The house was a three-bedroom bungalow; it had a garage and a basement. Everything was neat and ordered. Sitting at his computer desk in a wheelchair, Carl was typing. The house was quiet except for the typing, the clock's red numbers were illuminated in the darkness. It was ten after one in the morning.

In another part of the house a woman slept. She seemed restless. Her dark hair was all that could be seen of her. Several pictures were on the dresser, of family and relatives. A picture of the family at the beach, everyone was standing and smiling at the camera. Carl stood the tallest, a grin on his face.

Behind a door down the hall a young man slept, perhaps twelve or thirteen. The room was done out in Rock and Roll style; posters of bands were on the walls. Sitting on the dresser was a copy of People magazine. It was the issue with Omega and Knock-out. A letter addressed to the magazine was next to it.

Across the hall a young woman with brown hair also slept. The room was all in pink a stuffed pink teddy bear was at the foot of the bed. In the half-closed closet numerous stuffed animals could be seen.

The bathroom was just a bit further down the hall. Everything seemed normal, the tiles stuck on the bottom of the tub seemed new. There was a tile on the far wall from the faucet; it was cracked in two. In the hall just before the kitchen on the wall was another family photo, Carl was washing the car with the kids.

The kitchen was next to the dining room. Carl was still sitting in front of the computer desk in the living room. The desk had piles of papers, in stacks. The laser printer off to the side was silent. The screen flickered and cast a glow across Carl's face. Carl continued typing, his left arm hung loosely at his side.

I wasn't always this way. I've had some changes, some my wife doesn't even know about. I'm a hacker; the word hacker evokes some mystic quality. There is nothing mystical about ones and zeros. But this is my playground, a digital world where data's the treasure.

Now, don't get me wrong, I'm not just a hacker. Yes, I've spoken with one or two of the best in the world, and I may even rank among them. The data I've acquired, from the many sources, made me what I am today. But I wasn't always a hacker; I was just a common working man, with a wife and two kids.

I met Tammy, about fourteen years ago, right out of high school. We fell in love, got married and had two kids, Andrew and Becky. I used to work in a tech support center, taking calls and putting them into the system for the techs to work on. But I don't do that anymore.

Now, I also have a secret, something not even my wife knows. No, I'm not a metahuman or some sorcerer out to dominate the planet. (Not that I can see what anyone would really want it for, way too much work.) But I should tell you I don't think I'm totally human anymore. I think perhaps, I should start at the beginning.

First the earth was formed... okay, it's a bad joke, I admit it. Seriously, though, most people who have special powers usually are born with them, or get exposed to radiation. Some get lucky, like that Tommy Champion kid, and get struck by lightning. Me, however, I got my start in the bathroom. No, there were no special chemicals or radiation, not unless the city has some out-of-the-ordinary waste management problems that I don't know about. Nah -- just soap, water and a little momentum are how I got my start.

Okay, I was knocked out cold... while reaching for the shampoo bottle, I slipped... you happy? I still remember the paramedics when they pulled me out of the tub. My wife took a picture later at the hospital; the bump was the size of a golf ball, but felt more like a basketball. They gave me some painkillers, and looked me over. I hate doctors, I should let you know, the way they poke and prod. Like they're meat inspectors.

Well, the accident left me paralyzed on the left side. The doctors were totally clueless as to why, or even if my condition would heal. Did I mention the doctors were clueless? Oh, they had the best intentions, but you know what they say, the road to hell is paved with them. Maybe I'm too hard on the doctors, they tried to help. Help with what, though, is what I still haven't figured out. I spent several days in the hospital. The doctors wanted to see if I recovered from the concussion. I didn't, and they sent me home.

Getting home was a nightmare; wrestling with a wheelchair is not the best way to spend an evening. After about an hour with the kids' help and Tammy's, we managed to get my butt inside the house. I went to bed, the first decent night's sleep since the accident.

I stayed in bed for two days before Tammy came in and told me, point blank, "Carl get your lazy ass out of bed and do something."

Now, I know when not to pick a fight, and this was one of those times. The kids were outside playing... it was Saturday. I decided that it was better to retreat. I went into the living room, and turned on the PC. Yes, it was old, but not useless. Tammy had worked part time for the local cable company, so we got good rates on the cable. We were also one of the first to have a cable modem in the city. Not that I ever really used the PC, the kids used it more for games.

I checked my e-mail... nothing, not even a get-well ping. People suck, and my co-workers suck even more. I loaded up Internet Explorer. I should say Internet Exploder; the damn program would cause the system to crash at least once every hour.

I opened the mail, or should I say the bills. If I wasn't on disability, I don't know what I would do. My wife took a full time position at the cable company. The money is okay, and the insurance money helps.

I get depressed thinking about money issues. So, if you don't mind, I will change the subject.

The kids are the ones who took the accident the hardest, maybe even harder than I did. It was tough for them, watching me struggle with a peanut butter jar for ten minutes before I ask for help. Or getting dressed, unable to move my left hand or leg. I felt like a burden to my family. I wasn't bitter. I still had my right arm and leg.

I wasn't always this way. They say people usually develop compensations for handicaps. I was reading that the average person only uses a small percentage of their brain; well the accident must have shorted something in my head. I can remember everything I have read since the accident. I even can do really complex math in my head.

I look at the clock; it's two in the morning, time to get to work. I look around; no one is up. I stand and stretch, the wheelchair bumps my calves. It feels good to do. I pick up my coffee cup with my left hand. I move towards the wall, where the gateway is. The sudden change is enough to disorient me for a moment.

I'm in my sanctum sanatorium; at least that's how I feel when I'm here. Where's here? Well, that would take some explaining. Technically the place I'm standing is about fifteen-by-fifteen meters. What I'm standing on is a platform suspended in an interdimensional bubble. I won't go into the math, it can give me headaches, suffice to say it's a linkage between a point in real space and one in imaginary space.

The bubble has lighting, and the walls are a dull gray color. In the center of the bubble is what I like to refer to as Wedge's widget. It's not really a widget, but it's what holds this pocket reality. Wedge sits next to it like a giant spider, and behind him is the replicator.

Wedge lives here. You might be thinking that Wedge is some alien or otherworldly being. He isn't, I created Wedge, and as most children do, he grew up. Wedge is an artificial intelligence, but that's being rude. Wedge is my second son, even if he looks like a mushroom with tendrils. This is the look Wedge wanted, it was his choice to look the way he does.

"Wedge, status," I say out loud. I wait for the reply; Wedge's voice is not mechanical in the slightest way. We usually don't talk verbally, as it's a waste of time. But it's nice to have someone to talk with.

"Tween, the power supply will only last another thirteen days." I notice there is a slight urgency in his voice. This is understandable; he draws power from the replicator power cell, as do the rest of the devices here. The only problem is that I only made one power cell. I can't remove it or the bubble will collapse into real space. So I need a replacement power source.

"I'm still looking for a viable place to get reactants," I tell him. He knows I have been working to find some radioactive materials that we can use. I take a sip of my coffee; it's cold.

"I may have a place to start, I am waiting for some extra data." This is the truth; there is a listing for weapons grade plutonium, but the location of where to and from the shipment will be isn't available, yet.

"Okay, I'm ready for a field test of the bio-nanites," I tell him; we have been monitoring a crack house for a couple of days. I'm no vigilante I just want the cash. I need the money to buy the components for the power cell.

The bio-nanites are an idea I had to fix my brain damage. I had no way to make them though, until I figured out the replicator technology. I actually just designed them -- Wedge replicated them and put them inside me. I stole or borrowed a lot of technology; there is the patent that was hidden in the patent office. From that patent I got anti-gravity. The rest I created. That's not entirely true, there's someone who helped me. Without him or her or it, I wouldn't be here today.

I have a hard time trying to assign pronouns to IB2Tap. Who is IB2Tap? -- I don't know. What I do know is that he's perhaps the best hacker on the planet. I bumped into him on a system inVancouver three months ago. Bumped probably isn't accurate. I stepped on his toes, metaphorically speaking.

IB2Tap changed how I viewed cyberspace. He has something for this woman, a rivalry of sorts. Allison Drake's her name. I'm not sure if she realizes we're using her systems. I suspect she thinks it's all IB2Tap, and most of the time it is.

I have my own ways into her systems. But I know IB2Tap has many more. Quite frankly, I'm totally outclassed by him. That's not to say IB2Tap is better; he's just been doing this longer. I think what got his attention is when I asked him about theoretical physics. He sent me back this reply:

Only a few thousand entries in THAT file. Got anything more specific in mind? (By the way, are your grammar mistakes intentional, or the product of a sloppy upbringing?)

I've attached a zip file. Pay special attention to the schematic and the Feynmann diagrams, as the premise around this device is to create a quantum overlap with incoming energy, which at worst, gets deflected, and at best, thrown back at the source. Depends on how well you know the enemy's weapons systems.

IB2Tap

using a wormhole theory to deflect energy, fascinating. hey, this could also be used for ultra-light speed communications, and with some calibration you can use it as a cloacking device to avoid visual and sensor detection.

for example: the imaginary component represents a level of quantum-level flux, while the real component represents hadron and boson flux. however, the characteristics of the quantum flux indicate at least two extra perpendicular components. the easiest way to visualize the result would be as a translation or transition between dimensions. proper selection of dimensional characteristics enables a number of possible effects, which should be obvious.

Tween

IB2Tap to Tween:

Okay, hotshot, you've been pretty smart so far. Let's see what you've got...

There's an annoying little government agency called the ERDA. You've probably never heard of it, but if you start mucking about with advanced physics, it's likely to come calling.

Plan an exploit to make them look bad, preferably to get something stirred up in Congress to defund the barstids. If you can pull off a good one, without getting caught, of course, then maybe I'll spot you some resources.

As a good faith gesture, here's a free identity for you, complete with a small bank account. Use it wisely.

IB2Tap

IB2Tap gave me a generous amount of money after I sent back the concepts. If his concept of small amount of funds is thirty thousand in cash, I wonder what he means by spotting me some resources.

He mentioned the ERDA, I am still trying to find out anything about this group. So far I haven't found a thing. My guess is that they pissed off IB2Tap. Whoever they are they now have two world-class hackers looking for them. It was also his money that made it possible to build Wedge and the replicator.

I did send him the plans for a computer interface. Something I made to help me hack. It's based on brainwave output, to control the mouse and keyboard.

"Tween let me check the transport location," Wedge says, interrupting my thoughts.

Wedge calls me Tween -- it's my hacker ID. He knows I'm Carl Terrenson, but he likes calling me Tween. I asked him about it when he was younger. He said it's easier. Where did I get Tween? It's a variant of the word newt spelled backwards, a name I was called back in high school.

"One sec, let me coat."

I call it coating, but it's just the nanites flowing out over my body. Some might be quick to call the coating an exo-skeleton, but it's more than that, really, as it reinforces my bones, muscles and skin. It makes me look more like a robot than a human being. My entire body is covered in a dull black armor, giving me an exaggerated physique and a flat, featureless face.  My dark hair becomes a wild mane of metallic cables. The coating even covers my eyes -- my reflection in the mirror makes them resemble glowing green orbs. I think the green light has something to do with the bio-energy that powers the nanobots. I don't know, maybe once I have some time I'll investigate it more.

It's only been about five days since Wedge injected the nano-tech into me. I still haven't gotten used to watching the black material flow over my body, and I'm not sure if I ever will. I think the most profound change is the fact that I can walk again and use my left arm.

The nanotech has changed the way I see the world. The strong still prey on the weak. I don't have any illusions that I can change the world. I probably could, but I just want to be left alone. I'm no superhero; I just do what I need to survive. I've seen what has happened in Ireland, the Royal Elite have killed and destroyed lives. Real heroes from around the globe have gone there to fight them.

Even that young Omega's fighting those blue-blooded villains. Sure, he's a corporate posterboy, but I admire him. He went toe-to-toe with Avatar, and everyone knows that Avatar's the most powerful super on the planet. Avatar's the Microsoft of supers, if you ask me. I know, I know -- Omega lost his fight. But he had the nerve and determination to take the Babylonian demi-god on -- win or loose.

Old Glory's also over helping with Ireland, duking it out with the mutant and techno hordes. He's another guy I admire. I mean, you've got to admire him -- he's a true survivor! I would consider myself lucky to get to meet either Omega or Old Glory. I'm not afraid to fight. I'll defend myself and my family. I have no idea if I could help, or if it would even be appreciated.

The one place I'll not go is into the Protectorate systems. I tried once -- and I mean once. Something tracked me. I used every trick I knew, and barely got away. No I wouldn't be messing with the Protectorate. Once I can get a good power source I should be able to help out in some small way. I don't need to think about that right now. Later, I will deal with all of this -- but that's later. I can't dwell on what ifs. I have to live the here and now.

I need to get to work.

"Wedge, we ready to go?" I ask.

"Affirmative," my computerized friend answers. "Gateway established in target zone."

This means that there is a gateway somewhere within the area I will be teleported to. There always has to be an active gateway somewhere in real space. I made some modifications to the device, to make it more stable; there is at least one open gateway to real space. The gateway itself is invisible, visible photons don't pass through the dimensional membrane. Normal matter and high-energy electromagnetic radiation do, however. It's a real pain in the ass to have to keep an open gateway. Most of the time it is hidden inside something, like a brick wall or several miles up.

I have to wait for the device to charge, it takes a second. Then there is the sensation of falling. I stop myself; I am above the target site, about thirty feet up or ten meters. Below me is the target he carries the money for the next shipment of drugs. Tonight however, that's about to change. I wait, until he is close to his car. He is not nervous; it's a routine for him.

He has not spotted me, above the streetlights, black on black. He's wearing jeans and a T-shirt, the paper bag of money under his arm. I move into position, just as he is about to get to his car. I drop down, and grab the paper bag. The guy's startled, I see him reaching under his T-shirt for a gun handle, Presumably to shoot me with it. I pull the paper bag from him. He manages to get the gun out and pointed at me.

"I don't know who the fuck you are, but you're dead," He says as he pulls the trigger. There's a loud explosion; I don't feel a thing, and the bullet skips off into the darkness.

"What the fuck!" the guy says.

Most heroes have a smart retort, I don't really care. I have nothing to say to this person. He aims again, and pulls the trigger. Once, twice, three times. All three bullets ping off  my chest and hit the floor like thrown away pennies. I've had enough. I have what I came for. I can hear the sirens, so does he. He turns and starts running back the way he came.

Something snaps... this guy would have killed me. I hear a crackling sound, like electricity. My hands are bathed in a glowing aura of green static. I point at the fleeing figure, and a jagged arc of green light drops him. I go over and check to see if he's breathing -- he is. I wait till the cruisers are on the street. At a silent command, Wedge then pulls me back into the interdimensional bubble.

Ten grand is what's in the paper bag, a good amount. I can now order the components for the pieces of the power cells. If I can't get any radioactive materials, IB2TAP has offered me an alternate solution. I hate to impose on his generosity, but if it keeps Wedge safe, then I can live with it.

I leave the money with Wedge and return home. I look at the chair. I hate it. I get back into my persona. I hate the goddamn chair. I return to my search for a place to get radioactive materials.

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