Anarchy of the Mice

Chapter Six

My liaison at Rainey Personnel took the news peevishly. The contract he had negotiated with First Mutual specifically called for 36-hour cancellation notice, he snipped—reliability and professionalism were what made Rainey the crème de la crème of Eastern New Jersey temp agencies. He was taking me off their list. He hoped I enjoyed slumming it with Kelly and Manpower; next time I needed work, he expected they'd have some half-day collate/staples for me.

Wincing at the dial tone, I phoned the guys next. Quaid answered with an irritating lack of surprise, which caused me to bump up my cash demands by 20%. "Feel like I'm back dealing with the pipe-fitters unions," he grumbled, but did agree to my terms.

I started immediately. The first part of the infiltration plan was to familiarize myself with the Blind Mice. Mainstream news provided the basics: the Mice ranged from tween to mid-twenties, motivated by financial disparity, attacks concentrated against their "Despicable Dozen" multinationals. The nose-eyes-whiskers symbol had become ubiquitous, graffitied across bank billboards, digitally plastered over health-insurance websites. Public reaction had been mild. Corporations pulling down billions of dollars annually did not engender much sympathy, and people tended to view the Mice as high-tech Robin Hoods. (Minus the part about giving to the poor, it seemed to me.)

As I expanded my research to the Dark Web—installing something called Tor and probably flagging my computer with Homeland Security—a gauzy picture emerged of a band of true believers promoting their philosophy through savvy social media, using cloak-and-dagger methods to hide their identities. Only a few names surfaced, and who knew if those were real. Piper Jackson, the über-hacker embittered by the incarceration of her brother. Hatch, no last name given, Libertarian blogger at detonatetheworldorder.org.

The most renowned was Josiah, the supposed leader. Some said he was autistic. Others albino. The prevailing rumor had it he'd studied a year at Brown before becoming disillusioned and crossing Asia on foot, eventually joining a hacktivist faction of Anonymous.

Nearly every account mentioned his temper. "He chawed this businessman's iPhone," said one commenter. "Literally, teethmarks in gorilla glass."

I happened to be eating lunch as I read this, tunafish sandwich. The bite turned slimy in my mouth, and I experienced that unique brand of queasiness that accompanies giant leaps that aren't turning out well. Think "apple flame" highlights in the moment the stylist pinches off those tinfoil wrappings—multiplied by a thousand.

Josiah, under the handle josiahTheAvenger, proselytized on greed and revolution. Ten months ago, he had held an open invitation at the Brooklyn café Lewd Brew and an 800-strong mob had jammed the entrance. By the end of the night, all had been inked with the nose-eyes-whiskers symbol and the Mice had themselves a motto: Nibble, nibble. Until the whole sick scam rots through.

Today, of course, with the FBI issuing statements on the Mice's possible whereabouts, there were no open calls. Realistically how was Molly McGill, mother of two and a decade past my mid-twenties, supposed to join up?

After a long afternoon of research, the screen door wheezed open and I heard the familiar sound of dragged footfalls.

"Zach," I called, shutting my laptop. "Could you join me in the kitchen?"

He slinked to the threshold.

"Tell me more about these Blind Mice."

"Nobody cared about the shirt! None of my teachers said a word, okay? It's so not an issue."

I flashed a surrendering smile. "If this group is important to you, if their message speaks to you, then I want to educate myself." I pretended to casually check the backsplash for grime. "How do they find new members? Is there an application process?"