my voice. "Does anybody ever call the cops?"
"Who - Fred?"
Fred the cop. Firstname basis. "I guess that answers my question."
Garrett waved his hand dismissively. "You call Fred, that's cheating. Sometimes somebody new moves into a side apartment, they try that for a while. It never lasts long. Now where's that hard drive you want squeezed?"
I gave him the card I'd pulled from Julie Kearnes' computer.
Garrett wheeled himself over to his computer. He pecked at the keyboard. The screen glowed orange, then came alive with a short mandolin riff. Garrett whistled Steely Dan and started mixing and matching SCSI cables from his spare parts drawer.
I sat down next to him in a battered black recliner that had been our father's. After twelve years, the leather still smelled faintly of his Cuban cigars and spilt bourbon. The left armrest was gouged out where I'd used a penknife to dig a foxhole for my plastic army soldiers when I was seven. It was a comfortable place to sit.
"Damn," said Garrett.
"What?"
Garrett started to say something, then looked at me, probably realizing the effort it would take to filter what he was thinking from computerese to plain English. "Nothing."
I drank my beer and listened to Garrett tinkering with hardware. Finally he got the hard drive connected with a loose collection of multicoloured spaghetti and clacked a few commands on his keyboard.
"Okay, yeah," he said. "Give it a few minutes."
He toggled to one of his other processors - Garrett has eight, just in case he wants to have a dinner party someday. The screen dimmed, then came up with gray World Wide Web page. The lights of his ISDN router flickered on. He clacked a few more commands.
"What are you working on these days?" I asked.
"Bastards running RNI," Garrett complained.
Every time Garrett talks about the company, he starts with that comment, even though he's been there so long and accumulated so many stock options he is one of the bastards running RNI.
"They've got me doing the GUI on an account management program. I make this piece of shit program look really slick, except it still crashes when it merges field data."
"So that's what they're paying you for," I said. "What are you really working on?"
Garrett smiled, not taking his eyes off the screen. "Bring the tequila from the kitchen and I'll show you. It requires tequila."
I'm not one to refuse a direct order. I got the bottle from the kitchen and poured some for both of us. My brother and I share an understanding about tequila - it should be Herradura Anejo and it should be drunk straight, no lime or salt, preferably in large quantities.
The parrot was perched on the edge of a bar stool, looking at the shot glasses enviously, his head cocked to one side.
"Sorry, no," I told him.
When I got back to the recliner Garrett had a new program up and ready to demonstrate.
"Okay," he said. "Say you've got some material that's too sensitive to store on your computer. What do you do?"
I shrugged. "Hide it on a disk somewhere. Use a read/write protect program on it."
"Yeah, but disks can be found, and if somebody's good they can break into them with a logic diagram of the disk drive. Or a password tumbler. Disks can also get destroyed."
"So - "
"So you boomerang it."
He selected a file called Garrett.jpg.
"Here's my sensitive data - my picture I want to keep but I don't want anybody to see.
So I don't keep it myself - I let the net keep it for me. I upload that sucker, encrypt it so it's invisible and innocuous, then program it to bounce around randomly, transferring itself from server to server so it's never in the same place for more than five minutes. It bounces around the net, impossible to find, until I send the retrieval code out for it.
Then it comes home."
He clicked on the file and we watched it disappear into the net, erasing itself from the hard drive as it uploaded. Then Garrett punched in a series of numbers. Two minutes later the file downloaded itself back into existence.
"See that?" he said. "The sucker was in Norway. By the time anybody noticed it was there, it'd be on its way to somewhere else."
The picture opened. It showed Garrett sitting in a bar somewhere with a woman on his lap. She had jeans and a motorcycle helmet and a HarleyDavidson Tshirt that she had pulled up to reveal some very ample breasts. Garrett was toasting the camera with