Free Assured Destruction by Michael F. Stewart Page A

Frannie’s spam folder and sure enough I find all seventeen comment notifications. Looks like the site went live at some point last night, and people were commenting the whole time I just happened to have skipped class. Coincidence? I’m choking on coincidences.
    The answers are pretty juvenile— well if she’s a princess then I’m the pea ; queen of 0110001001101001011101000110001101101000 (I translate—BITCH—points for the use of binary); I actually think she knows she’s pathetic ; and so on .
    It’s not a pretty picture and it’s clear who they’re talking about. Evidently when you cross a donut, a dog, and a fart, you get me . And as to why I don’t just die—because that’s me too …
    Yeah, I know, right?
    Or: Maybe she already is dead.
    And: Maybe she’s a cyborg.
    The last one leaves me cold. The sender is Anonymous—they all are—but what’s the chance of Jonny painting the cyborg and then someone mentioning it here? Maybe I’m over-thinking. I don’t know what to think. All it would mean is that Jonny is on the site, not that he created it. I hug my knees to my chest and wrap my arms around them. Why wouldn’t he warn me? Maybe he’s embarrassed about my rejecting him again and he’s taking an anonymous pot shot.
    If I’m receiving notifications, it means I have the keys to this thing. I search through Fanny’s mail but can’t track down the password into the blogging platform administration. Somehow Chippy, or whoever set it up, has the comments coming to me, but without giving administrative access to the blog. All I can do is comment. I could complain to the host, but I have to decide if I really care.
    Why doesn’t she just die?
    I rub the gooseflesh on my forearms. That Chippy could be my tormentor is a relief. Otherwise the guy who posted the topic … Or girl, I guess—I’d rather get punched in the face personally than crap like this—someone may want me dead.
    A chill climbs each vertebra of my spine. My hand hurts, and I realize I’ve been gripping the mouse so hard my knuckles are white. I release and flex my fingers. My iPhone starts bleeping away with notifications, but I ignore them. Nothing can be more important than the website.
    The code I write next is gobbledygook for the average citizen, but to me it’s genius. Or at least, a good idea. When it’s ready, I prepare a comment of my own.
    What do you get when you cross a donut, dog and fart, you ask? It’s amazing that my opportunity to take my revenge on Ellie has occurred so soon. I upload a link to a picture of her with the offending code I just wrote imbedded in it. I’m banking on the fact that whoever created this site is eagerly waiting to click on people’s new comments. I’ll delete evidence of my reply as soon as I know who is doing this to me. If it’s Ellie, then so much the better.
    I don’t have to wait long. Someone—Anonymous—replies: Not cool. She’s awesome. And I know I have them.
    The code attached to the picture was a piece of malware. A small .exe file. A trojan that should—any minute now—open the address book of the victim’s computer and send me an email. And there it is in Frannie’s inbox.
    From: Ellie Wise
    A small thrill snakes through me. Then the thrill turns icy.
    This all of course makes perfect sense if Ellie knew anything about technology, but I suppose she could set up a blog.
    Someone writes another post about me, but I ignore it. I have another hit on the Ellie pic.
    From: Bob MacLean
    I clench my head between my palms. Chippy!
    I can’t ignore the coincidence. His reaction to my seeing his screen. The site he was looking at—I’m sure it was the same one. If I’m planning to take on a teacher though, I need proof.
    I unfurl, delete evidence of my initial reply, and start writing a new bit of code. This will be a little more complicated. This time the code will hide on the victim’s machine and wait for me to activate it so I can take a peak around. That