Attack Surface

Jeff hadn’t acclimated to the chlorine smell of the cabana, yet basked in satisfaction. He leaned forward in his flimsy white plastic chair, shaking his overgrown head of hair as his old desktop booted for the first time in the new place. Once the payment hit, he’d head down to the beach stalls off Lake Michigan for a budget robotic trim. The system opened automatically to the same preloaded business suite. He clicked through to the customer relationship manager app’s inbox to reread the solitary email:

When a food delivery turned into a physical confrontation, Jeff from Jeffersonian Remote Guardian Services proved premium security protocols stand no chance against human tactical composure. JRGS solutions are the standard when inference fails. Call Jeff for sharp tactical judgment across any dynamic perimeter. Rating: ★★★★★ (5/5)

“Please compose a heartfelt thank you to the poster.” Jeff leaned into the setup’s second-hand microphone as he twirled a fraying thread hanging off his shorts.

“Would you like me to connect you to a review-farming syndicate?” the reinitialized SaaS asked, its interface pulsing a quintet of pale blue pentagrams. “Half off a dozen verifiable five-star ratings if you order today.”

“No thanks.” Jeff repositioned the gunky monitor on the table covered in stacks of bound printed manuals, application flash drives, and a plastic cup corralling dry pens, scissors, and a couple letter openers. “And tack on a message to that generous poster that I’ll be offering an annual subscription service pretty soon. But don't hard sell them.”

“Jeff?” A high-pitched squelch tore through the overhead speaker as Ms. Millie’s voice bled into the feedback over the local channel. A scuffed handy-bot wearing grease-stained blue coveralls featuring an oval nametag TOR-12-0994, turned down the volume on the device the robot had just installed in the upper far corner of the pool house, aimed straight at the futon she'd dug out for her new work-for-rent tenant.

“Sounds like Ms Millie’s microphone in the main house is working fine,” Jeff complimented the robot.

“Your Wi-Fi network is up.” TOR clattered down an aluminum stepladder, then turned the empty bag of second-hand devices upside down, shaking while studying the screen. “Nice review, by the way. I've got two more installs scheduled in Winnetka today; Uncle Sam needs his cut. I’ll circle back to rebuild that snowplow engine once I get my pincers on some rebuilt sub-assemblies.” The robot clicked his metallic fingers. “Have a great weekend.”

“You too,” Jeff waved as the robot left through the pool house backdoor. “Appreciate your help setting it all up. See you soon, TOR.”

A chime to the speaker refocused Jeff on the incoming primary feed on his computer, rendering a streamed point-of-view of a security unit tagged FEL-47-6580.

The feed bloomed to life. Vanishing telemetry framed a huge cargo ship cutting through ocean swells. On deck, humanoid units kicked and punched their way out of stacks of burning intermodal containers while a kamikaze drone struck midship.

“Jeff?” The remote unit’s transmitter buzzed through the speaker, without the sort of convulsing panic a human might display. “FEL-47-6580 aboard ULCV Quattro Prince, eight hundred kilometers north-northeast of the Marshall Islands. Active swarm attack in progress.”

A standard GlamGirl-series wearing a kimono lurched into the optical field. She held her dark, human-like hair back in a pony tail that whipped horizontally like a pennant in the ocean gale.

“Assistance requested.” Calm mechanical inflection colored her plea.

“Spread out across the deck, tell the ship navigation to turn off the transponder and change course hard to starboard,” Jeff insisted. “Zigzag for the nearest land, atoll, or floating port. I'll look for someplace on my end.”

Another strike drone detonated against the superstructure, hurling burning freight over the rail. Before he could say another word, the video flatlined.