Cyberpunk by Bruce Bethke Read Free Book Online

needs that for his homework, don’t you, Mikey?”
    Dad’s voice was a low, gruff thing that barely got out through
    clenched teeth. “I’m tired of hearing you make excuses for your son,
    Sherri. I mean it.” He unplugged the CityLink.
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    “But honey, he’s just a boy. I’m sure it was just a prank.”
    With a grunt, Dad picked up all of MoJo, ripping the Death Cannon
    fiber right out of its socket. “Somehow Audrey managed to raise three
    kids without any pranks like this.”
    Incredible. For the first time in my entire life, I saw fire flash in my
    Mom’s eyes. “Audrey?” You could practically see her hackles go up and
    the claws come out. “ Audrey? Look here, honey , I am sick unto goddam
    death of being compared to Audrey! Ever since the day we got married
    it’s been ‘Audrey did this’ and ‘Audrey could do that.’ If she was so
    goddam perfect why did you ever leave her for me ?”
    Dad froze. Rigid. Furious. For a mo there I thought sure he was
    going to break MoJo in half right over Mom’s head.
    The moment passed. Cussing silent, Dad shouldered past her and
    started clomping down the steps. “I mean it!” he yelled up the stairwell.
    “This damned thing goes in the basement, and tomorrow I’m calling
    CityNet and getting his private line ripped out! If he has any schoolwork
    he needs to do on computer he can damn well use the one in the den,
    where I can watch him!”
    I locked eyes on Mom. She was looking down at her hands, her face
    screwed in a tight knot, tears leaking in slow trickles down the sides of
    her cheeks. C’mon, Mom. Look up. Look at me. This’d be a good time to
    give your son some true backup, mom.
    She broke, turned, went chasing Dad down the steps. “Honey?” she
    called out, all plaintive little girl. “Honey, I’m sorry. I don’t know what
    got into me. Maybe you’re right.”
    Oh, fritzing terrific. Good show, Mom. I slammed my bedroom door
    and locked it. “Go ahead and sulk!” I heard Dad’s shout come filtering
    up from the basement. “It won’t do you any good!”
    One last flash of anger: I crushed the model Saturn V like the paper
    tube it was, and threw some pillows around ‘til I didn’t feel like
    breaking anything else. Then I picked up my CityLink box from where
    from where Dad had thrown it, spliced together a working NetLine fiber
    from the pieces on the floor, and went to the closet and hauled out my
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    ©1982, 1998 Bruce Bethke
    Starfire.
    I’d watched over Dad’s shoulders often enough to know his account
    numbers and access codes. It usually took a few days for the links to
    break apart after one of our fun runs. I didn’t really need OurNet; most
    of the trojan horses would still be active. I jacked in, got on line, and got
    down to business. It took about half an hour.
    My HouseFiber was out—in pieces all over the floor, to be honest—
    but I could backlink to Dad’s computer through CityNet. Like I
    expected, he was down in the den, using his computer to scan my school
    records.
    Fine. He wouldn’t find out anything. Rayno’d showed us how to fix
    school records, oh, five—six months ago, at least. I gave Dad a minute
    to flounder around, then crashed in and sent a new message to his vid
    display.
    “Dad,” it said, “there’s going to be some changes around here.”
    It took a few seconds to sink in. I got up and made sure the door was
    locked real solid, but I still got almost half a scare when he came
    thudding up the stairs. The old relic sounded like a fritzing herd of
    elephants.
    “MIKHAIL!” He slammed into the door. “Open this! Now!”
    “No.”
    “If you don’t open this door before I count to ten, I’m going to break
    it down! One!”
    “Before you do that—”
    “Two!”
    “Better call your bank.”
    “Three!”
    “H320-5127-01R.” That was his checking account access code. He
    went silent for a couple seconds.
    “Young man, I don’t