef said, standing straight and imposing his shadow on Greg, "Your job is in here, making the little blocks move around the screen. It's a big job, and I don't want you distracted, got it?"
Greg smiled weakly.
"Yes, sir," he said.
Yusef patted him on the shoulder.
"Good! Now get comfortable. We've got a job for you to do starting tomorrow."
Greg stretched himself back in the chair, and looked around the room as Yusef made for the door. He paused there, a new cigarette perched in his mouth, and glanced back into the room.
"You're gonna want to start preparing right now," he said, "The boss doesn't really get the point of learning curves."
3
The second time Greg met Ilana was over a year later, while he was buying cigarettes at the corner store near his flat. She was wearing a sweaty tracksuit and headband, and he was wearing the same clothes he'd put on four days earlier. He wasn't sure if was her at first, but then she saw him, and before he knew it, he was trapped. He desperately pulled a smoke out with shaking hands; he darted nervous glances down the empty aisles, making sure no eyes were watching.
"You look like crap," she said, cracking open a water bottle, "still working in I.T.?"
Greg stuck the cigarette in his mouth, and he searched his pockets twice over for a lighter. "Still in I.T.," he said. "Busier than ever, too."
"It shows. Didn't know you smoked."
He found a book of matches on the counter and struck one, paused.
"Didn't used to. Been a long year."
"It's been more than that, hasn't it?" she asked, "I seem to remember a certain Christmas party— and possibly something more."
He glanced at the man behind the counter, feet up, reading a porn mag openly, lollipop hanging out of his mouth. He seemed off in his own world— but how could you tell, really? Greg anxiously drew from his cigarette, felt his nerves unwind. He exhaled slowly, let all the tension in his body disappear into the murky store air.
"Possibly something more," he repeated.
"The details are hazy," she said, "Fourteen months distant and all."
"I didn't notice. Time is a very imprecise thing to me these days. What is it, Wednesday?"
"Monday."
"Yeah," Greg said, slipping out the door behind Ilana, the bell jingling with each movement. Across the street, a couple in long brown coats trudged away from them, heads hunched deeply. Greg had never felt so exposed in all his life.
He checked his phone for messages, for anything that might give him a reason to go; no such luck on his day off. The handset was warm to the touch, and he gripped it tight, slid it into his pocket so it would heat up his hand, possibly his resolve. She watched him with a smile, biding her time. She was waiting for him to pick up the thread. He was going to have to do this the hard way, no matter how painful.
He just had to think of how.
"How about you?" he asked, his tongue taking a dangerous initiative, "What are you doing these days?"
She shrugged, drank some more water.
"Same as always."
Greg nodded slowly. "I don't think I really know what you did before," he said, tentative.
She smiled, patted him on the cheek and started walking down the sidewalk, the curved lines of her track suit calling him. She paused, turned to him, waited.
He dug up some courage.
"Listen, I'm really busy, so—"
"Are you ditching me?" she called back, voice loud in the empty street.
"No," he answered, maybe too quietly, "I'm just under a tight deadline right now, and I'm not sure I could— I mean, I don't know that I should—"
She waved him off, shook her head.
"It's okay. I get it. If the first month wasn't a hint, the other thirteen were. See you later, Greg the geek!"
She started off without him, breathing mist into the air. He watched her go, hand tight around his phone. He pulled it out, checked the messages again, checked the calls, checked everything he could find, but there was nothing. No one was warning. No one was watching. No one cared.
A tired solar tram pushed down the street, the diesel engine on the roof spewing thick exhaust between them, and he thought he might just disappear into it, let it carry him out of her life forever. It was a romantic notion, but the effect was gone before he could make up his mind.
He thought of Yusef, imagined the stern and unwavering warning: do not pursue this. He could turn away now, run back to the office, throw himself back into his chair and work there until some future date when Ilana was old and withered and the boss no longer wanted her, and she could be free to choose her own destiny and who was he kidding? He couldn't wait that long!