"I want you to work for me."

That’s all he said. No introduction, no handshake. Hell, he didn’t even fucking knock on my apartment door. No, just walks in, helps himself to scaring the hell out of me and making me wonder whether I knew all I thought I did about security systems. I did the only thing I could do.

"And who are you?"

Sure it’s cliche, but what else do you say to someone who can bypass not only conventional security but homemade, never on the market computer optics and visual/vocal recognition systems?

"My name is Syn. Perhaps you have heard of me. I know you have tried to break into several high access security files on my Chaos Infonet, and, I must admit, have come very close to succeeding, which is why you continue to have trouble getting in. In the last three weeks alone, we’ve had to reprogram the security eight times. I assume you’ve had your computer working autonomously. That’s good. Bordering on genius."

I was insulted. The man walks into the apartment of the one man who, single-handedly, had kept the World Crime Consortium at bay for six months and dares to say that I border on genius. Syn, if this really was the man, was cocky.

"Personally," I said, "I thought you were some kind of myth made up to promote a shyster scam. I’ve seen your commercials. ‘Chaos- a bit of anarchy in Tomorrow’s stability.’ Really hokey."

"He just stood there, almost like he had his mind elsewhere. In fact, if I had gone for the Cobra I pistol under my desk, I could probably have made it, but, since he seemed harmless enough in his expensive but casual jeans and silk, I decided to let him think, or talk, or whatever.

He walked over to my Apple IIc Turbo, the one I had practically rebuilt from scratch. He didn’t touch anything or even look too long, just a glance at the exposed hardware.

"Apple IIc. That was my first computer, a long time ago, when I first went to college."

He didn’t look that old, 30, 35 maybe. This was the man who, at the age of 22, "captured" a Soviet communications satellite and used it to call long distance, sticking the Soviet Union with a four thousand dollar long distance bill from Ma Bell; who, five years later, drove from Key West, Florida, to Bangkor, Maine, on one 10 gallon tank of propane fuel in his hand-built Banshee, the first of its kind. Hell, the Chaos Banshee 21 assault vehicle was now standard issue among the smaller friendly nations’ antiterrorist forces. It was rumored that the US government bought five thousand of them, but no proof ever came up. This man was a genius. I let him look at my computer.

"I built this one myself.?

"I can tell. Looks like one of the new 25 megahertz clocks in there, and a couple of AI chips that look similar to the Chaos AI One."

AI One. Damn, this was the man who created artificial intelligence for the microcomputer two years before the need arose. Those AI chips he was looking at were bootleg copies of his original model. I stole the plans from the defense database of our friendly neighbor up north during a particularly productive night of hacking.

"Again, Mr. Scratch, I must congratulate you. It borders on genius. But I can make you better."

"How?"

"I can give you resources, materials, tools, precision."

"And what do I do for you?"

This was what it all boiled down to. What did I owe him for this? He’s probably a Consortium goon pretending to be Syn to get me to shut down or even kill me after he toys with me for a while.

"You do for me what you’ve always done. You stop the Consortium at any cost. You build weapons. You improve on the existing. That’s what you’re best at."

He knew about the Consortium? This was a twist. No one outside of the US Government had ever believed me before, and then only because some of the US officials I had spoken to were members of it.

He held out his hand, palm to me, and a card, electric blue embossed on black, appeared. He placed it carefully on the desk next to the computer.

"Just a little parlor trick for my own amusement. A mechanism up the sleeve for one purpose, dispensing my business cards. Actually comes in useful, though. But not with you. Call me. Or call Eli and ask for Operator Mephisto. Yes, I know your fixation with the Lucifer nickname. The numbers are here and they are valid, though you won’t find anyone in this hemisphere who will admit to it. Until then."

He spun easily and left. And I thought I was cocky! I must say, though, that he impressed me. I’ve had my computer call their computer several times since then, but I can’t find any file called Eli or Mephisto. I’ll have to keep trying.

Howard Scott
7 February 1991