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unprepared for the bitterness outside, and while she claimed to be from Dunedin and therefore immune to the kind of cold you git un Milbun she was more than happy to hover and feel that giant engine summon heat from thin air and blast it in our faces like a merciful and life-affirming car exhaust.
    Which meant that, for five minutes, I had to make small talk as Robert Lavigne, trainee engineer at Jetstar Australia.
    There wasn’t much else to attract to me to this block, where all the common areas are outdoors, built of sparse concrete and decorated with little more than council bins. Where the body corporate exists in name only and the residents walk around with that look on their face like they know this is a halfway house for singles and migrants. After Mum died, I had the money for a classier flat. I had the money for a house. But I’m in this place with this heater and this heater makes this place a womb.
    The display comes to life at the first breeze of warmth like a chipmunk waking in the spring. It requests access to the server,
    It was a red bandana around her head today, lurid against the pallor of her skin. Every inhale required a lurching movement with her elbows, propping her up from the bed, dropping her back. Over and over like a pop-up book. The placards she’d made when she first had difficulty breathing still lay either side of her. One said ‘Thank you!’ and the other said, ‘Strewth, Cobber!’ and she held them up at opportune moments like Wile E. Coyote, part-communication, part-entertainment for the staff and fellow patients. I could see now, before she even opened her eyes, that ‘Strewth, Cobber!’ had been crossed out with angry black texta and replaced with the most humourless word there is: ‘No’.
    which then sends my phone the response code. I log in, delete the message, return to the kitchen for a handful of chips.
    When I glance across the room at the terminal, I don’t see what’s happened. Despite how this is what I’m looking for , I don’t see it. Clueless, I fill the kettle and rinse a mug.
    Already my mind has switched from Wednesday’s pizza with Marnie to what’s occupied it every day for months: the true purpose of Thruware.
    ‘Thruware’ is a working title. I’m considering a catchier name like ‘Bloodhound’ or ‘Aardvark’. It’s a new script designed to expedite brute force attacks and rainbow tables and it automates the doxing process to Swedish levels of standardisation. Only certain applications are vulnerable, but if they are then I can raid the datacentre without leaving so much as a timestamp.
    Writing and installing this kind of program isn’t illegal. People all over the world have programs installed, like say the late great Low Orbital Ion Cannon, because it makes them feel like edgelords and true life genuine AnRkists, but they’d never actually launch it. It’s once you launch it, once it leaps the node and merges with the traffic that you officially become a criminal. Chalk it up as one more mark against my name when the party van knocks on the door.
    Why I’m not worried about the party van is: no one knows aboutThruware. I’ve never sold it or uploaded it. It has no online status whatsoever, and the Federal Cyber-Crime Department can’t scan for what they don’t know about.
    Also, that they call themselves the Cyber-Crime Department is another reason I’m not worried.
    Right now Thruware exists only in this room, is known only to me, and only operates through a secure server and a host of skeletons. I’ve disguised it with enough nonsense script that even I wouldn’t know it if I stumbled on it. But I’ve left traces of the source code here and there when it hasn’t been too risky, tweaked to be rendered useless, and probably the single greatest achievement of my life is that these traces were identified and labelled Ducnet on rollerbrain.com and entered into Wikipedia as ‘most likely malware developed by the US military to