Primogeniture (The Firstborn)

15: Alison and Peter

Throughout the greater part of January the winter had been winter in name only – blustery – wet – but the long predicted cold snap with plunging temperatures well below freezing had so far failed to materialise. Forecasters had been warning for some weeks of harsh conditions to come, but the forecasters were so often wrong. Cynicism had hardened into a general belief that this year, the south at least, would escape the freezing turmoil already plaguing the beleagued transport systems further north.

However, one Sunday morning late in January, Alison awoke to that strange luminescence and eerie muffled silence indicative of heavy snowfall overnight. Propping herself up in bed, and feeling with a mixture of comfort pleasure and excitement the body warmth of Peter curled up and sleeping peacefully next to her, she reached for her red towelling dressing gown.

Walking around to the window she pulled open the wooden slats. Large crystalline flakes were floating past the window; being blown into small eddies onto the glass, falling onto the sill where the snow was already heaped to a depth of several inches.

Outside a whiteout as far as the eye could see. Alison was overwhelmed not only with the breathtaking beauty of the scene, but also by the stark untrammelled emptiness – the unbroken vista of whiteness stretching away into the distance; every surface unvarying in texture and colour. Every feature eradicated by the smooth icing sugar consistency and the searing whiteness of light.

It was still early. She glanced at Peter, still sound asleep. Not thinking she could sleep longer, she went into the kitchen and flicked on the kettle.

By the time she re-entered the bedroom carrying two mugs of steaming coffee, Peter was stirring and stretching, bare arms outstretched and yawning. Putting one mug down on the small bedside table bedside him she climbed across to her side of the bed kissing him on the lips as she did so. “Hey babe it’s a white out, never get down the hill in this, not until the gritters have been out.”

Putting his mug down he kissed her again pulling her towards him, yanking open the waist tie and sliding his hands under her gown, feeling the silky smoothness of her skin and firm breasts against his chest. “Good thing it’s a Sunday then, might as well just stay in bed.”

Later over a posponed breakfast, Peter was staring at his laptop with his head in his hands. “Two thousand attempts overnight, every one the same – ACCESS DENIED.”

“Does it usually take you this long.”

Peter affronted by her mock accusing tone rose to the bait.

“I’ve never found a security protocol I can’t crack in a couple of days, but this buggers’s different. They must be using something new – but why would they bother? For Christ’s sake this isn’t the fucking Pentagon, or Nasa – how come they feel the need to have these levels of security.”

“Just goes to prove there’s something major to hide. What else can you try?”

“I don’t know, I’ve spent weeks on this already. The security protocol is constantly changing, and the really weird thing is, they seem to know I’m trying. It’s almost as if they’re taunting me.”

“For heaven’s sake Peter, what do you mean? Surely you’re covering your tracks.”

“All the usual tricks of course, multiple NiCs – IP addresses – root kits – yada, yada, yada, but they seem to be pre-empting every move. I get through layer after layer and then get poked at a different level every time, as if to say, hello, we know you’re there. It’s like a sodding computer game. I can’t seem to build a logical sequence. It’s got to be evolving and if that’s happening they must have some serious shit behind it. They’re playing with me, I’ve never had this happen before.”