“Radio Armenia,” Acrylic breathed, his voice quiet in wonder.
Terminal screens and blinking lights were clustered in the side room. Too many cables to count snaked and wormed their ways to and from all the screens, computer units, servers, and routers. Antennas jutted out of small boxes at odd angles. There were a few decaying chairs and stools next to the tables, and decaying pizza boxes littered the floor. Some still had pizza inside them, just waiting to have the next big antibiotic harvested from the old food.
“I had been cognizant of the existence of the network, a bastion of freedom from MegaCorp’s hegemony,” Acrylic mused, “but never had I achieved access.”
“Yeah,” Virus answered, typing at a terminal, “but Fetus did. That’s why we switched to our new and improved security.”
“Three 65,536-bit encryption schemes rotated weekly,” Fetus commented. “My hacked GPUs can’t crack that.”
Several replies popped up on the screen.
“Well, they all seem to be on board,” Virus remarked. “Let’s go.”