Breaking and Entering Page 6

  No one had seen her—yet.

  Alien looked up again, fighting vertigo. Cold bit her tits, but she ignored the pain and steadied her trembling arms.

  Ahead she saw a piece of wood. Alien stood to step over it carefully. Her wet hair was stiffening, she felt. Her skin puckered; her toes froze. Alien advanced.

  The next window was dark. Just one more to go before her own.

  Alien’s next-door neighbor Shannon was a senior in ROTC. She hated hackers and hacking. If Alien ever said hello to her, Shannon snarled. The only reason why she had chosen to live on Fifth East was because she was a smoker and cat owner and the hall allowed both. Please don’t be home, Alien begged.

  Her thigh wobbled, grazing Shannon’s window frame. Afraid, Alien knelt again to a crawl—and then wanted to jump backward. Her face, she saw, was just inches from Shannon’s. The senior sat by the window, smoking and stroking her orange tabby, Schwarzkopf, in her lap. Her window was open to let the smoke out; only a flimsy screen separated them. If Shannon looked up, she might throw the screen open too; in her surprise and anger, she might even push Alien from the ledge.

  Alien cringed. She closed her eyes instinctively. It was ridiculous, but if she couldn’t see Shannon, her thinking was, maybe Shannon wouldn’t see her.

  Slowly, very slowly, Alien inched forward. One frozen limb passed Shannon. Then the next. Then the next. And then the approaching window was hers.

  Her own windowpane, thank God, was up. Alien popped the screen and fell inside. Her entire body was blue. Teeth chattering, she threw on clothes and then hugged the radiator.

  Time to kick François’s ass.

  Alien cracked the door of her room and peered down the hallway. Her towel lay crumpled on the floor outside the bathroom. François himself was gone, however. Apparently he had gotten bored with waiting for her and moved on to other mischief. This only made Alien more determined to teach him a lesson. She’d shown him up—and he wasn’t even here to witness it! She had to beat him or he’d pick on her again.

  Alien grabbed the towel and walked quickly to François’s room on Bemis. His door was closed; she put her ear to it. Silence. She wiggled the handle. Locked.

  Alien knew better than to test her lock-picking abilities. She ran downstairs to the East Campus desk, on the first floor, where a bored security guard at the beginning of the overnight shift sat listening to a radio tuned to the Celtics game. “I left my problem set in my boyfriend’s room,” Alien told him. “Can you let me in to get it?”

  As she expected, he glanced at her ID and then simply handed a spare key to her, telling her to return it when she was finished.

  Back on Fifth East, triumphant, Alien swung François’s door wide and strode inside. François could return at any moment, though. She had to work quickly.

  In the total blackness of François’s room, one item stood out: his underwear.

  Grinning, Alien grabbed a climbing rope from a recent hall hacking outing, one end of which she strung securely from his radiator. At even intervals along the entire length of the rope, she tied all the tighty whities. Then Alien cracked François’s window and peered right and left. Heston, she saw, was out on the ledge himself, taking in the evening air. And his room was six doors—or windows—down from François’s.

  Perfect.

  Clutching the free end of the rope in her hand, Alien stepped out of François’s room and crawled toward Heston.

  “Evening,” Heston said when she had reached him, waving with the laser rifle on his lap.

  “Evening,” Alien replied. She knelt over him to cinch the rope snugly around Heston’s radiator. That accomplished, Alien returned the way she had come, gave back the spare key, and prepared to wait.

  François showed up a few hours later. “Got you,” he told Alien smugly when he passed her in the hallway, working through a calculus problem set with Vlad.

  She shrugged, pretending to be embarrassed, but then rose and followed François on tiptoe as he entered his room and turned his music on.

  A moment later, fresh shouts made Alien smile. She pushed François’s door open, rustling his flag. He had discovered the rope and was already following it out his window. “You bitch!” he yelled at Alien.

  They both laughed.

  Alien walked to the window to watch as François crawled out on the ledge.

  Given how tight she’d made the knots, Alien thought, getting his underwear untangled would take all night.

  She leaned outside, eyes closed, almost enjoying the chill.

  03 / /

  Earth to Alien

  Two and a half months after her naked ledging adventure, Alien sat cross-legged on the floor outside her room, taking notes on taking notes. Her calculus problem set was three pages long. Her physics problem set was four pages. Her biology problem set was six pages. Each was due in a week. Even if Alex and Vlad helped her complete the assignments, she had to know enough herself to take the midterm and final.

  Work, sleep, friends—choose two, people said of MIT.

  A shadow crossed her papers. Alien looked up.

  A tall, strong-jawed guy with dark hair and a kind smile stood over her. He had a firm, athletic build that was extremely easy to discern, since he was wearing only a towel. Alien’s gaze ran quickly from three curly chest hairs to the knot of his towel. She had never met him before. She was sure of it—she’d remember.

  “You’re doing the right thing—trust me,” the guy said, nodding to the pile of papers in front of her. “Study hard,” he continued. “Don’t goof off.”

  The stranger walked to the shower. Mystified, Alien waited to see where he went when he came out again. Was the guy Shannon’s boyfriend? He seemed way too earnest to live here on Fifth East.

  A little less than ten minutes later, the guy emerged from the shower. He walked whistling into an empty room. So he was her new hallmate, Alien thought—and, quite possibly, single. She studied his broad upper back admiringly. Just below his right shoulder, she saw, he had a tattoo.

  Alien stared.

  It can’t be, she thought. He just moved in, didn’t he?

  But there was no mistaking the tattoo. A black-stenciled scowling skull.

  Krotus.

  That Thursday, the guy showed up as Alien and other hallmates were playing pool. It was just after midnight at the late-night lounge in the Walker Memorial building, very near East Campus. As the usual suspects opened cans of beer they’d brought or filled Styrofoam cups with drip coffee, Alien put a Hot Pocket in the microwave.

  “Hey ho, neighbor!” a voice said.

  Him.

  Alien turned around. The guy grabbed the pool cue from Cal, who had been about to break in a new game with Rex.

  “Thanks, frosh,” he said.

  By now, Alien had made investigations. The guy was named Mace. He had entered MIT three years earlier as “Matthew,” a clean-cut professional tennis prospect with a 125-mile-per-hour serve. Then, Rush week, he separated his shoulder and found his way to Fifth East.

  Mace was not a hacker in the traditional sense of the word at MIT. He didn’t break into and explore buildings. Nor did he build or tinker with computer systems, the other kind of activity commonly called hacking. But he shared an obsessive, limit-pushing mindset with people who did both. Mace loved drugs, hung out with world-class chemists, and hacked his brain.

  Everyone had a story. “He showed up naked on Third East, knocked on some kid’s door, and started dancing,” Rochelle said. “He posted telethon phone-in numbers to porn site personal ad pages, so guys calling to hook up would find themselves on a live fundraiser for charity,” said Zhu. Even François was deferential. “Once at a party,” Alien overheard him telling Heston, “he stuck the handle of an axe three inches up his ass and sucked a Krotus hickey into Rex’s chest.”

  Obviously the drugs had not affected Mace’s outward physical condition. But this was his third and final chance at MIT. Already he’d flunked out twice, Alien gathe
red. His parents were wealthy, however, and had “prevailed upon” the deans. “His dad is really sick and Mace promised him that he’d fly straight,” Sam said.

  The microwave dinged. Alien popped the door and carried her steaming dinner to the pool table. Everyone crowded around the game, watching Mace and Rex play. Rex never had a turn, however. Mace had flawless aim and sank all the balls in seven shots from break to victory.

  “How the fuck does he do that?” Cal said.

  “Me next,” Vanessa said.

  “No, me,” said Alex.

  Mace smiled. “If I win,” he said, “you’re carrying a manhole cover up to the fifth floor.”

  Hours passed this way. Mace beat everyone. Sometime before dawn, Alien wandered home alone and drew a Krotus out of shaving cream on the Bemis hallway. It took a while to perfect and looked pretty cool on the black wall under the black lights, but twenty minutes later, when Mace burst through the door, he wiped it away without a moment’s thought. Alien stared sadly at the smeared remnants.

  Alex, Vlad, and two other sophomore guys labored into the hall, each straining to carry a manhole cover, which they stacked outside Mace’s room.

  Alien coughed. If Fifth East was a cult, Mace might be its new leader.

  She entered her room and eyed her alarm clock: 6:20 a.m. Technically, Sunday was already more than a quarter over. Sleep or study?

  Alien sighed and fell back, fully dressed, on her bed.

  Ten days later, the hall threw a Mardi Gras party. By one a.m. what seemed like hundreds of students and alumni had jammed Fifth East’s long black central hall, squeezing and jostling Alien before she escaped to a bathroom.

  She had taken one of the red glittery streamers taped tonight to the ceiling and refashioned it as a louche top for her new black leather miniskirt, bought when her grandmother sent an eighteenth birthday check for one hundred dollars. Still, a little liquid courage was necessary to carry the outfit off with confidence. In the bathroom, a black plastic ladle and the kitchen’s sixty-quart stockpot offered Florey punch—equal parts gin, tequila, vodka, white rum, and triple sec, plus lemon juice, simple syrup, Coca-Cola, and a copious amount of red food coloring.

  Alien filled a cup. She had a cough, and cough medicine was basically alcohol.

  Chugging, Alien emptied the drink in hand.

  Zhu’s room was open for bar golf. He’d simplified the rules, however: each hole made or missed required taking a shot. Soon this game ceded to naked Twister. Alien was topless when she toppled over into an easy chair that had lost its stuffing. Her right shoulder blade throbbed at the gash. Alien laughed. An easy chair was more dangerous than an elevator shaft!

  “Rub ash on it right away,” François shouted by way of assistance. “It makes a better scar.”

  At the time, to Alien, this advice seemed brilliant. She borrowed a lighter and a piece of paper, which she burned and applied immediately to her cut. It stung like hell, but the bleeding stopped.

  Two strangers were sleeping in her room when Alien ducked in to try to find new clothing. Rather than wake them, she backed out and entered the Walcott lounge, with the glowing dragon. There she found Mace sitting on the couch, handing out bead necklaces to the nerds running naked through the corridor.

  “What do you think?” Alien said, showing off the scar.

  “Sweet. It looks like a Nike swoosh,” Mace said. “Hey, jiggle your titties and I’ll give you some beads.”

  Alien shrugged and shook her breasts for him. Mace grinned and handed her a necklace. Alien hopped on the couch next to him. “You look like you need help,” she teased.

  The only way to be accepted as Mace’s equal was to match his behavior, Alien knew. She picked up a necklace. “Hey, Jen! Want a necklace?” Alien asked a nearby acquaintance. “Okay! Titties! Nice!” she said when the woman lifted her shirt.

  Mace turned to her when the last necklace was given out. “Let’s go to my room,” he said.

  Alien tried to look nonchalant. “Sure.”

  They spent a long time making out, simply kissing, before either removed another article of clothing. Gradually, the clamor outside diminished. The party was winding down. Mace looked expectant, but Alien, who was starting to sober up, stopped short of taking off her panties. She didn’t want to be just another girl. Soon they both fell asleep on his bunk bed.

  Around three a.m., a loud snore from Mace jolted Alien out of her brief slumber. On his desk she saw crayons and paper. Quietly, she climbed down and began to draw geometric figures in overlapping black outlines.

  Mace woke shortly afterward. He watched Alien for a few minutes and then picked up a crayon and moved to color on the picture. Remembering how he had ruined her shaving cream Krotus, Alien shielded the art from him.

  Mace spoke softly. “I’m not going to mess it up,” he reassured her. Then he very gently used the crayon to shade in a few white areas in the middle.

  This was nice, and unexpected, Alien thought. She liked it.

  “Up for a nightcap?” Mace asked.

  Alien nodded.

  Mace led Alien into the room of Don and Lauren, a senior couple. They and a group of other upperclassmen and alumni were filling a black plastic garbage bag with something from a huge steel cylinder almost five feet tall.

  “Want some nitrous?” said Don, meaning nitrous oxide. Then, in response to Alien’s puzzled look, he added, “Laughing gas.”

  Alien rubbed her shoulder blade where she had cut it, thinking. She had never done drugs. She had never even smoked a cigarette. But she was curious.

  All these things you thought you believed because people you trusted told them to you . . . they weren’t necessarily lies, she knew. But they weren’t necessarily true. Only by experiencing as much as possible could you find out.

  Someone put Pink Floyd on the stereo. They passed the bag. When it reached Alien, she inhaled for the first time.

  The world spun. Alien closed her eyes and saw a narrowing darkness. The song lyrics, as they pierced her consciousness, were almost too appropriate: “You are only coming through in waves . . . Your lips move, but I can’t hear what you’re saying.”

  This was hacking too. Don’t accept—explore. Don’t assume—experiment. Breaking into buildings was one way of seeing what was on the other side of locked doors. So was sex. So was art. And so were drugs.

  The bag passed to the next person. When Alien opened her eyes again, she felt like she was part of a family.

  Alien stood up, exhausted from studying for next week’s electricity and magnetism midterm. It was two a.m. Her stomach grumbled. A second later, she started coughing in three sharp machine-gun-like bursts.

  Today was the last Sunday in March. Her cough had dragged on for weeks now. Alien had gone twice to the MIT student medical center, but all they gave her was a steroid inhaler, which seemed useless. Impossibly tired, she had cut back on her Coffeehouse hours. This, though, meant less money for food, so she was stuck trying to live off canned tuna fish. It wasn’t the way Alien would have picked to lose fifteen pounds.

  Her parents would have gladly given her money for something more substantial, Alien knew, but she didn’t want to ask them, since they were already taking out such big loans to pay for MIT itself.

  And how would they feel if they knew she had basically stopped attending classes other than the thirty seconds a week it took to enter, drop off her problem set, and leave? These are the real crazy people, Alien thought if she strayed too far from Fifth East. Take last semester’s calculus class: the professor had spent the first two weeks proving that the number 1 was positive. To care, Alien needed some connection to the real world.

  Alien walked to the Goodale lounge. Inside, all the hall hackers surrounded Rex, who stood at a black wall, chalk in hand, sketching what looked like architectural blueprints.

  Alien tapped Cal’s shoulder. “What’s going on?” she whispered.

  Cal turned. “They’re finally tearing down Building Twenty.�
��

  “Really?” Excited, Alien stood on tiptoe to see more of Rex’s sketching. “When?”

  “It’s already condemned and sealed,” Cal said. “Everyone’s moved out.”

  As Rex outlined the plan, Alien forgot her cough, her hunger, and her midterm. Building 20’s impending demolition had been a Coffeehouse Club obsession for months. It was an old building, and one of the most unusual at MIT, put up “temporarily” during World War II and designed to last just six months. Because it was supposed to be only temporary, everyone who used it had had free rein for over fifty years, drilling through the walls and poking wires wherever they pleased, without any administrator caring. The result was an incubator for more innovative research than anywhere else at MIT.

  Scientists in Building 20 had invented the radar credited with helping win World War II. They built the world’s first atomic clock and one of the earliest atomic particle accelerators. Modern linguistics and cognitive science started there. So did Bose speakers and breakthroughs in stop-action photography. Building 20 was also the longtime home of the Tech Model Railroad Club, whose members made pioneering contributions to personal computing—another kind of hacking originating at MIT.

  “If you’re a hacker—or even anyone who cares about science, past or present—Building Twenty is part training ground, part sacred space,” Rex was saying now. “Imagine the Sistine Chapel being painted over. That’s what’s happening here. And I’ll be honest: we can’t stop it. But we have one night to get in and out before the wrecking balls come.”

  Alien nodded, inspired. Usually they talked about pulling a hack. This was about preserving one. Listening to Building 20 stories was like learning about a grandmother she never had known about—just as that grandmother was on her deathbed. Who knew what secrets remained untold?

  They left ten minutes later, gathering Splotz and others from Third East as they filed downstairs. Aziz and Rpunzel met them on-site. Building 20 was three stories tall with a solid plywood frame and a flat tarpaper and gravel roof. A long central body fronted the street, with four shorter wings perpendicular to it and parallel to one another backing out toward East Campus. From above, Alien realized, the structure as a whole resembled nothing so much as a giant diagram of a four-pin lock.