The Astral Hacker (Cryptopunk Revolution Book 1) by Brian Terenna (motivational books for women TXT) 📕

stares off for a moment. “I realized what’s important in life. It’s not a job or an obligation, it’s health and happiness. And you just hear so many distressing things being an analyst. Plus, now I can spend more time with you before getting a new job.”

That’s nice of her.

“Luckily, since I have the Evo now,” she says, pointing to her temple, “I can get a job anywhere. It’s strange to be one of the evolved. Even President Toscano and VP Garza are norms.”

I look down to hide my distaste. I’m sure they’d become evolved if allowed.

Sunny hugs my leg. He knows how much I hate the Evo.

“Oh, I’m sorry,” says Barbra. “I know you don’t have one. You know, they’re cheap now. I could get you one.”

I shake my head more violently than necessary. If she only knew what happened to me, she’d never talk about it. I’ll always remember when my dying mother made me swear never to upgrade. I was only six, but I take the pledge as seriously as ever.

As if I didn’t have enough of a reason to hate it, it allows for programming speeds of up to eighty percent faster than q-links. I’m fast, but I can’t even imagine how good I’d be with that increase. Not fair.

She covers a sneeze. “If you change your mind, tell me. I know how much you like to program.”

The teakettle whistles and Barbra jumps, looking startled. She grabs it and turns it off.

The holographic newscaster appears again. “And now, an update on the unfortunate NIA spy blimp crash at a Stroudsburg, PA wedding reception, which left the groom dead and the bride injured.”

My stomach sinks, and I feel queasy. I don’t want to watch this again, but I can’t turn away.

“After a two-week investigation, the crash was ruled an accident. The blimp driver, who escaped with minor injuries, claims to have lost control because the bride’s father possessed him. Investigators believe that the father’s protest against the National Intelligence Agency’s presence may have distracted the driver,” says the newscaster.

My eyes widen at the possession remark.

The newscaster continues, “The driver is being charged with manslaughter and has pleaded not guilty by reason of insanity. Here’s the footage.”

A hologram of the wedding reception materializes above Barbra’s q-link. A powerful-looking Indian man with a full, graying beard shouts at an NIA blimp with other guests. Suddenly, the blimp accelerates and veers into the crowd. Men in suits and women in gowns scatter. The bride trips on her dress, and the groom runs to help her. The blimp crashes into them.

“The bride’s father left us with this quote,” says the newscaster.

The camera zooms into the horrified look of the gray-bearded protest leader. “The fourth amendment prohibits the government from limiting our right to privacy. The NIA blimp program is a violation of this right. It’s unforgivable that it led to my daughter’s injuries and her husband’s death. The rule that people can’t sue the NIA is absurd. There will be no justice for this.”

I’ve hated the NIA ever since my mother told me what they did. Or, at least, since I realized what it meant for her. But now, I hate them twice as much for disrupting that wedding.

When the father of the bride’s protest went live on local news, I remember being so angry that they’d ruin someone’s fairytale day. I imagined myself at the wedding, somehow lucky enough to be getting married. I would have been furious at those devils. Now, a man is dead.

I grab my stomach, feeling even sicker. Sunny frowns up at me and clutches my other hand.

The image of the reception disappears and is replaced by a blonde news anchor with unnaturally plump lips.

“Director Tempton of the NIA has left us with this statement, ‘The use of blimps for surveillance has been ruled constitutional. Although we mourn the loss of life, the NIA protects your children from the ever-present threat of missile strikes from the Republic of South America. We all must remain vigilant for our loved ones. Surveillance saves lives.’”

“Up next,” says Barbra’s q-link, “President Toscano’s Freedom Day speech.”

I turn to Barbra, considering what to say to see if I can trust her. The demonic image of my first foster father, the Archfiend, creeps into my mind.

A shiver runs through me.

I force away the memory. Something smaller. Maybe something about my mother…yeah. “Barb—”

“Hold on,” she says. “Can you check the door locks? I want to see this.”

I frown. Paranoid much? I go to check the back door, and Sunny follows me. It’s still locked. Next to the door, a baseball bat is propped against the wall.

That’s new.

“Just be careful with the carpet. I just cleaned them.”

I laugh to myself. She cleans them like every four days.

Next to the bat, at Barbra’s painting station, is a huge, mostly finished portrait that rests on an easel. Barbra has been working on it sparingly for the last six months, but as she said, she made good progress last night.

I admire the realism of Navin’s partially finished face and his pet raven, Ron Paul. I take a moment to appreciate her work, then leave for the kitchen.

“In this year 2120, we are blessed to live in the freest country in the world,” says President Toscano on the news.

The audience cheers.

Her sharp features and animated hand motions make her look like a natural leader. Her skin is smooth like someone in their thirties despite being in her forties. Vice President Garza stands to her right, his dark eyes fixed proudly on her.

President Toscano smiles as she waits for the applause to die down. “Today, we celebrate the Great American Revolution where General Navin Briggs and other patriots saved fathers, mothers, and children from oppression and corruption. We now have unprecedented freedom, gold-backed